The Siege of San Antonio: 1835 · Independence and the Alamo · Ho, for the Lone Star! · Fig Trees and Pomegranates · Comanche Indians · The Runaway of ’42 · Perote: Prisoner’s Journal · Indomitable Texan · Years of Exile · The New Six-Shooters · Life on the Peninsula · The New Home on Alamo Plaza · Return to San Antonio · Samuel Augustus Maverick and Public Office
On October 5, 1802, Samuel Maverick married Elizabeth Anderson, youngest daughter of General Robert Anderson of Revolutionary note. After an active life in Charleston, South Carolina, where he engaged in commerce, shipping, and plantation management, Maverick retired from business and took his family to Pendleton in the mountainous region of northwestern South Carolina. He renounced the pursuit of greater fortune in Charleston partly to save his children from one of the dread enemies of the South Carolina town dwellers, the yellow fever, which he refers to as the “stranger’s fever.” The disease, he felt, was especially dangerous to children.
Here, two miles from Pendleton, he built a handsome home on an extensive farm, and he took a great pleasure and interest in cultivating many varieties of native and imported fruits and grapes in his orchards and vineyards. This home he named “Montpelier” in honor of his French Huguenot grandmother, Catherine Coyer, or Le Coier, of London, whose family is supposed to have come from Montpelier in southern France.
On his plantations near Charleston, Samuel Maverick had experimented in raising cotton. According to family tradition he sent the first bale, or “bag,” as they were then called, to Liverpool, but it was returned because the seeds had not been removed. Then slaves were set to work to remove the seeds, and the cotton was sent back to Liverpool. It took a day for a slave to clean seeds from one pound of cotton. Maverick was also one of the first in the United States to ship cotton to the mills in Providence, Rhode Island.
Samuel Augustus Maverick, son of Samuel and Elizabeth Anderson Maverick, was born July 23, 1803, at Pendleton. There in the lovely foothills of the Blue Ridge he and his two sisters, Elizabeth and Lydia Anne, grew to maturity. The earliest likeness of Samuel Augustus was made at the request of his mother when he was seven years old—a pastel painting of a fair-haired little boy dressed in blue and holding in his hand a grape leaf filled with strawberries. Samuel’s mother died in 1818 when he was fifteen years old.
Although the elder Samuel Maverick had received only a scanty education, because of the great impoverishment and terrible destruction caused in South Carolina by the Revolutionary War, he was careful to see that his son and his daughters were well taught and sent to the best schools to be found.
In 1822, at the age of nineteen, Samuel Augustus entered the sophomore class of Yale College. While in college he kept a diary, of which only the first page is still in existence:
Remained in N. York 2 weeks, from thence went to New Haven, Thence to Ripton 14 miles where I remained studying under Mr Rudd until commencement —
Entered Yale Col at commencement —— Sept 1822
Sophomore class which I entered contains 105 students. Total undergraduates 373. Presdt. Jeremiah Day.
September vacation, traveled up the Connecticut via Hartford, Middletown, Springfield, Northampton, &c.
Term of study from last of October ’till 2 Wednesday Jany.
Went to New-York (City) ——— Jany. 1823
Term of study from Jany. till May
May vacation go to Norwalk, Stratford, &c. —— Hear Father and sisters are in New York from Chaston & went to New York & came to N. Haven with them on 1st June.
Term commences ———
Third Term of Sophomore hardest studies. Spherics, &c.!
Commenced this Book this day —— 10 June 1823
After graduation from Yale, Samuel Augustus studied law under Henry St. George Tucker at Winchester, Virginia, and was admitted to practice at the bar of South Carolina in 1829. A note among his papers refers to his setting up in practice at Pendleton, with a collection of law books sent to him by his college classmate, Thomas Slidell.
Even at this early period, the great question of the day in South Carolina was secession, heatedly debated in the newspapers and at picnics and all public gatherings. Feeling was stirred up by the tariff put on manufactured goods by Northern members of Congress. Although this measure did not injure the South to the extent that some Southern politicians claimed, yet the South, being very largely agricultural, was not benefited either, while business in the industrial North was greatly augmented.
Samuel Maverick and his son stood firmly against secession and nullification. They favored instead calling a general convention and taking any lawful action to have the tariff reduced. Young Maverick’s stand on these issues was made public in reply to a series of questions printed in the Pendleton Messenger in 1832. Both father and son endorsed the report and resolutions of the Pendleton Anti-Nullification Committee, which supported Andrew Jackson’s candidacy for reelection to the Presidency.
A LETTER IN THE PENDLETON MESSENGER (1832)
Do you believe the Tariff for the protection of domestic manufactures, unconstitutional?
Do you believe it is unequal in its operation, and particularly oppressive on the Southern, or planting states?
Do you think the States have any rights reserved by which they may protect themselves against oppression on the part of the General Government? If so what are they?
Do you think we ought to submit quietly to the operation of the “American System” or to resist it?
If the latter what mode do you recommend for the state to adopt?
To the voters of Anderson and Pickens Districts
Fellow citizens: The Pendleton Messenger of yesterday contains a communication, addressed to myself, amongst others; to the writer of which together with my fellow citizens in general I take pleasure in addressing myself on all the points of that communication, with all the perspicuity and brevity I can bring to the task.
The communication alluded to enquires of me 1st whether I believe the Tariff for the protection of domestic manufactures unconstitutional. On perusing the constitution itself I find the 1st Article and 8th section authorizes Congress “To lay and collect taxes, duties, imports and excises, to pay the debts, and provide for the common defense and general welfare of the United States: but all duties, imports and excises shall be uniform throughout the United States.” — Again, “Congress shall have power to regulate commerce with foreign nations and among the several states and with the Indian tribes,” — with those before me it is impossible that I can pronounce our whole system of duties on foreign commerce unconstitl. However, the fact that those duties are unevenly adjusted to suit one section of our union and to bear injuriously on another section and moreover with the fact that, however broad these grants of power may seem, I am inclined still to the belief that the high protective principle of the Tariffs of 1824 & 1828 by their unequal operation on the planting states were enacted in violation of those equitable principles of concession and forbearance, which (as they were the basis of our compact) ought to be regarded essential principles of our Federal constitution. For these reasons and in this sense, I believe the Tariff unconstitutional.
The next enquiry made respects to the unequal operation of the Tariff and its supposed peculiar oppressiveness on the southern or planting states. —— This I have already replied to in my previous observation where I have placed the unconstitutionality of the Tariff on the sole ground of its “unequal operation on the planting States”: and if I were satisfied that the Tariff was not injurious to the South — a respectable portion of our country — not violatory of those principles of equity alluded to already, I should not have come to the conclusion that it was unconstitutional. Before I quit this part of my observations I beg to be understood to state explicitly that I believe the Tariff is represented to be ten-fold more oppressive than it really is. The theory that the producer of cotton, rice and tobacco (given in exchange for foreign dutied goods) is burthened with the tariff, that he in fact loses 1/2 of his cotton, I believe to be without any foundation in truth.
The plain truth is that whoever purchases an article from abroad pays the tax on it, which tax pays into the treasury. I have no doubt that the low price of cotton is owing wholly to the over production of the article in this & in other countries. Let it be remembered that in 1800 we made in the U.S. 36,500,000 millions of pounds, in 1831, 270,000,000. So far from truth is it that cotton would rise on a repeal of the Tariff there cannot be a doubt that if the protection on sugar were discontinued and the lands and negroes employed in sugar were brought to the cultivation of cotton, South Carolina would be borne down in the contest and forced by low prices to abandon her cotton planting entirely. I believe the Tariff to be an evil that is rapidly decreasing, and is by no means of a permanent ill, as is attempted to be shown by the nullification party. In fine, I look on the Tariff laws as being little more than such an evil as must be expected at times to result in every republican govt. where the majority must rule & ought to rule, with no restraints on their will but what are provided by the articles of agreemt. the constu. itself. I state these facts frankly to my fellow citizens, as I am bound to do.
The second enquery of “A voter” respects “the unequal operation of the Tariff and its particular oppressiveness on the Southern or planting States.”
I do not for a moment believe the planters of the south lose on their produce by the duties laid on the foreign goods given in exchange for that produce. The truth is that whoever in the north South, east or west purchases a foreign taxed article pays the tariff duty and is the only sufferer by the high duty. South Carolina does not consume more of Tariff goods in proportion to her population than the rest of the union. Now then, it will be asked does a planting State suffer more by the protective policy than a manufacturing State? The whole injustice of the Tariff at one view, is seen to consist in the fact that the planting state pays her quota of taxes without any equivalent beyond the common benefits of the Federal governmt, whereas the manufacturing state receives in return a more than ample equivalent for the taxes she pays on foreign goods consumed. That equivalent converts in the employment given to manufacturing capital & labour and the preference given to it over the foreign manufacturer by the system of import duties. Moreover, a great deal of surplus revenue accumulated by this unequal system, has been expended in the western states, whilst very little of it has found its way back into the unrequited agricultural states.
Whilst I share with my fellow citizens of the South through the operation of these Tariff laws and am concerned with them in devising the means by which to obtain this repeal, I see no propriety in exaggerating the evil. It is quite enough without any misrepresentation, to excite our warmest feelings of solicitude. But it will not do for reasonable men to attribute the distresses complained of in our state to the Tariff. The mortifying reverse of fortune experienced by the great cotton planters of the south is owing wholly to the low prices of that article: and the low price of cotton or of any other produce is understood by every practical man to have no more conexion with the Tariff than with the changes of the moon. The great law of demand & supply regulates the price of all our productions. Let it be remembered that in 1800 our crop of cotton consisted of [36.5] millions of pounds whilst in 1831 it was [270 millions] and other countries have advanced in the same culture at a rate almost equal to ourselves. In 1826 it is known that cotton became greatly depreciated, and the low price was generally attributed to over production and no other cause; and the tariff of which we complain was not yet in operation!
The evils of the Tariff to the south consisting then in my opinion in our being taxed in the advanced price of goods for the purpose of giving employment to northern capital & labour. I look upon the Tariff law as unjust & unequal and that it behooves us to bring about a change of our public policy adapted to our just wants. That this change is to be brought about, and that ample relief is to be obtained through the ordinary action of the government and the powerful operation of public opinion in our favour, I firmly believe. It will not be too much to say that the modified tariff of the last session of Congress in which there are some considerable reductions of both protected and unprotected articles, is the first step in that change of policy which our interests so imperiously demand.
The next enquery of a voter is, whether I “think the states have any rights reserved by which they may protect themselves against oppression on the part of the general government? If so what are they?”
A great change took place in the powers of the states in 1788 when our new general govt. arose on the ruins of the old confederation. Before that time the states were for all practical purposes, sovn. States. Since that time the state governments and the general government have become coordinate branches, and all together constitute one great system — of well-defined civic policy. The active practical sovereignty is lodged now no longer in the states, nor was it transfered to the general govt. but it is found to reside in this whole complex yet well adjusted system of state and general government. In such a government (and ours is undoubtedly such) it is preposterous to suppose that the states have any practical control over the general govt. for then that general govt. would cease to be co-equal in point of soverignty, and equally absurd to suppose the general govt. had any check or controal over the states for they would then cease to be equal with the general govt. The two parties now and have ever since the govt. was framed been contending for the predominence of the states on the one hand and of the general govt. on the other hand, and both of them undoubtedly in error. These party dissentions are now arisen to an alarming height. We have occasionally been threatened with an overthrow of the states, and a consolidation of all power in the arms of the federal. But this is not the only danger to which we are liable. It has been before now and is this moment threatened from the violent attacks of the states rights party. They seem to be ready to run to every extremity in order to establish a principal by which the states are to have a perfect controul over the general government. That principle it is needless to observe is Nullification. Consolidation on the one hand and nullification on the other are the extremes of our political system. If you consolidate and give a controul over the states to the general govt. you prostrate our valuable state govermts. If you give the states a right to nullify or forbid the operation of any law of Congress which such state may choose to condemn you destroy our general government, for it will not be a government at all if it cannot enforce its laws, but must become a mere agency — an agency which is to perform the will, — not of a majority of the employers or of 2/3 or 3/4 of them but of each one — an agency which is to obey each state though one may command what another may countermand or each one of the 24 may require its own peculiar wishes! This is practical Nullification. This is that pretended “reserved right by which a state (in the language of the question above recited) may protect itself from oppression on the part of the general government.” It will be found on examination to be wholly unsustainable in theory and ruinous in practice. Let us make that examination.
REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE APPOINTED AT THE UNION ANTI-NULLIFICATION MEETING HELD AT THE VILLAGE OF PENDLETON, 1832
That no portion of the history of this country has ever presented so many subjects of vital interest as the present. Those which interest us most are the Tariff, Internal Improvement, the proposed scheme of resistance by our State through nullification, and the recent proposition of a general Southern Convention. The condition of our state is a most unhappy one. We behold a people divided in council, divided on principles of the greatest importance. We see in every quarter of the state, at this moment, two great opposing parties, employing almost every means in their power to gain the mastery. The one party is in favor of resisting the acts of the general government of which we are complaining, by nullifying, annulling and forbidding their operation within our chartered limits. The other party or rather the remaining portion of our citizens is engaged in combatting both the unequal laws of the general government, and the dangerous remedies of the Nullification Party. This last portion of our citizens, constitute all those who oppose Nullification. They have hitherto acted separately, whilst their opponents [augment] their life and growth by the zeal, influence, and the numerous artifices of their leaders. We have no associations like our opponents. We publish and circulate no political tracts. We have been thrown together by no other motives than a desire to put down or if need be to resist forcibly the false dangers and revolutionary efforts of Nullification. As lovers of a good government, we are not disposed to stand idly by and see a scheme put in practice, which we are convinced will destroy this govt. even though the object in view is the laudable one of ridding ourselves of the Tariff. As lovers of the Constitution of our country, we are not inclined to destroy it for any pretext even if the thing complained of is a breach or an abuse of that instrumt. As lovers of a Republican government we are not disposed to put into the hands of one of the states of our confederacy a right (such as Nullification) to nullify lawmaking or any law of that govt.
We have a double duty to perform as if to prove the sincerity of patriotic Provision so ordered it that whilst we are opposing the aggression of the general govt. at the same moment we are restraining the dangerous impetuosity of our fellow citizens engaged like ourselves in opposition to those very aggressors, but unlike ourselves, endangering the very existence of our govt. and of liberty itself by their furious impatience.
RESOLUTIONS OF UNION PARTY
Resolved. That we will co-operate with our fellow citizens of this state or of all the southern states, in any and every plan which is constitutional, peaceful, and likely to prove effectual in procuring the repeal of the injurious and oppressive “Tariff laws of Congress.
Resolved. That Nullification, or the interposition of the State veto, to arrest a law of Congress, is in violation of the Constitution and repugnant to the form and character of our form of government — is contradictory in itself, and revolting to the common sense of mankind. — if put in practice, must either degrade the state or the general governmt, or else produce civil war and disunion, and ought therefore to be prevented by all means, in our power.
Resolved. That we will co-operate freely in the proposition of a Southern Convention, which we look upon as being the most peaceful as well as the most effectual means of bringing the government back to a wise and equal policy in regard to the Tariff system and that of Int. Imp[rovemen]t.
Resolved. That we heartily approve of the appointm. of delegates who will assemble at convention with their fellow citizens of the Union party on the second Mon. in this month, at a meeting held at this village on the 6th of this month.
Resolved. That we recommend the reelection of Prest. Jackson, and approve his administration.
At one public meeting where Samuel Maverick made a strong speech against secession in answer to his neighbor, John C. Calhoun, he was questioned and interrupted in a rude and noisy manner by a young man in the audience. Whereupon Maverick’s son, young Samuel Augustus, challenged his father’s heckler to a duel, wounded him slightly, and then took him to the Maverick home and cared for him until his recovery.
Soon after this Samuel Maverick suggested that his son go out to northern Alabama with his widowed sister Elizabeth and her three children, and direct a plantation which he had given them in Lauderdale County on the Tennessee River.
Young Maverick had dreamed of entering public life and his friends expected him to follow such a course, for which they considered him well qualified. But his firm opposition to the popular demand for secession influenced him to give up the thought of a political career in South Carolina, and he accompanied his sister out to Alabama.
This plantation management proving distasteful, he took an extensive trip by river up through the fast-growing north central states to New York, where he visited his younger sister, Mrs. William Van Wyck. He accompanied her to his father’s home in Pendleton, then returned to Alabama. Soon after, on a business trip to New Orleans, he heard much talk of Texas. In the 1830’s our turbulent frontier was suddenly extended into the Mexican-owned Southwest; the fame of Texas spread to the neighboring states in the Union and adventurous spirits were attracted as by a magnet. Maverick determined to go there and see Texas for himself.
Samuel Augustus Maverick took ship and arrived at the settlement of Velasco on the Texas coast in 1835. In exploring the country roundabout he contracted a bad case of malaria. His friends advised him to go to San Antonio in the interior, which being higher was considered much more healthful than the coast regions. San Antonio was then the center of much interest and activity for the whole country. As soon as he was able to do so, he made the trip on horseback via Gonzales, arriving in San Antonio September 8, 1835, a few weeks before the outbreak of the Texas Revolution. He was just thirty-two years old. His fever left him, and he was struck with delight at the beauty of the little Spanish-Mexican town.
We can imagine the scene before him with the clear winding river lined with cypresses, and the irrigation ditches of that day—the attractive simple stone and adobe buildings, flat-roofed, with thick walls, built about the open plazas; the more ambitious Cathedral and handsome mission churches built by the Franciscans in the eighteenth century, alternating on each side of the river below the villa, and showing up in the distance.
The Mexican people with their pleasant manners and customs added much to the picturesque scene. Here was a little foreign town quite different from anything Maverick had ever seen. He was a keen observer and as he walked about he made note of the streets, plazas, and safe river crossings—information which helped greatly when he later acted as guide for Colonel Milam into the city.
Maverick roomed at the home of John W. Smith. He entered into the life of the place, attended mass at the Cathedral with the soldiers, and heard the military band. A companion mentioned in his journal, a Mr. Anderson, told about the Comanche Indian raids—proving that life was not all idyllic in San Antonio.
Doubtless too he heard much of the general dissatisfaction of the Anglo-Americans in the various settlements scattered over Texas, especially the group headed by John A. Wharton of Brazoria who advocated calling a convention of elected delegates to secure “peace if it is to be secured on constitutional terms, and to prepare for war if war be inevitable.”
He learned that even Stephen F. Austin, the great “impressario,” had lost patience with existing conditions: the difficulty of transacting state business in the distant capital of Saltillo, the regulations controlling immigration, and the changeable Mexican government itself. Austin’s imprisonment in Mexico, after years of careful law enforcement and loyalty to Mexico in his colonization efforts, must have opened his eyes to the hopelessness of continuing to hold Texas as a territory or state of such a government. Finally, when the citizens of Gonzales called Austin to command their forces in the attack on General Perfecto de Cos, in command of Mexican forces in San Antonio, he consented to lead them in the siege.
General Cos, who was a brother-in-law of Santa Ana, arrived in San Antonio October 8. At this time a guard was placed at Smith’s doors, thus making prisoners of Maverick, Smith, and Cox. Forces of Anglo-Americans under Austin, Burleson, Bowie, and others were gathering outside the town, and from time to time skirmishes took place between them and the Mexican soldiers. Through the help of a bright and dependable Mexican boy, Maverick exchanged messages with the various American leaders. Smith and Maverick were released, on Smith’s promising the Mexican authorities that they would soon return to the United States, and they joined the Texan forces at their camp ten miles below San Antonio.
We children were told by my father and grandmother that on reaching the main Texan force our grandfather stepped upon a tree stump and addresed the men gathered about. (He was not tall, lacking more than an inch of six feet.) He encouraged the troops to storm the town, gave them the number of the enemy forces, assured them that the Mexican soldiers were poor shots—usually aiming too high—and offered to guide them into the city. At this point Milam called for volunteers and some 250 men fell into ranks and “volunteered to make the attack next morning”:
When Ben R. Milam led a division of the Texas troops into San Antonio, December 5th, he [Maverick] acted as guide to the troops moving down Soledad; being familiar with the streets and alleys he was able and did render great service to the troops. It was he who caught the body of Milam, shot by a [Mexican] sharpshooter, in the court of the Veramendi house. [Frederick C. Chabot, The Mavericks, p. 3. Ben Milam was born in Kentucky in 1790, served in the War of 1812, winning the admiration of his comrades, and later removed to the headwaters of the Colorado in Texas, according to the account by John Henry Brown in his Indian Wars. Milam joined Long’s expedition to Mexico and, after Long’s assassination, he and his companions were put in prison, and finally freed through the efforts of Joel R. Poinsett, the United States Commissioner of Observation in Mexico. Milam was granted land on Red River, Texas, where he remained three or four years. Appealed to by neighbors to examine into the Texas-Mexico boundary, he rode to Monclova, Mexico, via San Antonio, was imprisioned owing to the revolution in Mexico, escaped, and after hardships arrived at Goliad (seventy-five miles south of San Antonio) at the moment that Captain George M. Collinsworth and his party were about to attack the Mexican stronghold, a thick-walled Church-fortress. Here, according to Chabot’s account, “the Americans, under Capt. Collinsworth captured Goliad on the 8th, when Milam, just arrived from Mexico ‘acted a distinguished part.'” (The Alamo, Altar of Texas Liberty, pp. 28-29.)
The cannon of the Mexican army commanded the approaches of Soledad and Acequia (now Main) Streets. The Americans, resourceful, and acting on information given, made us of any makeshift tools they could procure to force their way through the stone walls of the houses bordering these streets.
Then followed one of the grimmest and hardest fought combats ever waged around San Antonio, the scene of many battles, including the Alamo in the following year. The tragic end of their courageous leader Col. Ben Milam was such a blow that as far as possible the truth was kept from his followers and from the Mexican forces also, and Johnston quietly took command.
Maverick later pointed out to his son the scene of the fighting:
Once, standing near the Veramendi House he told me, “”There [at S. E. corner of Veramendi house] Ben Milam was shot—as he staggered back I caught him in my arms.” He pointed backwards to a spot in Veramendi Street, “There during the fight I helped to cut off a man’s shattered leg, and we saved his life.” [Letter dated 1893 from George M. Maverick to Frank W. Hackett, of Washington, D. C. The man whose life was saved was Col. William A. Ward, known as “Pegleg” Ward, second commissioner of the General Land Office under the Republic of Texas, Commissioner during the “Archive War.” (Information supplied by Charles W. Ramsdell.)]
The first journal of Samuel A. Maverick tells of his coming to Texas in 1835 and describes the siege of San Antonio. The journals were given to Maverick’s dauighter, Mary Brown Maverick Terrell, and were copied in 1879 by her husband, Edwin H. Terrell, because the paper was poor and the ink was fading. The journals are here printed from these copies, which were given to me in 1948 by George Terrell and Lewis Terrell of Seattle, the sons of Edwin and Mary Terrell.
Journal
SEPT. 5TH. Leave Gonzales for Bexar, 6 miles to Judge Williams. [blank] m. to [blank], 49 m. to Cibolo, 22 m. to Salado Cr.; 5 (m) to Bejar (76 miles from Gonzales to Bejar). Arrived on 8th Sept.
SEPT. 16TH. Grand Independence Celebration. (Paid Smith to 23rd, owe from 24th). Mr. Anderson’s account of the Comanches.
OCT. 8TH. Messrs Smith & Anderson return from Gonzales with the final resolution of the people & Ayuntamiento that they will not give up the cannon. Col. Ugartechea had first sent 4 or 5 soldiers and wagons; 2nd, 100 men under Lieut. Castinada; and 3d, set out himself at head of all his effectives, at the moment of Anderson’s going, but returned. People collecting in at Gonzales. This day (8th) arrived Genl Perfecto de Cos and also Ugartechea’s family from Monterey. [Genl Coml. Bexar—Perfecto de Cos. Domingo de Ugartechea, Col. Com. Cav’y.]
OCT. 11TH. Sunday. Attend grand mass with the soldiers with military music, &c, and hear that La Bahia was surprised and taken yesterday (10th) at break of day by about 60 Americans. One killed and one or two wounded of the Mexicans.
OCT. 12TH. Great flurry and excitement by arrival of Mex. spies reporting that great crowds of Americans were on the road coming. This moment commence to mount cannon, pressing into the service Smith and other citizens (3 cannons already mounted; 2 now being mounted.)
OCT. 15TH. Appointed for the meeting of the Convention. Americans on the march from Gonzales.
OCT. 17TH. Arrival of courier with dispatches from [blank]. (12th. Timbers &c. taken to El Alamo to fortify the quartel, & begin, on 13th, to blockade the streets, which is finished by the 17th.) 16th. Smith’s doors guarded, and Col. Ugartechea’s.
OCT. 17TH. Arrival of Pedro Flores, as courier, with news that S. F. Austin is General of American forces. Dispatches from Gen’l Austin to Gen’l de Cos. Reports that 800 Americans are stationed at Cibolo and 500 more expected instanter. Reports that Sandoval, Comd’t at La Bahia and company carried prisoners to San Felipe. (Ugartechea had this day gone out with 100 men to the Cibolo, and confronted the advance body, who having alighted & cooked, U. turned back.)
13th was the day on which the military broke the figure of San Antonio, and on the 14th the comet was seen in the west 45° above the horizon, its train reaching 1/4 over the visable firmament.
OCT. 18TH. Courier with communications from Cos to Austin, and my note to Austin. On 17th, finished mounting one cannon (had before only 3). All the powder &c. taken to the Church 3 or 4 days ago. Forces are divided here; part in the quartel (of the infantry) in Presidio on W. side of the rio, and the whole troop on E. side in their quartel in Alamo 300 cavalry and 2 [200] Infantry. (The actual number, officers, soldiers, guards etc. of Effectives is 647)
OCT. 19TH. Cos had written to Austin that if he would send his men all home & then send or come with 2 or 3, be would be disposed to hear him. This day Austin sent a mere verbal message by Pedro that he had not come to treat but to fight; and if he (Cos) would not meet him outside he would attack him inside of the town. De Cos’s observation to the servant was “I want no more communications. Let the damn rascals come.” His letter to Austin had on 18th been read aloud at the beat of the drum at the four corners of the public square.
OCT. 20TH. Great flurry this morning on account of a report that the Americans are at the Salado (5 miles). House tops covered with sentinels &c., but soon over. Suppose the report is a false one. The Mexican spies report that some 20 of them attacked 3 on Salado; got a rifle and blanket but did not kill the Americans.
[OCT.] 21ST. Bowie sent his compliments to the town. [Note: B. had married a daughter of Gov. Veramendi and had formerly lived in the City, E.H.T.]
[OCT.] 22ND. Reports that Rodriguez and 50 soldiers are absent and suppose [they are] gone over. Padillo is with Austin. This afternoon is the first rencontre. 12 or 15 shots discharged. 3 come in shot—one through the head, one wounded and one his gun broken. This night arrival from Rio Grande of a cavallardo and about 48 soldiers.
[OCT.] 23RD. Eleven soldiers came in from Rio Grande. Soldiers all in motion, and go out but nothing done. At night there was some shooting.
[OCT.] 24TH. 41 more soldiers arrived. There appears to have been a small engagement today at about 9 o’clock on the Salado. At 10 Infantry come in with one man wounded (shot through the head). We heard at least 100 reports. Another report has it that there were some soldiers wounded in an engagement at the 2nd Mission (San Jose), which took place this morning. 24th, Saturday. No fighting, word sent.
[OCT.] 25TH. Letter rec’d from [Austin] saying that the reason Bejar was not at once taken is because the colonists would disperse before all now on the march to this Place would be able to reach it. 4 or 5 hundred are coming besides those already come. Genl Houston had arrived with part of the Nacog[doches] troops. Mexer [Mexia] & Zavalla are on the move in Texas. The great object is, when all the fighting men are brought together, to concert measures for giving general, united & effective support to the Constitution of 1824, and to put down Centralism.
It is expected that a resolution will be taken by all or most to march on to Matamoras, and from thence to any quarter thought to be best. It is expected (says Gen’l A.) that Mexir [Mexia] will raise troops to march into the interior. [He adds that] Cos might put an end to all this by pronouncing, or leaving the people of Bejar free to do so (in favor of the Constitution). Word also comes to confirm the report of Friday’s skirmishing, and it appears that some 3 or 4 were left dead for the Americans to inter.
[OCT.] 26TH. Nothing. An 18 pounder just mounted. Was carried by to the Alamo, and raised to the top of the church; besides this, they have 10 (smaller) cannons mounted—5 in Presidio, of which 4 are in the Plaza and 1 in front of the church, and 7 [in] the Alamo, of which one, the 18 pounder, is on the top of the old church of San Antonio [de Valero]. It appears that Bowie and the American party lately at the Mission of San Juan (3rd one) have gone back to the Headquarters at the Salado.
[OCT.] 27TH. Tuesday. Mexican infantry go out this morning. At 7 1/2 o’clock firing commenced, which continued nearly 2 hours (at the first Mission—Concepcion). 2 or 3 messengers then came in on a strain & they carry out 2 mules loaded with ammunition. Soon after 9 rounds of artillery are heard and brisk firing for 20 or 30 minutes.
[OCT.] 28TH. It appears from what is come out that the Mexicans had every one of their artillery men shot down & most of them killed, and both of the cannons they carried out taken from them. They left 23 dead on the ground. Out of 12 officers only one came off without a wound. They brought 42 wounded men off. 4 died on the way coming; on this morning (28th) it appears certain that 15 of these have died.
[OCT.] 28TH. Fifteen Mexican infantry out of the 42 wounded brought in are, this morning, dead; besides this havoc of the infantry, artillery-men etc. there were some of the cavalry killed. It is probable that more than 42 were brought off wounded for they [Mexicans] reported 8 (only) left dead [on the field], whereas the Padre, (who went with 10 men at the request of Austin to Gen’l Cos) reports 23 dead [on the field] and some dying in the American Camp. There must be at least 80 put past duty. The old Padre reports but one man as being touched, and he only wounded in a tender part
In the afternoon of yesterday some cavalry went towards the Mission and being hemmed in where the river was not fordable they quit their horses and swam the stream and thus saved their lives. The party of Americans were at first only 50 men, who were looking out a good camping place. As the action went on, they were increased until they were about 200 strong. The main body still remained with Austin on the Salado. They considered this as a mere scouting frolic, whereas it was an almost breaking up business for the Central party. The Mexican force was much more numerous than the American, and their infantry the best soldiers in the Republic (of the Mexican breed).
[OCT.] 29TH. Several deaths. In the afternoon a large reinforcement; 2 or 3 hundred, coming to the American army came almost into the town (suppose by mistake) and then turned off.
OCT. 30TH. A party of 3 or 4 hundred, with Bowie, came up on this side of the river near to town. The banter not being accepted, after staying till evening, they went down again.
[OCT.] 31ST. No mass. Two soldiers missing; either killed in the course of the firing today up the river, or possibly deserted. Some more cannons mounted here and great activity to secure the place.
NOV. 1ST. (Sunday) All Saints’ Day; a great occasion with the Catholics. 8 o’clock this morning a division of the Fedl. force is seen 1 or 1 1/2 miles from the Alamo (north). They fired three times at Ugartechea’s fort which salute is returned by two shots. Nothing more done—too far off.
NOV. 2ND. This is the people’s day—for common people’s souls to go to Heaven. Yesterday the Padre was sent by Gen’l Cos to say to Austin that they had better disperse and make their representations peaceably to the Government, and he would pledge himself they would be attended to. Austin returned the Padre with the word that he did not come to make representations; he would have a fight and if Cos would not come out he would go into the town. He sent word that the alternatives he [Cos] had were either to abandon the place or stay and fight.
He sent Cos word that he had extensive resources of men and money and that Mexir [Mexia] was gone to take Matamoras. When the Padre told Cos this he said it was a lie; they had not the resources spoken of &c. and that they might come on for they were not able to move him and he would stay in town.
Austin and his chief division are 1 1/2 miles above town, at the upper mill place. The rest below town on both sides of the river. Nothing done today—2nd—but a little firing at long distances (and without effect) at the picket guards of the Mexicans at the edge of La Villita about the ditch.
[NOV.] 3RD. The division of the Americans below town are said to be gone off this morning; where gone is not known.
The army above are still there. The Mexicans have gone on with their work of defense briskly. ———Cannons now mounted. The place could much easier have been taken with 200men after the affair of Gonzales than it can now with 1500 men.
The quartel in the Alamo is very strongly fortified, and the streets to the plaza here well guarded; and all trees, grass, fences and other lurking places and barricades removed and being removed in order to see the Americans when they come up. This night (of 3d November) some hundred or more guns fired in the Alamo, among which is heard a number of rifles. This turns out to be a party of Americans examining the premises and meeting the picket guard. A firing is carried on from behind a couple of houses. One Mexican is killed. While this is going on 1/2 doz. rounds are given and received by the Col. & the Americans N. of the fort.
[NOV.] 4TH. Redoubled exertions today in fortifying and clearing away hereabouts and mounting cannons. Ugartechea fires two guns off this morning, without getting an answer. A note had come yesterday from S. Jr. [thought to refer to Juan Seguin], saying that tonight (of 4th) a general attack is contemplated. A report is abroad among the citizens that the Americans are quarreling, and particularly Austin and Bowie. This evening at 7 o’clock the Mex. guards, whilst passing in the vicinity of the grave yard received a couple of shots and came in. No mass.
[NOV.] 5TH. From the effect of a number of little reports, stories and conjectures, our house is in great dejection this morning; have been drooping some days. I still have confidence. Ugartechea fires some cannon.
[NOV.] 6TH. Ugartechea fires his cannon, and there is another taken by Candalia (Ar’t’y Col.), a little out of town on this side above and fired several times, but not very near the Amens., though towards them. Very cheering accounts come this afternoon of an addition of 4 or 5 hundred more men with some cannons and plenty of provisions and other supplies. A great fog this morning, arising by evaporation from the river (spring water). Thermometer at 7 A.M. in shade out of doors is at 49°. Yesterday at about same hour a norther blew up, bringing the thermometer down 20°, from 75° to 55°. About a week past we experienced the first norther this fall.
[NOV.] 7TH. Note from Austin in general terms. All the Americans are at the upper Molina [Later the site of the Drought home at 9th Street, San Antonio] General Mexir [Mexia] has sailed from New Orleans to Matamoras or Tampico with a great force etc.
[NOV.] 8TH. (Sunday) Afternoon. A spying party of Americans said to be seen west of town a mile out. Capt. Barragan and some cavalry give them chase. They forced the Americans to seek safety in a gully. They took 6 horses, two frock coats and two hats, on which account the church bell was rung in joy. This evening the Gen’l fired off some signal rockets which threw things into a little helter skelter and turned out a false alarm.
NOV. 9TH. Reported that a considerable number of men more have joined the American force. Also reported that 4 or 5 hundred soldiers are coming on to Cos from Laredo (having some reluctant Mexicans as prisoners). The Americans are keeping a good lookout for this reinforcement of the Federal Army.
[NOV.] 10TH. The Federal Army (of Austin & Co.) have from time to time been receiving cannon. just heard they received yesterday one requiring six yoke (of oxen) to haul. Suppose an 18 pounder. Col. T. J. Rusk sent me his name by Peter.
[NOV.] 11TH. Wrote a few lines to Rusk this moming and sent by P., evening. Holmes received a few lines from Wm. Austin and I a sibylline leaf. He writes that they are 900 strong. Some who were obliged have gone home. New forces immediately expected. Some from New Orleans certainly on the way; have seven cannon. Two hours after dark an alarm, and in about twenty minutes four or five hundred muskets discharged and three cannon. Two guns being fired close to Smith’s, Cap’t Solis with (Mendoza) four soldiers and some at the door entered the house where we were sitting. In his lingo he demanded who shot off the guns and why?, and in a very menacing, hurried manner ordered his men, who at the word formed in a good position, cocking their muskets, and held them at a present (with bayonets). Smith (J.W.) and the women denied that we did it. He asserted and the women again earnestly protested. He then pushed into the yard, still furious and in calling out it so happened that he was heard by Vedall [Alejandro Vidal] who owned that he had shot his guns, saying he shot at some of the Americans on the point, on the opposite side of the river. This was a lie, but being a faithful damned dog no more was said. The Capt. tried to excuse himself and the affair ended. (He had said he was shot at as he heard the balls whiz by him; this a lie.) Vedall answered at the second call. If he had declined answering at all, they would have been fully convinced it was we, and certainly if a soldier would have said this or these men fire[d] (or with arms) they would have shot us instantly. It was certainly a fine specimen of Centralism. I did not at the time think they would fire. It occurred to me that he demanded to know if any from the American Camp had got into our premises. I knew none had and felt that his was an idle bravado and that we were safe. On a full explanation, however, I saw we were very near being shot through a mistake. Dm such a government.
[NOV.] 12TH. Col. Ugartechea, who is a well-meaning gentleman, being told what occurred last night, was much concerned. We demanded again leave to go out of town. He went to the General [Cos] and two hours [after] returned. He reports that the General can’t suffer us to go out of his custody; but they promise ample protection and Ugartechea closed by requesting us to shoot such fellows if they should do such a thing again. This is kind assurance of & Gen’l and Colonel, but is impracticable and useless. It seems that Ugartechea had the Captain brought up; that Candalia, the Lt. Col. of Infantry, defended his capitan. He undertook to quarrel with the Col. (Ugartechea) when the Gen’l told them to stop: “The times don’t allow brother officers to quarrel,” and added to Ugartechea “Assure those gentlemen at Smiths that they shall be protected. If the like insult is offered again, tell them to shoot down the rascals but they cannot be permitted to leave town.”
[NOV.] 13TH. Report of a cannon heard early this morning, and at about 10 o’clock twenty guns fired in answer to five or ten from the Mill, commenced by the Americans.
[NOV.] 14TH. Quiet. Five or six shots fired by the Americans on the Alamo. Two of them hit the fort.
[NOV.] 15TH. Sunday. I am engaged in making a plan. At 10 O’clock brisk and heavy firing going on by the Americans, not answered by Ugartechea, as was the fact yesterday. Shot as if by an experienced gunner. The fourth shot entering the fort took a soldier’s leg off. One shot supposed to be aimed at the Church near this [house] in the middle of town, bit in a tree top on the bank of the river and fell into the water, one hundred yards from us or less. They whistled as if they were coming into Smith’s. One hit the corner of Don Fernando Rodrigues’ stone house. Today a flag flying for the first time, in the fort, and a man in it with his shin bone broke etc. Videll [Vidal] cut off his leg, borrowing Mr. Smith’s saw. His operation was singular and savage; he (the man) died at sunset, killed by Videll.
[NOV.] 16TH. Sent my project to [Milam] at 9 o’clock. Firing commenced a few minutes after at the fort again and after a while at the church near us (where there is a constant lookout kept and where there is a battery etc.) The balls fired at the town fell short a hundred yards or so, one falling at the picket’s cannon (No. 2) in the second street, and one knocking down a woman’s hen house—dreadful! The Col. did not fire in reply. Soon on the receipt of [blank] the firing ceased altogether and nothing more today.
[NOV.] 17TH. Not a sound. The wind hardly blows. All gayety again in town. Officers riding about on their pampered and mettlesome steeds. A report circulated that a great force from Santa Anna has landed and that a considerable reinforcement will be here in three or four days.
[NOV.] 18TH. A man from the American Camp came in last night and tells some of his friends (report perhaps general) that the Americans know that Col. Ugartechea left here four or five days ago in the night with sixty men in order to bring on those four hundred or more troops that a few days ago were on the march and returned back to Laredo; that the Americans had sent a messenger and escort to hurry on Padilla and some troops under him, who are coming from Goliad in order to [make] an attack, which the Americans were determined to make before Col. Ugartechea could get here with his reinforcement. This the deponent asserts positively, viz: That the Americans are going to make an attack some night. And from the very uncommon caution observed last night for the first time (and in the afternoon) in challenging citizens as they passed Musquis’ corner, and (what they never did before) making them tell what business they were upon etc., it is my opinion that some news came in during yesterday afternoon about the Americans’ design of making an attack. This is the first time I heard that Col. Ugartechea had gone out of the fort.
[NOV.] 19TH. The Americans said to be erecting a battery one half [mile] this side of the mill, a little above La Garza’s sugar mill. One lone gun fired (cannon); fired at the American camp at 11 or 12 o’clock at night. Nothing. No firing all day. Govr. Viesca said to have come yesterday to American Camp. He reports that Genl Mexia had taken Matamoras. There is a report that Montezuma had gained a naval victory over the Centralists.
[NOV.] 20TH. One American cannon at 11 o’clock. This day the worst norther we have had. Thermometer 42° with rain and wind. One cannon also early this morning. After dark an American came into edge of town, enquiring for Gen’l Austin’s camp. He was seized by the picket guard and carried to the jail of the Plazas. Another American was seen lying drunk below town, but before the soldiers could reach him a Mexican (friend) had sent and the American on his horse made off. It is said that the dispatches just arrived bring word that the little fort on the Nueces, on the road from Goliad to Matamoras, was just taken by Americans; six cannon and a parcel of small arms and prisoners.
[NOV.] 21ST. The soldiers who came back from hunting up the drunk men were sent again. They found an American by the road-side sleeping (or drunk). He woke up and said he was their friend (in bad Spanish). However, one of the soldiers shot a ball through him, but still speaking, another shot and killed him. They then stripped him and brought his clothes & pistol and horse to town which they are offering for sale about town. He had no gun. Señor Paplo further says that it came from Yturri’s house (friend to Cos) that they speak of shooting the prisoner. This a very cold, bleak, rainy day. The Americans are raising a battery or something not far from La Garza’s sugar mill, one half mile this side of the Molina where Austin is. Thermometer this morning 36 1/2º.
[NOV.] 22ND. Sunday. Very cold. One hundred guns at least fired through the day; say seventy from the Alamo and a cannon placed on W. side of the river, and thirty by the Americans.
NOV. 23RD. Five cannon fired this morning from the battery of the Americans at or near the sugar mill of La Garza. The weather very cold—very unusually so as S. [Smith] says. Thermometer down to 28º after sunrise. Water in the house froze over as thick as a dinner plate. No frost out of doors by reason of the wind.
[NOV.] 24TH. Thermometer at 31º, but a little weak sunshine, now and then. The Americans were very quiet yesterday and so today. It is supposed that something is going on betwixt them and Ugartechea (at the head of the soldiers he is trying to bring in from Laredo). This whole afternoon is occupied in a far-off attack on the American dirt fort, three quarters of a mile above. Some two or three hundred discharges of muskets, now and then the crack of a rifle is heard. The Americans have two cannons there. In the midst of the firing the Americans fired two cannon at the fort (over it) and one at the church here in town. None of the officials went out. Towards night the soldiers returned—Two killed and one wounded (Mexican). The Americans in all likelihood came off untouched as the soldiers did not go within musket shot but near enough to be reached by a good rifle.
[NOV.] 25TH. Thermometer 30º. Sun shining and a fair day.
[NOV.] 26TH. Weather improving. Foraging party of Mexican soldiers etc. on the west of town (in hearing) attacked by the Americans—three killed and several wounded. Some wounded men brought in next morning report that every kindness was offered and done to them by the Americans. By their request they were left by the Americans covered up with their blankets and grass. They say that none of the Americans were hurt. The Americans took off all their pack mules (the Mexicans), say twenty or thirty.
[NOV.] 27TH. Fair day, cool. One of the soldiers of yesterday’s foraging party, in running off, came by an American’s horse and mounted him; be was shot through the hat. (A soldier who had taken hold of the horse a moment before had his arm broken by a rifle ball.) The same brought the horse in and to-day sold him to Smith for $46.00, horse, saddle and three pistols.
[NOV.] 28TH. Americans after the foragers this morning on the Salado, but were dodged. At 10 o’clock thermometer is at 54º—a fine day. Five or six cannon shot at the Alamo fort. Nothing done. Last night (after midnight) a great deal of musket firing from the picket guard, who reported (falsely) that they saw the Americans coming in with a great many ladders to scale the walls. Poh! No need of ladders.
[NOV.] 29TH. Mr. Cocke thinks he was shot at whilst on the ridge-pole of our (Nixon’s) house [current Commerce Street, about 200 feet east of Soledad Street. G. M. M.]. Some cannon firing.
[NOV.] 30TH. Monday. Cannonading.
DEC. 1ST. Left town, Smith having promised for us that we would go soon to the United States. After leaving town cannons fired from both parties.
[DEC.] 2ND. We all go into the American camp from ranch of José Angel Navarro (Gefe Politico), ten miles below town. Great cannonading this day. Col. Mendoza has the calf of his leg shot off. Council of officers held instanter and Smith and myself urge an assault. After a great many objections being urged and answered by our offering to head the divisions etc., it is finally agreed to make the attack by taking: 1st Veramendi’s; 2nd La Garza’s; and 3d Cardena’s houses. The command to be given to Maj. Morris; 2nd Col. Somerville; and 3d Col. Jack.
[DEC.] 4TH. This failed, on Col. Somerville and Col. Jack saying they were not ready, so when morning (the 4th) came, there was a general breaking up. Another faux pas is made: the volunteers curse the officers and 250 or 300 set off for home. All day we get more and more dejected. The Gen’l (Burleson) mustered the remaining men and begged them not all to go; but some stay and retreat with the cannon to La Bahia. A retreat seems our only recourse. The spectacle becomes appalling; but it was the deep darkness that prognosticated day. Near sunset Al Feris [Alveris?], Cornet of horse, deserts, coming in on a fine horse and with a white flag. His story is heard and corroborated. (Another deserter had just come in with dispatches from Cos to Ugartechea). Near dark and by the animating manner and untiring zeal of Col. Milam, these trivial matters are turned to account. An impulse is given and received; the men fall into ranks to see if we are strong enough. The mere fragment of the seven hundred, say two hundred & fifty, volunteer to make the attack next morning; (two thousand had from time to time been in camp.)
DEC. 5TH. Attack made, myself [as guide] going with Col. Milam at the head of the right division. Johnson commanded the left.
DEC. 10TH. White flag of surrender sent us.
DEC. 31ST, 1835 & JAN. 1ST, 1836 Men set out for La Bahia to rendezvous for an attack on Matamoras.
It is unfortunate that my grandfather’s journal breaks off in this most exciting place, just when his own part in the storming of San Antonio became most important. Doubtless he was too busy fighting to make journal entries, and merely gives the date of Cos’s capitulation—the white flag and nothing more. We wish that he had taken the time shortly afterwards to write a brief account of his own part in the storming, but have never found such a description. We do know that when General Cos raised the white flag, Maverick went with Burleson, Johnson, Swisher, and some others across the river and received the surrender in the Nueva Villita. The articles of capitulation were signed in the “Cos House” on what is now Villita Street. I have often thought that the “plan” my grandfather sent to Austin—since he had lived in the city and was observant—advised the attack from thick-walled house to house, just as it was carried out.
Forty years later Sidney Lanier visited San Antonio and wrote an account of the city, based on his own observations and his talks with early settlers. His aricle “San Antonio de Bexar,” published in Southern Magazine in 1873, was reprinted in William Corner’s San Antonio de Bexar, from which the following account of the storming of the city is taken:
It is whispered the town will be stormed. On the 3rd of December, Smith, Holmes, and Maverick escape [Maverick’s journal entry for December 1 makes it clear that they left the city with the permission of the Mexican officers; Lanier’s use of the term “escape” is apparently based on misunderstanding.] from San Antonio, and give the Texan commander such information as apparently determines him to storm. Volunteers are called for to attack early next morning; all day and all night of that December 3rd the men make themselves ready, and long for the moment to advance; when here comes word from the General’s quarters that the attack is put off! Chagrin and indignation prevail on all sides. On the morning of the 4th there is open disobedience of orders; whole companies refuse to parade. Finally, when on the same afternoon orders are issued to abandon camp and march for La Bahia at seven o’clock, the tumult is terrible, and it seems likely that these wild energetic souls, failing the Mexicans, will end by exterminating each other.
Midst of the confusion here arrives Mexican Lieutenant Vuavis, a deserter, and declares that the projected attack is not known (as had been assigned for reason of postponing), and that the garrison in town is in as bad order and discontent as the besiegers. At this critical moment a brave man suddenly crystallised the loose mass of discordant men and opinions into one compact force and one keen purpose. It is late in the morning, Col. Benjamin R. Milam steps forth among the men, and cried aloud: “Who will go with old Ben Milam into San Antonio?” [John Henry Brown quotes Milam as saying, “Who will follow Ben Milam into San Antonio—let all who will form a line right here.” This seems more likely than “old” Ben Milam, since he was only forty-five in 1835. R.M.G.] Three hundred and one men will go.
A little before daylight on the 5th they “go,” General Burleson agreeing to hold his position until he hears from them. Milam marches into and along Acequia Street with his party; Johnson with his along Soledad Street. Where these debouch into the Main Plaza, Cos has thrown up breastworks and placed raking batteries. The columns march parallel along the quiet streets. Presently, as Johnson gets near the Veramendi House (which he is to occupy, while Milam is to gain De la Garza’s house), a Mexican sentinel fires. Deaf Smith shoots the sentinel. The Mexicans prick up their ears, prick into their cannon-cartridges; the Plaza batteries open, the Alamo batteries join in; spade, crowbar, rifle, escopet, all are plied, and the storming of Bexar is begun.
But it would take many such papers as this to give even meagre details of all the battles that have been fought in and around San Antonio, and one must pass over the four days of this thrilling conflict with briefest mention. It is novel fighting; warfare intramural, one might say. The Texans advance inch by inch by piercing through the stone walls of the houses, pecking loop-holes with crowbars for their rifles as they gain each room, picking off the enemy from his housetops, from around his cannon, even from behind his own loop-holes. On the night of the 5th with great trouble and risk the two columns succeed in opening communication with each other. On the 6th they advance a little beyond the Garza house. On the 7th brave Karnes steps forth with a crowbar and breaks into a house midway between the Garza house and the Plaza; brave Milam is stricken by a rifle ball just as he is entering the yard of the Veramendi house and falls instantly dead; and the Navarro house, one block from the Main Plaza, is gained. On the 8th they take the “Zambrano Row” of buildings, driving the enemy from it room by room; the enemy endeavor to produce a diversion with fifty men, and do, in a sense, for Burleson finds some diversion in driving them back precipitately with a six-pounder; at night those in the Zambrano Row are reinforced, and the “Priest’s House” is gained amid heavy fighting.
This last is the stroke of grace. The Priest’s House commands the Plaza. Early on the morning of the 9th General Cos sends a flag of truce, asking to surrender, and on the 10th agrees with Gen. Burleson upon formal and honorable articles of
capitulation.
The next year was decisive in the history of Texas—1836, the year of Texas Independence, the year of the Alamo. In February, Samuel Augustus Maverick was elected to be a delegate to the Independence Convention at Washington on the Brazos, in East Texas. The Convention met early in March, at the very moment that the battle of the Alamo was being fought in San Antonio, less than two hundred miles away. Some of the delegates, including Maverick, were delayed by high water and arrived on March 3, the day following the signing, but they were allowed by the Convention to sign the historical document. [Two other delegates to the Convention at Washington elected from San Antonio were Jose Antonio Navarro and Francisco Ruiz, who were the only native-born signers of the Texas Declaration of Independence.] No account of the Convention in Maverick’s own hand has survived. We do know from a fellow-signer, Colonel Stephen W. Blount, that Maverick showed himself at Washington to be “A man of determined will, unyielding when advocating what he believed to be right, and uncompromising in favor of a definite programme of separation from Mexico.” [Frederick Chabot, The Mavericks, p. 4.] William Menefee, another signer, characterized Maverick in some detail:
He was one of the most polished members of the Washington Convention. He had been educated in the best schools of the country and his manners and general deportment indicated a refined nature. Mr. Maverick made no effort to display his polite learning, but it so dominated his nature that one could not help feeling it in his presence. Not only was he a man of superior mental training, but he was a man of tact and ability. His course at old Washington was that of a diplomat and statesman. He watched the proceedings closely and gave his assent to every proposition looking to the establishment of our independent Government. He was a cautious man and counseled prudence in speech and act. He recognized that whatever the convention did would but make Santa Anna more determined to crush opposition to his programme of subjugation. He was familiar with the prevailing sentiment in the United States regarding the Revolution and he emphasized the necessity of cultivating that sentiment. “Let our acts prove to the world that we are sincere patriots,” he said in a brief address before the Convention, “and we need not fear the result. The people of the United States fought for the same character of freedom and independence for which we are battling, and they will sustain us as long as our fight is just. Let us not deviate from the programme mapped out by our leaders, and the God of War will give us the victory.
After the battle of San Jacinto, Maverick traveled back to his sister’s plantation in Alabama. Many conflicting reports about the Alamo and the battles in Texas had reached the States, and he hastened to report to his sisters and friends and to send word to his father in South Carolina that he was alive and well, to allay their fears that he had perished in the Alamo.
On one occasion, while riding along a country road near Tuscaloosa, he met, also on horseback, a lovely blue-eyed blonde young woman in a green muslin dress, Mary Ann Adams. This chance meeting soon ripened into friendship and love. Mr. Maverick’s relatives and friends celebrated his safe return with gay plantation parties and it was not long before Mary and Samuel Augustus became engaged and planned their wedding. They were married at her mother’s home near Tuscaloosa on August 4, 1836. Mary was eighteen, Samuel Augustus thirty-three. [“After Mr. Maverick’s death, in putting his effect to rights, she found a small piece of the green muslin dress she had worn that first day he saw her, and he had kept all those years unknown to her.” Mrs. Albert Maverick, quoted by Frederick C. Chabot, Maverick Notes, 1835, p. 30.]
In the thirty-four years of their married life Mary Maverick shared her husband’s interests, his anxieties, and his loyalties. His devotion to Texas and San Antonio became her own. Long years after his death, in 1889, she wrote an account of the fall of the Alamo, asking that it be saved for her young grandson George Maverick as an example of his grandmother’s writing at the age of seventy-one—”The writing is poor enough to be ashamed of, nevertheless let all do better at that age who can.” Despite her modesty, my grandmother’s account brings vividly to life that heroic struggle of the spring of 1836, a few months before the young Mary Adams married Samuel A. Maverick.
FALL OF THE ALAMO
By Mary A. Maverick
Compiled from H. Yoakum and Oral Testimony.
Genl. Santa Anna, “The Napoleon of the West” & Victor over all who in Mexico opposed his design of abrogating the constitution of 1824, arrived before the walls of the Alamo, breathing death & destruction to the traitors in Texas. With him came Genls. Filisola, Sesma, Gaona, Tolsa, Woll, Andrade, & perjured Cos (who had surrendered his forces to Burleson’s Texan army after 5 days & nights continuous fighting, on 10 Dec ’35—giving his parole for his command, & himself, not again to fight Texas; & thereupon all being allowed to depart for Mexico, with arms for defence against Indians). Santa Anna on 23rd Feb 1836 demanded instant & unconditional surrender of the men in the Alamo. Col Travis commanding answered with a shot, & immediately a blood red flag was hoisted on the church of Bexar, & firing on the fort began. Wm. B. Travis, Col commanding, had 30 men—sent by Gov Smith of provisional Govt. as garrison, & had secured about 113 vounteers; with these upon approach of the enemy he retired into the Fort, having previously in anticipation done what he could to strengthen the walls & provide means for defence. On 24th Col Travis sent an Express East appealing for aid, he wrote:
Bexar, Feb. 24th /36.
Fellow citizens & compatriots:
I am beseiged by a thousand or more Mexicans under Santa Anna, I have sustained a continued bombardment for twenty four hours, and have not lost a man. The enemy have demanded a surrender or retreat. Then I call you in the name of liberty, of patriotism, and of everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid with all despatch. The enemy are receiving reinforcements daily, and will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. Though this call may be negelected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible, and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honour, and that of his country. Victory or death!
Lieutenant Colonel commanding
P.S. The Lord is on our side, when the enemy appeared in sight, we had not three bus. of corn. We have since found, in deserted houses, eighty or ninety bushels, and got into the walls twenty or thirty beeves W B T
Feb. 25th Mexicans reinforced by Matamoras batalion de Cazadores attempt to erect a battery South of the Alamo, repulsed by Texas sharpshooters, Mex. reinforced by batallion of Ximenes. P.M. & During the night, the 2 batallions erect the battery. Travis sallied out 7 burnt the wooden & straw thatched jacales in vicinity. Feb. 26th more reinforcements for Santa Anna, and a battery erected North East & nearer the fort; Texans sallied out for wood & waters, & burned some houses 800 yds. off, amid incessant firing by the enemy. 27th Mex. attempted to erect a bridge across the river just N. of present Commerce St. bridge, 30 of the men were shot dead by the Texans, and the attempt abandoned. Feb. 28th Mex. erected a battery at the old mill N.W. of the Fort March 1st 32 gallant men from Gonzales were safely conducted into the Alamo by John W. Smith—who himself went back to try to get other help. Bombardment continued.
March 1st Texans short of ammunition and fired but seldom, but this day they struck the house occupied by Santa Anna with a 12 lb. shot. March 3rd Mexicans erected a battery on the North of Fort, 7 within musket shot, and they cut off the water supply of the Alamo by turning off the acqueduct, incessant bombardment continued. The Texans answered as their means & strength allowed.
March 3rd in early morning J.B. Bonham of So. Ca., who had been sent express to Fannin, returned & safely entered the Fort. This day 3rd, Travis made his last appeal in a letter addressed to Pres. of the Convention—in it he said—”The blood-red banner waves over the church in Bexar, and in the camp of the enemy in token of vengeance against rebels.” He also addressed an affecting note to a friend in Washington Co. “Take care of my little boy.If the country should be saved, I may make him a splendid fortune; but if the country should be lost, and I should perish, he will have nothing but the proud recollection that he is the son of a man who died for his country.” On 3rd at night the Texans made a sally, and had a skirmish with the Mexican advance. The enemy continued the fire on the 4th, but a few shots were returned from the fort. On this afternoon, March 4th Santa Anna called a council of war. Cos & Castrillon wanted to wait the assault ’til after the arrival of 2 twelve pounders, on 7th, Ramires, Sesma, & Almonte were against waiting. Santa Anna, without a public decision, determined upon an assault, & made his preparations.
March 3rd Travis in a letter to Jesse Grimes Esqr writes “I am still here, and well to do, and in fine spirits. With one hundred & forty five men I have held this place ten days against a force variously estimated from 1500 to 6000; and I shall continue to hold it till I get relief from my countrymen, or I will perish in it’s defence. We have had a shower of bombs and cannon-balls continually falling among us the whole time, the Texans on the contrary were worn down by incessant watching & labor within the walls, & they had only standing pools of mud & water to drink! & suffered all torments of thirst.
On Sunday Morning 6th of March a little after midnight the Alamo was surrounded by the entire Mexican army. The infantry with scaling ladders were placed next the wall, the cavalry just back of them, with orders to cut down any Mexican soldier attempting escape. At daylight the general charge was sounded, the ladders placed against the walls, & the soldiers mounting were received & driven back by tremendous firing of rifles & artillery. A second charge sounded, a second attempt made to mount the walls, & nobly repulsed with heavy loss to the enemy. An awful pause. A third assault was made with more fatal success, the enemy reached the top of the ladders, wavered & fell, but their places were filled by hundreds pressing onward behind them, on each ladder. At length, wounded—cut down—exhausted, the Texans did not retreat; but ceased to keep back the Mexicans, and the fort was soon filled by them. The living Texans fell back with face to the foe, into the old Church, and an adjoining long building, where behind the walls, & with bags of sand closing the openings, they contiued to do battle ’til all were cut down. Travis fell near N.W. wall, Crockett near S.E., each with piles of slain around them.
The desperate defence made by the few wounded who fired from their pallets & others behind the doors barred by sand-bags, made the Mexicans order up a captured cannon & fire twice into this hospital—thus quelling almost the last resistance. But Jas Bowie was in an upper-room, sick of typhoid—they found him, butchered him in bed, & mutilated his body—(altho a Mexican officer who had formerly received great kindness from him begged for his life). Before the assault the Texans had agreed that the survivor should fire a large quantity of damaged powder, & thus blow up the fort, destroying all. Maj. Evans, master of ordinance, undertook this as a discharge of his last duty to his country, but before & upon the point of firing it, he was shot dead. One would suppose that admiration for such unparalleled heroism would have saved these few!
Thus fell the Alamo & all its heroic defeders. The world has witnessed among men no greater moral sublimity! The survivors were Mrs. Dickinson (wife of Lt. Dickinson who fell) & her babe, Mrs. Dr.Alexi Allsbury (whose husband was sent express by Col. Travis) her child Alajo Perez and her sister (now Mrs. Contu), 2 negro servants of Bowie, & 2 Mexican women of Bexar.
Many Mexicans of Bexar were friendly to the Americans but afraid of Santa Anna, they were quiet. 30 Mexicans but afraid of Santa Anna, they were quiet. 30 Mexican men went into the fort at first, those all left except 3, who were killed on 6th fighting with the Texans.
At Santa Anna’s command the bodies of the dead heroes were hauled out East S.E.—& burned in a field. (Ground now between Blum & Crockett Sts. or between Crockett & Houston. This present writer visited the site with Dr. and Mrs. Allsbury in Fall of 1838)
The bones were gathered and reverently buried by the first Americans here after San Jacinto—but the place of burial they made has never been found, tho’ long searched for.
Mrs. Allsbury went into the Fort with Bowie to care for his comfort, he being in feeble health, & having had to resign commad to Col. Travis. Mrs. Allsbury told me that the women & children (i.e. her son 8 yrs. & her sister 13, & Mrs. Dickenson & babe) fled to Col. Bowie’s room when the soldiers entered the old Church; this room was upstairs. She saw the Mex. soldiers enter, bayonet Bowie, then while he still lived, carry him upon their bayonets into the Plaza below.—Then a Mexican cavalry officer dashed in amongst the butchers, with drawn sword! Lashing them right & left & forced them to desist. I am sorry I have forgotten this officers name. It should be recorded. Mrs. A. herself and children was taken care of by Sergt Perez of the Mex. army who was a brother of her first husband. Mrs. A. died here in 1887.
Santa Anna sent an express to Mexico: “Victory is ours! The war is over, and Texas at our feet.”
Col James Bowie had married, in 1830 probably, a daughter of Govr Juan Verimendi—Dona Carmelita—who was a lovely character, who with 2 infants died of Cholera in 1833 in Monclova, where she had accompanied her parents who attended the session of States Govt for Coahuila y Texas. Mrs. Alex Allsbury was a niece & adopted daughter of Verimendi & therefore sister to Bowie’s wife.
[MEMOIRS 1836-1837] On Thursday, August 4th, 1836, at my widowed mother’s home and plantation, three miles north of Tuskaloosa, Alabama, I was married to Samuel A. Maverick, of the Republic of Texas, formerly of Pendleton, South Carolina, Reverend Mathews of Christ’s Episcopal Church officiating. On the 8th, we left for a visit to Shelby Springs of one month, thence to Talladega Springs, and a few days visit to Judge Shortridge’s. Here we met his daughter, my classmate and intimate friend, Mrs. E. A. Lewis, wife of Dr. Hamilton Lewis of Mobile. Maggie Shortridge, sister of Mrs. Lewis, soon after married Dr. Philip Pearson of South Carolina, and they moved to Victoria, Texas, and thence settled on Caney, near the Hardemans.
From Talladega we went to Florence and Tuscumbia, and visited on the plantation six miles from Florence, Mrs. Joseph Thompson, sister of Mr. Maverick. We spent three or four days there, and one day with my aunt, Mrs. John Bradley, also one day with Uncle John Lewis, returning to mother’s in October. January 1837 we went to Mobile and New Orleans and rode eight miles on the railroad from Lake Pontchartrain to the City of New Orleans—the first railroad I ever saw, and the first built in the south. We returned to mother’s on February 28th.
On March 12th, 1837, we left Mother’s again, this time in our own carriage, to visit Father Maverick in South Carolina. We arrived at “Montpelier,” Father’s place, on the 19th, and had a most joyful reception. Father had not seen his only son “Gus”—for such was he called by his relatives, and by the colored people “Mars Gus”—for several years. He had in fact, at one time, counted and mourned him as lost in the “fall of the Alamo” in Texas. We were treated with the greatest affection. Father fondly hoped to induce his son to settle there. He offered to give him “Montpelier”—mills, vineyards, orchards, lands, and shops—if he would accept them—or another place, “Gibbs,” a new-style house and improvements: but all in vain, for my husband dreamed constantly of Texas, and said: “We must go back.”
Poor Father looked sad and afflicted at the mention of our going, and so we said very little about it, and agreed to stay as long as Mr. Maverick could.
Here, on Sunday, May 14th, 1837, was born our son Sam.
We spent a pleasant summer with Father, who was very fond of us all, and especially of baby. Father had three children living at this time—my husband, his only son, and two daughters, Elizabeth and Lydia. Elizabeth married Mr. Joseph Weyman and had three children by that marriage—Elizabeth, now Mrs. Dr. G. J. Houston, living in San Antonio, Texas, Joseph B., and Augustus. Her husband died and she married Mr. Thompson, from which union were born Samuel and Josephine, now Mrs. Hardin, of Memphis, Tennessee.
His other daughter Lydia married Mr. William Van Wyck of New York City.
But, notwithstanding the endearments held out to us by Father, my husband adhered, without flinching, to his purpose of uniting his destiny with Texas. At last he set the time for departure and made every preparation for a great journey by land to the new El Dorado.
On the 14th day of October 1837, baby five months old, we bade goodbye to “Montpelier” and the servants and set off for Texas. Father accompanied us half a day, and it was a sad sight to witness his grief when he at last parted with his son. My heart ached for the dear old man. We travelled in a carriage, Mr. Maverick driving and nurse Rachael and baby and myself the other occupants. On a wagon with Wiley as driver was Jinny, our cook to be, and her four children. Reached Mother’s about the last of October, and stopped with her about six weeks, making final preparations. Mother consented to let my youngest brother Robert go to Texas with us, he was fifteen, but slight and pale, having been quite sick during the fall. My brother William was already in Texas.
[MEMOIRS 1837-1838] December 7th, 1837, we set off for Texas. With heavy hearts we said goodbye to Mother, and my brothers and sister. Mother ran after us for one more embrace. She held me in her arms and wept aloud, and said: “Oh, Mary, I will never see you again on Earth.” I felt heart-broken and often recalled that thrilling cry; and I have never beheld my dear Mother again.
Our party was composed of four whites, counting baby, and ten negroes. The negroes were four men, Griffin, Granville, Wiley and Uncle Jim—two women, Jinny and Rachael, and Jinny’s four children, Jack, Betsy, Lavinia and Jane. Uncle Jim was Robert’s man, Griffin, Granville and Rachael belonged to me, a gift from my Mother, and the others were Mr. Maverick’s individual property. We had a large carriage, a big Kentucky wagon, three extra saddle horses and one blooded filly. The wagon carried a tent, a supply of provisions and bedding, and the cook and children. We had a delightful trip all through, with the exception of four days’ journey across a prairie swamp and one night’s adventure with Indians, which I will mention in their order. We occasionally stopped several days in a good place, to rest, to have washing done, and sometimes to give muddy roads time to dry, and we had no serious trouble or accident throughout. We crossed the Mississippi at Rodney, and Red River at Alexandria, and came through bottoms in Louisiana where the high-water marks on the trees stood far above our carriage top, but the roads were good then. We crossed the Sabine, a sluggish muddy, narrow stream, and stood upon the soil of the Republic of Texas, about New Years day, 1838.
[1838] January 7th, 1838, we occupied an empty cabin in San Augustine, while the carriage was being repaired. This was a poor little village, principally of log cabins on one street, but the location was high and dry. We laid in a supply of corn and groceries here and pushed on through Nacogdoches to the place of Col. Durst, an old acquaintance of Mr. Maverick’s. Mrs. Durst was a Virginia lady and a fine housekeeper—we spent a day or two there. There we met General Rusk, also an old friend of Mr. Maverick’s and formerly of Pendleton, S.C.
We now had to travel in occasional rains and much mud, where the country was poor and sparsely settled and provisions for man and beast scarce. On advice we selected the longest, but the best road, namely the road leading via Washington, high up on the Brazos. From Washington we went to Columbus, on the Colorado, and thence about due south towards the Lavaca River.
Now came a dreadful time; about January 26th, we entered a bleak, desolate, swamp-prairie, cut up by what were called “dry bayous,” i.e. deep gullies, and now almost full of water. This swamp, crossed by the “Sandy,” “Mustang,” and the head branches of the Navidad, was fourteen miles wide. We had passed Mr. Bridge’s, the last house before we got into this dreadful prairie, and had to cross the Navidad before we got to Mr. Keer’s, the next habitation. Every step of the animals was in water, sometimes knee-deep. We stalled in five or six gullies, and each time the wagon had to be unloaded in water, rain and north wind, and all the men and animals had to work together to pull out.
The first Norther I ever experienced struck us here—this norther was a terrific howling north wind with a fine rain, blowing and penetrating through clothes and blankets—never in my life had I felt such cold. We were four days crossing this dreadful fourteen miles of swamp. The first day we made three miles and that night my mattress floated in water which fell in extra quantities during the night. The baby and I were tolerably dry; all the others were almost constantly wet during the four weary monotonous days—but no one suffered any bad effects from the great exposure, and Mr. Maverick kept cheerful all the while and was not a bit discouraged that we could see—said that water was better than mud to pull in and that we were only eight or nine miles from Keer’s. Our corn had given out and our provisions were about gone when, on the 30th, we reached the Navidad. The men “hollooed” at a great rate, and, after long continued calling men appeared on the opposite bank. Soon we were ferried over, and were all warmed, comforted, fed and treated like kinfolk. Mrs. Keer and Miss Sue Linn were ever so nice to us.
February 4th, we reached “Spring HIll,” Major Sutherland’s on the Navidad, where we all, except Mr. Maverick, remained until 2nd of June. Mr. Maverick went on to see whether it was safe to take us to San Antonio. He also visited Cox’s point on Matagorda Bay, opposite Lavaca, with a view of possibly locating there. There he owned land, but he decided in favor of San Antonio. In February, at Sutherland’s, two of our horses froze to death in a norther. April 18th, Mr. Maverick went to New Orleans to purchase furniture, clothing, provisions, etc., for beginning housekeeping, and returned to us in May.
At Spring Hill, boarded Mrs. Roylston, a young widow with her son—also Captain Sylvester, from Ohio, who had captured Santa Anna after the battle of San Jacinto, and Captain Peck of the Louisiana Greys, who was engaged to be married to a niece of Mrs. Sutherland, Miss Fannie Menifee, who lived beyond the Navidad and was the belle of Jackson County. Fannie and I attended a San Jacinto ball at Texana, on April 21st. Her brother John Menifee, one of the heroes of that battle, escorted us, and there was quite a gathering. Miss Fannie received great attention. In April, Major Sutherland’s corn gave out, and he went over to Egypt for a supply. Egypt is on the Colorado, near Eagle Lake. We called Mrs. Sutherland “Aunt Fannie.” Her eldest son William, a young man of nineteen, just home from school, went to San Antonio to learn Spanish, and was killed with Travis at the “Fall of the Alamo” March 6th, 1836. I learned from her and the other ladies many thrilling tales of the runaway times of ’36—when women and children fled in terror before the advancing forces under Santa Anna—savages who burnt and plundered and committed all kinds of outrages. They told me it rained almost every day for six weeks of that dreadful time.
One day, Old “Bowls,” Cherokee chief, with twelve or thirteen of his tribe, coming from Houston, camped at Spring HIll, near the house. After tea, we were dancing, when “Bowls” came in dressed in a breechcloth, anklets, moccasins, feathers and a long, clean white linen shirt, which had been presented to him in Houston. He said the pretty ladies in Houston had danced with, kissed him and given him rings. We, however, begged to be excused and requested him to retire, when he in great contempt stalked out, and our dance broke up. Bowls told us President Houston had lived in his Nation, that he had given Houston his daughter for his squaw, and had made him a “big chief”; but that now he was no longer Cherokee, but “The Great Father” of the white men.
On Saturday, June 2nd, we set off from “Spring Hill” for San Antonio de Bexar, in those days frequently called simply “Bexar,” which is now the name of the county only. Ten miles to Texana and three miles to Dry Branch——on 3rd, 12 miles to Natches and three miles to De Leon’s rancho, on the Garcitas——on the 4th, six miles to Casa Blanca and nine miles to Victoria, a village on the Guadalupe. On the 5th, eight miles to Arroyo Coleto——6th, twelve miles to Arroyo Manahuilla, where a wagon wheel broke, and Mr. Maverick went to Goliad to have it mended, but failing, we mended it as well as we could with rawhide and false spokes.
It was two or three miles north of the main road and east of Manahuilla, on Easter Sunday, March 27th, 1836, that Col. Fannin was surprised by the Mexican General Urrea. Urrea surrounded Fannin’s forces with a largely superior force (lately victors of the “Alamo” and Travis), and, then offering honorable terms of capitulation he induced Fannin, thinking to spare bloodshed, to surrender as prisoners of war his whole force, consisting of four hundred and eighty men in all. They were marched to Goliad, and the next morning were formed into line and shot down in cold blood. Santa Anna had so ordered—Urrea refused to perform the bloody deed, but Colonel Gavrie, infamous name be it forever! executed the order. Fifty-five escaped. On June 3rd, 1836, General Thomas J. Rusk collected and buried the bones, which had been left bleaching on the plain after the bodies had been burnt. Gen. Rusk delivered a moving address over the ashes, bones, and charred human flesh; and “there was not a dry eye in the soldier ranks.”
June 7th, we travelled five miles to Goliad, on the left bank of the San Antonio River, and camped in the old mission of La Bahia.
On June 8th, we went eighteen miles to Ojo de Agua, and nine miles to Harris’s on the Ecleto. On the 9th, we went nine miles from Harris’s place and our wagon broke down. Mr. Maverick was hunting in the San Antonio River bottom for wood to mend the wheel, when he met Mr. Harris, who, being a wheelwright, agreed to mend the wheel if we would take it back to his place. Some of our people were sick, and Robert, Griffin and Jinny had chills every second day, so we left the main party tented and went back with the wheel to Harris’s. He was very kind, but had very poor accommodations and his cabin swarmed with fleas. He had two very nice little daughters. Some weeks later, while the girls were off visiting relatives, the Indians killed Mr. Harris, burnt his home and took off his horses.
June 12th, late in the afternoon, we reached camp again, and were loading up to move on two or three miles further to a better camping place for the night, when several Indians rode up. They said “Mucho Amigo,” (dear friend) and were loud and filthy and manifested their intention to be very intimate. More and more came until we counted seventeen! They rode in amongst us, looked constantly at the horses, and it is no exaggeration to say, they annoyed us very much. They were Tonkawas, said they were just from a battle, in which they were victors, on the Nueces River, where they had fought the Comanches two days before. They were in war paint, and well armed, and displayed in triumph two scalps, one hand, and several pieces of putrid flesh from various parts of the human body. These were to be taken to the squaws to eat and dance around when these warriors rejoined the tribe.
I was frightened almost to death, but tried not to show my alarm. They rode up to the carriage window and asked to see the “papoose.” First one, then another came, and I held up my little Sammy, and smiled at their compliments. But I took care to have my pistol and bowie knife visible, and kept cool, and declined most decidedly when they asked me to hand the baby out to them that they might “see how pretty and white” he was. I knew, and so did we all, though we did not tell each other till afterwards, that they, being cannibals, would like to eat my baby, and kill us all and carry off our horses. But we had six men fully armed and determined and all hands kept steadily loading the wagons, saddling the horses and preparing to move. I kept telling Griffin to hurry the others, and Mr. Maverick worked coolly with the rest. Jinny said “Let’s cook some supper first,” and rumbled mightily when Griffin ordered her into the wagon and drove off. Imagine our consternation when the Indians turned back, and every one of the seventeen rode along with us! It was a bright moonlight night, and Griffin and one other on horseback acted as our rear guard.
Almost midnight, some of the Indians, finding we were so unsociable and seeing that we were dangerous, commenced dropping behind, and one by one they turned back, until at early dawn, when we reached the Cibolo, having travelled eighteen miles during the night, only two Indians were still attendant. Here we camped and the two Indians sat down, not far off, in an observant attitude. I went into my tent to lie down, and Griffin said “Don’t be afraid, Miss Mary, but go to sleep,” and I saw him sit down in front of the tent, with his gun, and an ax in his hands which he shook at the Indians, and said: “Come this way if you dare, you devils, and I’ll make hash out of you!” I went to sleep with the baby and when I waked, all the vile Indians were gone, everybody rested, and my breakfast and dinner were both waiting for me. That certainly was a narrow escape from a cruel death. The Tonkawas were treacherous and cruel and noted thieves and murderers.
It was well we did not trust them. I will give an opposite illustration of Indian treachery in an event which happened only about two weeks after this experience of ours. On June 27th, or 28th, 1838, whilst a party consisting of a surveyor, chain bearers and others was surveying on the Rio Frio, a party of Comanche Indians came to their camp saying “Mucho Amigo,” and asking for food. They were welcomed and sat down with the whites, and whilst all were eating together, the Indians sprang up suddenly, killed the surveyor, wounded another man and stampeded and stole every one of their horses.
[MEMOIRS 1838] We were now travelling up the valley of the San Antonio River, occasionally passing along the left bank of the river itself. June 13, sixteen miles to the Marcelino Creek and three miles to Aroche’s rancho near Erasmo Seguin’s——14th, eight miles to Jesus Cantu’s rancho on the arroyo Calaveras, passing several other ranchos, eleven miles to the Salado, June 15th, 1838, nine miles to “El Presidio de San Antonio de Bexar.” Señor Don José Casiano, whose rancho we passed, had offered us his city house until we had time to secure another. This polite offer we accepted and immediately occupied Mr. Casiano’s house, when we entered the town. This place fronted on the Main Plaza (Plaza Major), was bounded south by Dolores Street and extended half way back to the Military Plaza. It is now covered by the east half of the Hord Hotel.
The front room of the house was then occupied by my brother William Adams as a store. He was so much afflicted with the “Texas fever” that soon after my wedding he set out for San Antonio, travelling on horseback from Galveston. Before reaching San Antonio, he dreamt several times of the town and its surroundings, and when he reached the hills east of town he was struck with the faithful resemblance between the reality and his dreams. He looked upon it as something marvelous and frequently spoke of his prophetic dreams. He was twenty-two then, and he immediately determined to establish himself as a merchant in San Antonio. He bought a horse which he named Mexico or “Mex” and rode him all the way back to Tuskaloosa, William turned all his available property in Tuskaloose into money, bought goods, brought them to San Antonio, rented the room of Casiano, and set up as a merchant. He rode back on the horse “Mex,” which horse by the way Mr. Maverick afterwards bought, and we used “Mex” in the “run-away” of ’42 and when we removed from La Grange to the Peninsula in 1844.
Mr. Maverick, after our arrival, put in some money with William. Dr. Launcelot Smithers was William’s clerk and success seemed certain, but Smithers sold large amounts on credit to Mexicans in Coahuila; and, though the Mexicans were well-to-do, they never paid, and after eighteen months merchandising, William closed up without realizing the capital invested. William left February 1st, 1839, for Mother’s to bring out his negroes and try farming. He returned with brother Andrew October, 1839.
We lived in the Casiano house until about September 1st, when we moved into a house north of, and adjoining, the historic Veramendi place. The house we rented belonged to the Huisars. Huisar, the ancestor, carved the beautiful doors for the San Jose Mission—he had quite a number of workmen under him and was employed several years in the work. In the latter part of December, Mr. Maverick went to Mobile to get some money in the hands of John Aiken, his attorney. Aiken was then in Tuskaloosa where, as Mr. Maverick’s agent, he had sold to a Mr. Brown for sixteen thousand dollars Mr. Maverick’s business stores in that place. Part of the money was paid down and Mr. Maverick returned to us in January.
[MEMOIRS 1839] Early in February, 1839, we had a heavy snow storm, the snow drifted in some places to a depth of two feet, and on the north side of our house it lasted five or six days. Anton Lockmar rigged up a sleigh and took some girls riding up and down Soledad Street. Early in February, we moved into our own house, at the northeast corner of Commerce and Soledad Streets, being also the northeast corner of the Main Plaza (Plaza Mayor). This house remained our homestead until July ’49, over ten years, although five of the ten years, from ’42 to ’47, we wandered about as refugees. It was known as the Barrera place, when Mr. Maverick purchased it, and the deed dated January 19th, 1839.
The main house was of stone, and had three rooms, one fronting south on Main Street and west on Soledad Street and the other two fronting west on Soledad Street, also a shed in the yard along the east wall of the house towards the north end. This shed we closed in with an adobe wall and divided into a kitchen and servant’s room. We also built an adobe servant’s room on Soledad Street, leaving a gateway between it and the main house, and we built a stable near the river.
We built a strong but homely picket fence around the garden to the north and fenced the garden off from the yard. In the garden were sixteen large fig trees and many rows of old pomegranates. In the yard were several China trees, and on the river bank just below our line in the De la Zerda premises was a grand old cypress, which we could touch through our fence, and its roots made ridges in our yard. The magnificent old tree stands there today. It made a great shade and we erected our bath-house and wash-place under its spreading branches.
Our neighbors on the east, Main or Commerce Street, were the De la Zerdas. In 1840, their place was leased to a Greek, Roque Catahdie, who kept a shop on the street and lived in the back rooms. He married a pretty, bright-eyed Mexican girl of fourteen years, dressed her in jewelry and fine clothes and bought her a dilapidated piano—he was jealous and wished her to amuse herself at home. The piano had the desired effect, and she enjoyed it like a child with a new trinket. The fame of her piano went through the town, and, after tea, crowds would come to witness her performance. One night Mrs. Elliott and I took a peep and we found a large crowd inside laughing and applauding, and other envious ones gazing in from the street.
Our neighbor on the north, Soledad Street, was Dona Juana Varcinez, and I must not omit her son Leonicio. She had cows and sold me the strippings of the milk at twenty-five cents per gallon, and we made our butter from this. Mrs. McMullen was the only person then who made butter for sale, and her butter was not good, although she receive half a dollar per pound for it. Old Juana was a kind old soul—had the earliest pumpkins, a great delicacy, at twenty-five cents and spring chickens at twelve and a half cents. She opened up the spring gardening by scratching with a dull hoe, some holes in which she planted pumpkin seed—then later she planted corn, red pepper, garlic, onions, etc. She was continually calling to Leonicio to drive the chickens out of the garden, or bring in the dogs from the street. She told me this answered two purposes—it kept Leonicio at home out of harm’s way, and gave him something to do. She had lots of dogs—one fat, lazy pelon (hairless dog) slept with the old lady to keep her feet warm. When we returned from the coast in ’47, Sam S. Smith had purchased the place from her and he was living there. He was a good and kind neighbor.
We moved into our home in good time, for here on Sunday morning, March 23rd, 1839, was born our second child, Lewis Antonio. All my friends have always told me, and, until quite recently, I was persuaded Lewis was the first child of pure American stock born in San Antonio. But now I understand a Mr. Brown with his wife came here in 1828 for two years from East Texas, and during that time a son was born to them in San Antonio. Mr. Brown, the father, died about the same time of consumption, and his wife moved away further East. The son, named John Brown, is now said to be a citizen of Waco.
During the summer, Sammy had difficulty teething. Dr. Weideman, a Russian scholar and Naturalist, and an excellent physician and surgeon, took a great liking to Sammy and perscribed for him with success. This summer, William B. Jacques brought his wife and two little girls, and settled on Commerce Street. In the latter part of August, Mr. William Elliott brought his wife and two children, Mary and Billy, to San Antonio. They bought a house on the west side of Soledad Street opposite the north end of our garden, and we were a great many years neighbors and always friends. This year our negro men plowed and planted one labor above the Alamo and were attacked by Indians. Griffin and Wiley ran into the river and saved themselves. The Indians cut the traces and took off the work animals and we did not farm there again. Mr. Thomas Higginbotham, a carpenter, with his wife, came to San Antonio and took the house opposite us on the corner of Commerce Street and Main Plaza. His brother and sister settled in the country, on the river below San José Mission. This year the town of Seguin, on the Guadalupe thirty-five miles east of San Antonio, was founded.
In November, 1839, a party of ladies and gentlemen from Houston came to visit San Antonio—they rode on horseback. The ladies were Miss Trask of Boston, Mass. and Miss Evans, daughter of Judge Evans of Texas. The gentlemen were Judge Evans, and Colonel J. W. Dancey, Secretary of War, Republic of Texas. They were, ladies and all, armed with pistols and bowie knives. I rode with this party and some others around the head of the San Antonio river. We galloped up the west side, and paused at and above the head of the river long enough to view and admire the lovely valley of the San Antonio. The leaves had mostly fallen from the trees, and left the view open to the Missions below. The day was clear, cool and bright, and we saw three of the missions, including San Juan Capistrano seven miles below town. We galloped home, down the east side, and doubted not that Indians watched us from the heavy timber of the river bottom. The gentlemen of the party numbered six, and we were all mounted on fine animals.
[MEMOIRS 1838] The experiences of my first years in Texas led me to think the Comanches were an active and vigorous tribe of Indians. At that time they were about the only Indians who infested the country in the vicinity of San Antonio, and I must mention here some of their deeds which held our attention at the time.
June 29th, 1838, thirty-eight Comanches came into the edge of town and killed two Mexicans and stole one boy—on the 30th they killed a German and a Mexican. July 1st, the flag of Texas waves on the Plaza in front of the Court House, and a company of volunteers are assembling for pursuit of the Indians. Later, our company of volunteers fell in with a considerable party of Comanches, attacked them, killed two and wounded many others—but the wounded were carried off by the others, all of whom beat a hasty retreat. Our people captured all their horses and provisions.
The Mexicans of Mexico have not forgotten us. About this time, a party of Mexicans, 200 strong under Agaton, learning that valuable goods had been landed at Capano, and were being carted by friendly Mexicans to the San Antonio merchants, crossed the Rio Grande at Matamoras, captured the train and compelled the cartmen to haul the goods to the Nueces river where the cartmen were dismissed. Of the two Americans who were with the train when it was captured, one was killed and the other was wounded, but escaped.
During July 1838, many rumors from the west came to the effect that an army of centralists was marching to capture Bexar—also that the Comanche Nation had entered into a treaty of alliance with the Mexicans and would act with them for our extermination. But in a day or two, it was ascertained that Aristo had pursued the “President of the Republic of the Rio Grande,” General Vidauria, who having defeated in battle had fled to Texas for refuge. Aristo turned back at the Nueces.
SAMUEL A. MAVERICK TO MIGUEL ARCINIEGA
20th August 1839
To Dn, Miguel Arciniega
Captain of Company
Sir
Having advised with the aldermen this day, it is deemed advisable and proper to inform you that measures have been taken on this side of the River to put our city in a state of defence against Indians and robbers. And by the same authority and by the power in me vested as presidt of the Council I have to request you as Captain to take instant measures for organizing the District of La Villita & Alamo. The council expect of you to notify every man, in your district, to be in readiness at your call; and also that you make out a list of their names, and that six or more persons (in your discretion) be called out each night to act as a guard at the principal passways, in the mode which shall appear best in your good judgment, in which the Council place the most unlimited confidence. The object of the guard by night is to stop & arrest every person who may appear to be a spy or a robber. In this we beg you to be very particular.
Saml A Maverick
Presdt de Consejo
As soon as Capt. Ross arrives here with his force, we hope it will be unnecessary to continue this vigilance, but at present it is very necessary.
SAMUEL A. MAVERICK AND OTHERS TO MAJOR THOMAS G. WESTERN
To Major Western
Dear Sir
Understanding that you intend to leave our town tomorrow for the Seat of government, the undersigned beg you as an officer of the government to represent to His Excy. the President and the Sec’y. of War, the very perilous situation in which you find our city. Besides the every day mischief of having some citizen killed, we are now threatened by a combination of Indian and Mexican Robbers. And we have been and still are without any protection whatever. As fathers of families we beg you to make such a statement in our behalf as may lead the government to notice our condition and to carry out the acts in our favour passed by the last Congress.
Very respectfully,
Yr. Obt. Servt’s,
Maverick Taylor
Alsbury Navarro
Jaques Higginbotham
Elliott Rouis [for Ruiz]
MAJOR THOMAS G. WESTERN TO SAMUEL A. MAVERICK
September 2, 1839.
Samuel A. Maverick, Esq.,
San Antonio,
Dear Sir—
In compliance with the request of yourself and fellow citizens and my promise to do all for your relief in my power and which the exigencies of your situation demand, I have lain before His Excellency, the President, the Secretary of War and others officers of Government, the exposed and deplorable state of your frontier and your city in particular, and the result of my expositions and efforts are that Major Ross with his detachment of about seventy men, well mounted and well armed, has been ordered to include your section of country in his circuit of ranging and to afford you all the protection in his power. The President has also written individually to John H. Moore on the Colorado to raise two hundred men to range out your way. No force can for the present be made stationary at your place, although this will be attended to as soon as recruits may be had from the U. States.
I write this in consummate haste as the gentleman who takes this is on horse awaiting. Our friend I. P. Borden is at my elbow and sends his best respects to you and his thanks for the documents which you remitted to him by me.
With the assurances of my esteem and regard for yourself and all our friends, I, Sir, remain,
Yours obediently,
Thomas G. Western
I have written in detail by mail.
HUGH ARBUCKLE TO SAMUEL A. MAVERICK
Mr. Maverick
Dear Sir
the bearer of this a widow and her mother a widdow Citizens of mission San John now living in Bexar Received from Gen. S. F. Austin one paper for Six Fanegas of corn pressed for his troops they also recd. Subsiquently two other papers, acknowledgements for two fat cows pressed and killed for Government troops Officers Names unknown to them, as they have no learning, all of which papers as they say amounted as follows; that of Austin Six Fanegas of corn at $3.=$18. those of other officers Two fatt cows at $30=$60. in all $78.
All of the above papers Wm. Gillmore has abstracted from them in manner as follows; he would come to there house frequently with a bottle of liquor of which they are very fond, and cause them to drink till they were intoxicated telling them that he was there friend and a great one as witness his gifts of liquor such as no other person gave to them, the last knight he came to there house he brought a bottle of rum and after they had drank very heartily he told the bearer to go with him to the house of Col. Seguin to sign a power of atty. authorising Seguin to have her papers audited and bring her money from Austin but instead of going to Seguin’s he took her to the house of N. J. Diviney and there gott her to Sign various papers all of which unknown to her Diviney telling her they were to be given to Seguin but instead thereof Gillmore has Subsiquently offered there papers for sale at one or more Stores in town saying that they were his and that he would sell them very cheap for any thing
Upon hearing that he has offered there papers for sale they have become greatly alarmed and talk of taking Gillmore before the Alcaldy I advised them not to go to the Alcaldy but to refer the matter to you knowing that if you could not get the truth out of him or get him to return the papers to them that no Alcaldy in Bexar need try I have rote this at the request of the widdows knowing that if you can you will assist them in obtaining there papers again with much respect I Remain your obt. servt.
Hugh Arbuckle
[MEMOIRS 1839] But I have promised to speak of the Indians. In the stable we built on our home lot, Mr. Maverick kept a fine blooded horse, fastened by a heavy padlocked chain to a mesquite-picket. The door of the stable was securely locked also, for every precaution was necessary to prevent his being stolen. This was the “War Horse.” Mr. Maverick was a member of the Volunteer Company of “Minute Men” commanded by the celebrated Jack Hays—who is now an honored citizen of California. [John Coffee Hays or “Jack” Hays was born January 28, 1817, at Little Cedar Lick, Wilson County, Tennessee, close to the “Hermitage,” which was originally a part of the Hays property.
His father and grandfather distinguished themselves in Creek wars under Jackson. Hays left home at the age of fifteen to survey land in Mississippi. At the age of nineteen he joined the Texan Army at Brazos River just after the San Jacinto battle. Besides leading the “Minute Men’ in San Antonio he commanded in numerous battles against Mexico, and was commissioned by the Texas Congress, in 1840, first Captain of the Texas Rangers. He distinguished himself repeatedly in the Mexican War and later crossed the plains to California in ’49 where he filled courageously many positions of public trust. He died in Piedmont, California, April 28, 1883. John Hays Hammond was a nephew.
Some buildings and the original fence of Hays’ San Antonio home still stand at the northwest corner of Presa and Nueva Streets.] Each Volunteer kept a good home, saddle, bridle and arms, and a supply of coffee, salt, sugar, and other provisions ready at any time to start on fifteen minutes warning, in pursuit of marauding Indians. At a certain signal given by the Cathedral bell, the men were off, in buckskin clothes and blankets responding promptly to the call. They were organized to follow the Indians to their mountain fastnesses and destroy their villages, if they failed to kill the Indians.
Jack Hays came from Tennessee to Texas just after the battle of San Jacinto and when he came to San Antonio he was nineteen years of age, at which time he was appointed a deputy surveyor. The surveying parties frequently had “brushes” with the Indians, and it was on these occasions that Hays displayed such rare military skill and daring, that very soon by consent of all, he was looked upon as the leader and his orders were obeyed and he himself loved by all. In a fight he was utterly fearless and invincible. [The German scientist Dr. Ferdinand Roemer gives this picture of Hays’ personal appearance: “I was astonished to find the outward appearance of the man seemingly so little in keeping with his mode of living, and the traits ascribed to him. Instead of a wild material robust figure I saw a young, slender-built man before me, whose soft beardless face did not betray his martial occupation and inclination any more than did the black frock coat, in which he was dressed. Only in his flashing eyes could a keen observer see traces of his hidden energy.” Roemer, Texas, p. 131.]
There were many remarkable young men in San Antonio at that time who were attracted by the climate, by the novelty, or by the all-absorbing spirit of land speculation. They volunteered from almost every state of the Union to come and fight in the short but bloody struggle of ’35 and ’36 for the freedom of Texas. Many came too late, i.e., after San Jacinto, but were drawn to the west by the wildness and danger and daring of the frontier life. They were a noble and gallant set of “boys” as they styled each other and soon the Indians grew less aggressive, and finally Hays’ band drove them farther out west, and made them suffer so much after each of their raids that they talked of wanting peace, and thus it went on for several years.
On June 10, 1839, a party of Americans under Hays and a company of Mexicans under Captain Juan N. Seguin set off in pursuit of the Comanches, who just then were very bold, and were constantly killing and scalping and robbing in every direction. The Indians fled and were chased into the Canyon de Uvalde, where our men found and destroyed their villages, newly deserted. They saw numbers of Indians all the time in the distance, amongst rocks and hills, but scattered and hiding or fleeing from danger. They had been away from San Antonio ten days, when Captain Seguin returned reporting the woods full of Indians and predicting that our men would surely be killed. Mr. Maverick was with Hays, and after five more terribly anxious days, I was gladdened by his return. Our men had killed only a few savages and returned with some Indian ponies, dreadfully ragged, dirty and hungry.
SAMUEL A. MAVERICK TO MARY A. MAVERICK
Beloved Wife,
Mr. Jacques & I have Settled our accounts & I owe him nothing: He owes $ 511 83/100 on E & J Andrews draft having paid $ 150.
I left 5 papers with Mr Smith to be recorded—I don’t owe Mr Smith any thing except postage on several letter & $5 was advanced on that (see a/c in the Pigion Hole, left side, below) I don’t owe any body else one cent:—But the Dr. & I have not settled entirely & I may owe him something:—
As to the old Store at Cassiano’s, last summer nothing was made in as much as Wm L Adams & I did not quite get out the money we first put in: & the goods remaining would not do more than pay a note of near $600 due to Capt. [blank] for bringing Wm’s groceries out. This note (with the proper deduction for corn lost), must be paid by us, that is, you or me: Wm is not to pay it
ever thine
S. A. Maverick
[Endorsed by Mary A. Maverick: Written some hours previous to setting off on a campaign against the Comanche Indians June 10th, 39, and found by me next day in my trunk—Mary.]
[MEMOIRS 1839-1841] At the close of the Fall Term of the Court in 1839 or 1840, a number of gentlemen who had attended from a distance, wished to ride out to the west of town and see the country before they returned home. A party was made up of ten Americans and about as many Mexicans. They were well mounted and armed and rode out about three o’clock in the afternoon. After sunset, Mr. Campbell, “Talking Campbell,” one of the party, returned alone and reported the Indians had got between the party and town, cut off retreat, and killed all but himself, who rode a very fine horse and had fled at once; he advised the others, he said, to cut their way back because the Indians greatly outnumbered our party. Campbell was hotly pursued by the Indians, and he made a detour to the south, where his horse out-distanced the pursuers finally, and he came into town with the dreadful news. Next morning, early, a strong party left town with carts, and by noon returned with eighteen bodies. They were taken to the Court House and laid out. They had been found naked, hacked with tomahawks and partly eaten by wolves. The following day, the nine Americans were buried in one large grave west of the San Pedro, outside of the Catholic burying ground, and very near its S.W. corner, the nine Mexicans were buried inside the Catholic cemetery. It was believed some Indians had been killed too, but as they always carried off their dead, their loss was never ascertained.
In the spring of 1840, my brothers William and Andrew Adams leased land of J. A. de la Garza, at the mission of San Francisco de la Espada, and put in a crop. But the Indians were so bad, and corn so dear, selling then at two or three dollars per bushel, and their plow animals were so constantly stolen, that they broke up in the fall, and moved to San Marcos, and bought land of a Mr. Mathews, where they made fine crops for two years.
A DAY OF HORRORS
On Tuesday, 19th of March, 1840, “dia de San José,” sixty-five Comanches came into town to make a treaty of peace. They brought with them, and reluctantly gave up, Matilda Lockhart, whom they had captured with her younger sister in December 1838, after killing two other children of her family. The Indian chiefs and men met in council at the Court House, with our city and military authorities. The calaboose or jail then occupied the corner formed by the east line of Main Plaza and the north line of Calabosa (now Market Street), and the Court House was north of and adjoining the jail. The Court House yard, back of the Court House, was what is now the city market on Market Street. The Court House and jail were of stone, one story, flat-roofed, and floored with dirt. Captain Tom Howard’s Company was at first in the Court House yard, where the Indian women and boys came and remained during the pow-wow. The young Indians amused themselves shooting arrows at pieces of money put up by some of the Americans; and Mrs. Higginbotham and myself amused ourselves looking through the picket fence at them.
This was the third time these Indians had come for a talk, pretending to seek peace, and trying to get ransom money for their American and Mexican captives. Their proposition now was that they should be paid a great price for Matilda Lockhart, and a Mexican they had just given up, and that traders be sent with paint, powder, flannel, blankets and such other articles as they should name, to ransom the other captives. This course had once before been asked and carried out, but the smallpox breaking out, the Indians killed the traders and kept the goods, believing the traders had made the smallpox to kill the. Now the Americans, mindful of the treachery of the Comanches, answered them as follows: “We will, according to a former agreement, keep four or five of your chiefs, whilst the other of your people go to your nation and bring all the captives, and then we will pay all you ask for them. Meanwhile, these chiefs we hold we will treat as brothers and ‘not one hair of their heads shall be injured.’ This we have determined, and, if you try to fight, our soldiers will shoot you down.”
This being interpreted, the Comanches instantly, with one accord raised a terrific war-whoop, drew their arrows, and commenced firing with deadly effect—at the same time making efforts to break out of the council hall. The order “fire” was given by Captain Howard, and the soldiers fired into the midst of the crowd, the first volley killing several Indians and two of our own people. All soon rushed out into the public square, the civilians to procure arms, the Indians to flee, and the soldiers in pursuit. The Indians generally made for the river–they ran up Soledad, east on Commerce Street and for the bend, now known as Bowen’s, southeast, below the square. Citizens and soldiers pursued and overtook them at all points, shot some swimming in the river, had desperate fights in the streets—and hand to hand encounters after fire-arms had been exhausted. Some Indians took refuge in stone houses and fastened the doors. Not one of the sixty-five Indians escaped—-thirty-three were killed and thirty-two were taken prisoners. Six Americans and one Mexican were killed and ten Americans wounded. Our killed were Julian Hood, the sheriff, Judge Thompson, advocate from South Carolina, G. W. Cayce from the Brazos, one officer and two soldiers whose names I did not learn, nor that of the Mexican. The wounded were Lieutenant Thompson, brother of the Judge, Captain Tom Howard, Captain Mat Caldwell, citizen volunteer from Gonzales, Judge Robinson, Mr. Morgan, deputy sheriff, Mr. Higginbotham and two soldiers. Others were slightly wounded.
When the deafening war-whoop sounded in the Court room, it was so loud, so shrill and so inexpressibly horrible and suddenly raised, that we women looking through the fence at the women’s and boys’ marksmanship for a moment could not comprehend its purport. The Indians however knew the first note and instantly shot their arrows into the bodies of Judge Thompson and the other gentleman near by, instantly killing Judge Thompson. We fled into Mrs. Higginbotham’s house, and I, across the street to my Commerce Street door. Two Indians ran past me on the street and one reached my door as I got in. He turned to raise his hand to push it just as I beat down the heavy bar; then he ran on. I ran in the north room and saw my husband and brother Andrew sitting calmly at a table inspecting some plats of surveys—they had heard nothing. I soon gave them the alarm, and hurried on to look for my boys. Mr. Maverick and Andrew seized their arms, always ready—Mr. Maverick rushed into the street, and Andrew into the back yard where I was shouting at the top of my voice “Here are Indians! Here are Indians!” Three Indians had gotten in through the gate on Soledad Street and were making direct for the river! One had paused near Jinny Anderson, our cook, who stood bravely in front of the children, mine and hers, with a great rock lifted in both hands above her head, and I heard her cry out to the Indian “If you don’t go ‘way from here I’ll mash your head with this rock!” The Indian seemed regretful that he hadn’t time to dispatch Jinny and her brood, but his time was short, and pausing but a moment, he dashed down the bank into the river, and struck out for the opposite shore. As the Indian hurried down the bank and into the river Andrew shot and killed him, and shot another as he gained and rose on the opposite bank—then he ran off up Soledad street looking for more Indians.
I housed my little ones, and then looked out of the Soledad Street door. Near by was stretched an Indian, wounded and dying. A large man, journey-apprentice to Mr. Higginbotham, came up just then and aimed a pistol at the Indian’s head. I called out: “Oh, don’t he is dying,” and the big American laughed and said: “To please you, I won’t, but it would put him out of his misery.” Then I saw two others lying dead near by.
Captain Lysander Wells, about this time, passed by riding north on Soledad Street. He was elegantly dressed and mounted on a gaily caparisoned Mexican horse with silver mounted saddle and bridle—which outfit he had secured to take back to his native state, on a visit to his mother. As he reached the Verimendi House, an Indian who had escaped detection, sprang up behind him, clasped Wells’ arms in his and tried to catch hold of the bridle reins. Wells was fearless and active. They struggled for some time, bent back and forward, swayed from side to side, till at last Wells held the Indian’s wrists with his left hand, drew his pistol from the holster, partly turned, and fired into the Indian’s body—a moment more and the Indian rolled off and dropped dead to the ground. Wells then put spurs to his horse which had stood almost still during the struggle, dashed up the street and did good service in the pursuit. I had become so fascinated by this struggle that I had gone into the street almost breathless, and wholly unconscious of where I was, till recalled by the voice of Lieutenant Chevallier who said: “Are you crazy? Go in or you will be killed.” I went in but without feeling any fear, though the street was almost deserted and my husband and brother both gone in the fight. I then looked out on Commerce Street and saw four or five dead Indians. I was just twenty-two then, and was endowed with a fair share of curiosity.
Not till dark did all our men get back, and I was grateful to God, indeed, to see my husband and brother back alive and not wounded.
Captain Mat Caldwell, or “Old Paint” as he was familiarly called, our guest from Gonzales, was an old and famous Indian fighter. He had gone from our house to the Council Hall unarmed. But when the fight began, he wrenched a gun from an Indian and killed him with it, and beat another to death with the butt end of the gun. He was shot through the right leg, wounded as he thought by the first volley of the soldiers. After breaking the gun, he then fought with rocks, with his back to the Court House wall.
Young G. W. Cayce had called on us that morning, bringing an introductory letter form his father to Mr. Maverick, and placing some papers in his charge. He was a very pleasant and handsome young man and, it was reported, came to marry Gertrude Navarro, Mrs. Dr. Allsbury’s sister. He left our house when I did, I going to Mrs. Higginbotham’s and he to the Council Hall. He stood in the front door of the Court House, was shot and instantly killed at the beginning of the fight, and fell by the side of Captain Caldwell. The brother of this young man afterwards told me he had left home with a premonition of his death being very near. Captain Caldwell was assisted back to our house and Dr. Weideman came and cut off his boot and found the bullet had gone entirely through the leg, and lodged in the boot, where it was discovered. The wound, though not dangerous, was very painful, but the doughty Captain recovered rapidly and in a few days walked about with the aid of a stick.
After the captain had been cared for, I ran across to Mrs. Higginbotham’s. Mr. Higginbotham, who was as peaceful as a Quaker to all appearances, had been in the fight and had received a light wound. They could not go into their back yard, because two Indians had taken refuge in their kitchen, and refused to come out or surrender as prisoners when the interpreter had summoned them. A number of young men took counsel together that night, and agreed upon a plan. Anton Lockmar and another got on the roof, and about two hours after midnight dropped a candlewick ball soaked in turpentine, and blazing, through a hole in the roof upon one Indian’s head and so hurt him and frightened them both that they opened the door and rushed out—to their death. An axe split open the head of one of the Indians before he was well out of the door, and the other was killed before he had gone many steps—thus the last of the sixty-five were taken. The Indian women dressed and fought like the men, and could not be told apart. As I have said thirty-three were killed and thirty-two taken prisoners. Many of them were repeatedly summoned to surrender, but numbers refused and were killed. All had a chance to surrender, and every one who offered or agreed to give up was taken prisoner and protected.
What a day of horrors! And the night was as bad which followed.
Lieutenant Thompson, who had been shot through the lungs, was taken to Madam Santita’s house, on Soledad Street, just opposite us, and that night he vomited blood and cried and groaned all night—I shall never forget his gasping for breath and his agonizing cries. Dr. Weideman sat by and watched him, or only left to see the other sufferers, nearby; no one thought he would live till day, but he did, and got to be well and strong again, and in a few weeks walked out.
The captive Indians were all put in the calaboose for a few day and while they were there our forces entered into a twelve days truce with them—the captives acting for their Nation. And, in accordance with the stipulation of the treaty, one of the captives, an Indian woman, widow of a chief, was released on the 20th, the day after the fight. She was given a horse and provisions and sent to her Nation to tell her people of the fight and its result. She was charged to tell them, in accordance with the truce, to bring in all their captives, known to be fifteen Americans and several Mexicans, and exchange them for the thirty-two Indian held. She seemed eager to effect this, and promised to do her best. She said she would travel day and night, and could go and return within five days. The other prisoners thought she could in five days return with the captives from the tribe. The Americans said, “Very well we give twelve days truce and if you do not get back by Thursday night of the 28th, these prisoners shall be killed, for we will know you have killed our captive friends and relatives.”
In April, as I shall mention again, we were informed by a boy, named B. L. Webster, that when the squaw reached her tribe and told of the disaster, all the Comanches howled, and cut themselves with knives, and killed horses, for several days. And they took all the American captives, thirteen in number, and roasted and butchered them to death with horrible cruelties; that he and a little girl named Putnam, five years old, had been spared because they had previously been adopted into the tribe.
Our people did not, however, retaliate upon the captives in our hands. The captive Indians were all put into the calaboose, corner Market Street and the public square, and adjoining the courthouse, where all the people in San Antonio went to see them. The Indians expected to be killed, and they did not understand nor trust the kindness which was shown them and the great pity manifested toward them. They were first removed to San José Mission, where a company of soldiers was stationed, and afterwards taken to Camp “Cook,” named after W. G. Cook, at the head of the river, and strictly guarded for a time. But afterwards the strictness was relaxed and they gradually all, except a few, who were exchanged, escaped and returned to their tribe. They were kindly treated and two or three of them were taken into families as domestics, and were taught some little, but they too, at last, silently stole away to their ancient freedom.
DOCTOR WEIDEMAN
Late in the afternoon of the Indian fight, of the 19th, I visited Mr. Higginbotham’s, as I have before stated. While I was there, Dr. Weideman came up to her grated front window, and placed a severed Indian head upon the sill. The good doctor bowed courteously and saying, “With your permission, Madam,” disappeared. Soon after he returned with another bloody head, when he explained to us that he had viewed all the dead Indians, and elected these two heads, male and female, for the skulls, and also had selected two entire bodies, male and female, to preserve as specimen skeletons. He said: “I have been long exceedingly anxious to secure such specimens—and now, ladies, I must hurry and get a cart to take them to my house,” and off he hurried all begrimed with dirt and blood (having been with his good horse one of the foremost in pursuit). Now he was exulting for the cause of science in his “magnificent specimens,” and before it was quite dark he came with his cart and its frightful load, took his two heads and disappeared. His house was the Old Chaves place, on the side of Acequia Street (now Main Avenue) north of Main Plaza.
Dr. Weideman, a Russian, was a very learned man of perhaps thirty-five years of age, was a surgeon and M.D., spoke many living tongues and had travelled very extensively. In former year, he had buried a lovely young wife and son, and becoming restless, had sought and secured employment under the Russian Government. In fact the Emperor of Russia had sent him to Texas to find and report anything and everything, vegetable and animal grown in Texas—and he had selected a worthy man, for Dr. Weideman was a devotee to science. He grew enthusiastic over our Western Texas and her climate, and constantly accompanied the “Minute Men” on their expeditions and numerous surveying parties.
Dr. Weideman took the Indian heads and bodies to his home as I have mentioned, and put them into a large soap boiler on the bank of the “acequia,” or ditch, which ran in front of his premises. During the night of the 20th he emptied the boiler, containing water and flesh from the bones, into the ditch. Now this ditch furnished the drinking water generally for the town. The river and the San Pedro Creek, it was understood, were for bathing and washing purposes, but a city ordinance prohibited, with heavy fines, the throwing of any dirt or filth into the ditch—for it was highly necessary and proper to keep the drinking water pure.
On the 21st, it dawned upon the dwellers upon the banks of the ditch that the doctor had defiled their drinking water. There arose a great hue and cry and all the people crowded to the mayor’s office—the men talked in loud and excited tones, the women shrieked and cried—they rolled up their eyes in horror, they vomited, and some of them were so frightened that they suffered miscarriage. Many thought they were poisoned and must die. Dr. Weideman was arrested and brought to trial, he was overwhelmed with abuse, he was called “diabolo,” “demonio,” “sin cerguenza,” etc., etc. He took it quite calmly, told the poor creatures they would not be hurt—that the Indian poison had all run off with the water long before day—paid his fine and went away laughing.
The doctor had a Mexican servant who had been pretty good, and lived with him two years—but José would steal, and one day he stole the doctor’s watch, a valuable timepiece. Dr. Weideman, after inquiring and waiting several weeks in vain, determined to have his watch, if he had to use magic to get it! He had several Mexican menservants, for he kept horses, wild animals, snakes and birds and also cultivated a fine garden—with wild flowers, etc., but he satisfied himself that José was the thief. He invited several gentlemen to come to his house a certain evening about full of the moon, and he told his servants that he would summon the spirits to point out the thief. When the appointed time came, he caused a fire to be built on the flat dirt roof of his house, over which he placed a pot filled with liquids. Hither he brought his company and the servants. He was dressed in a curious robe or gown covered with weird figures, and a tall wonderful cap rested on his head. In his hand he held a twisted stick with which he stirred the liquid in the pot, uttering the while words in an unknown tongue. He was very solemn and occasionally he would turn around slowly and gaze upward into space. Finally he told all present that he would put out the fire, and cool the liquid, and then each person in turn should dip his hand in, and the thief’s hand would turn black. Each one advanced in order and submitted his hand to the test, and after each experiment the doctor would stir and mutter and turn around again. José waited until the very last, he came up quite unwillingly, and when he withdrew his hand from the pot it was black. José was terribly frightened, he fell upon his knees and acknowledged the theft then and there and begged for mercy. The Doctor got his watch back and did not discharge José, who never after stole again.
The Mexicans when they saw the doctor on the streets would cross themselves, and avoid him—they said he was leagued with the devil; he claimed that the spirits of the Indians, whose bodies he had dissected, were under his enchantment and that he could make them tell him anything. He set his skeleton Indians up in his garden, in his summer house, and dared anybody to steal on his premises. It is needless to say, everything he had was sacred from theft.
Dr. Weideman was very good to the sick and wounded. He would not take pay for his services, and saved many lives by his skill and attention. He was universally respected and liked by Americans. In 1843 or ’44 he was drowned in attempting to cross Peach Creek, near Gonzales when the water was very high—his horse and himself and one other man were carried down by the rapid current and drowned, whilst the others of the party barely escaped.
During the summer of the year, 1840, Colonel Henry Karnes upon returning from Houston when yellow fever was prevailing there, was taken down with yellow fever. The colonel and Dr. Weideman were great friends, and the Doctor hardly left his room till he was out of danger. Karnes thought though his business required him in Houston, and contrary to the doctor’s advice he started back before he was strong enough. He travelled in a light wagon, took a relapse after the first day and came back to his friends. But his case was now hopeless and he died from his great imprudence, and the good doctor put on the deepest mourning for his friend. Colonel Karnes was a short, thick-set man with bright red hair. While he was uneducated, he was modest, generous and devoted to his friends. He was brave and untiring and a terror to the Indians. They called him “Capitan Colorado” (Red Captain) and spoke of him as “Muy Wapo” (very brave). Four or five years before he died, he was taken prisoner by the Comanches, and the squaws so greatly admired his hair of “fire” that they felt it and washed it to see if it would fade; and, when they found the color held fast, they would not be satisfied until each had a lock.
Several incidents occurred soon after the fight of the 19th, which, together with other incidents much later, I will narrate. On March 28th between two hundred and fifty and three hundred Comanches under a dashing young chief, Ismanica, came close to the edge of the town where the main body halted and chief Isimanica with another warrior rode daringly into the public square, and circled around it, then rode some distance down Commerce Street and back, shouting all the while, offering fight and heaping abuse and insults upon the Americans. Isimanica was in full war paint, and almost naked. He stopped longest at Black’s saloon, at the northeast corner of the square; he shouted defiance, he rose in his stirrups, shook his clenched fist, raved, and foamed at the mouth. The citizens, through an interpreter, told him the soldiers were all down the river at Mission San José and if he went there Colonel Fisher would give him fight enough.
Isimanica took his braves to San José [Mission San José (St. Joseph) or Second Mission, named also for the Governor of the province of Texas at the time “de Aguayo” was founded in 1720 and completed about 1730 the same year Mission Concepcion was begun. San José is said by many to be the most beautiful of all the missions in this country though it has been badly neglected and the wonderful carvings broken and defaced by relic hunters. “The south window of the Baptistry is considered by good judges the finest gem of architectural ornamentation existing in America today.” William Corner, San Antonio de Bexar, p. 17.] and with fearless daring bantered the soldiers for a fight. Colonel Fisher was lying on a sick-bed and Captain Redd, the next in rank, was in command. He said to the chief: “We have made a twelve day truce with your people in order to exchange prisoners. My country’s honor is pledged, as well as my own, to keep the truce, and I will not break it. Remain here three days or return in three days and the truce will be over. We burn to fight you.” Isimanica called him liar, coward and other opprobrious names, and hung around for some time, but at last the Indians left and did not return. Captain Redd remained calm and unmoved, but his men could with the greatest difficulty be restrained, and in fact some of them were ordered into the Mission church and the door guarded.
When Captain Lysander Wells a non-commissioned officer, who was in town, heard of it, he wrote Captain Redd an insulting letter in which he called him a “dastardly coward,” and alluded to a certain “petticoat government” under which he intimated the Captain was restrained. This allusion had reference to a young woman who, dressed in boy’s apparel had followed Redd from Georgia and was now living with him. This letter of Wells’ was signed, much to their shame, by several others in San Antonio. About this time Colonel Fisher removed his entire force of three companies to the Alamo in San Antonio; Redd challenged Wells to mortal combat, and one morning at six o’clock they met where the Ursuline Convent now stands. Redd said: “I aim for your heart” and Wells answered: “And I for your brains.” They fired. Redd sprang high into the air and fell dead with a bullet in his brain. Wells was shot near the heart, but lived two weeks, in great torture, begging every one near him to dispatch him or furnish him a pistol that he might kill himself and end his agony; Dr. Weideman nursed him tenderly. In Captain Redd’s pocket was found a marriage license and certificate showing that he was wedded to the girl (before mentioned)—also letters to members of his own and her families, speaking of her in the tenderest manner, and asking them to protect and provide for her. She was heartbroken and went to his funeral in black, and soon returned to her family.
These men were both brave and tried soldiers! What a sad ending to their young and promising lives, and that, too, when cruel and relentless savages daily committed atrocities about us.
Matilda Lockhart who came in as I have mentioned, on March 19th, had been about two years in captivity. When she was captured, two of her family were slain and she and her little sister were taken prisoners. At that time she was thirteen and her sister not three years of age. They were taken off to the tribe. Just before her release, she came along with the Indian party, as a herder, driving a herd of extra ponies for the Indians. The Indians thus could exchange their horses from time to time for fresher ones.
She was in a frightful condition, poor girl when at last she returned to civilization. Her head, arms and face were full of bruises, and sores, and her nose actually burnt off to the bone—all the fleshy end gone, and a great scab formed on the end of the bone. Both nostrils were wide open and denuded of flesh. She told a piteous tale of how they would wake her from sleep by sticking a chunk of fire to her flesh, especially to her nose, and how they would shout and laugh like fiends when she cried. Her body had many scars from fire many of which she showed us. Ah it was sickening to behold, and made one’s blood boil for vengeance.
Matilda was now fifteen years old, and though glad to be free from her detested tyrants, she was very sad and broken-hearted. She said she felt utterly degraded, and could never hold her head up again—that she would be glad to get back home again, where she would hide away and never permit herself to be seen. How terrible to contemplate! Yet her case was by no means solitary. She told of fifteen other American captives, her little sister and Booker Webster. After a few days, Matilda’s brother came and took her home.
She called out in good English, however, and said she had escaped from Indian captivity. She was taken into John W. Smith’s house, and we American ladies soon gathered there to see her and attend her wants. She said she was very tired and hungry and appeared much exhausted. After listening to a part of her story, Mrs. Smith gave her some food, which she and her little one ate in a famished manner. Five of us ladies, Mr. Jacques, Mrs. Elliott, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Higginbotham and myself, agreed to unite in caring for the unhappy fugitive. We got her some clothing, and, having prepared a bath, we helped her to undress and found her skin yet fair and white beneath the buckskin. We bathed and clothed her and left her to sleep and rest.
The stench of the poor woman’s clothes was so dreadful, while we were undressing her, that Mrs. Jacques fainted away, and Mrs. Smith told me to get a bottle of cologne on her mantel in the adjoining room. I picked up the only bottle there, and hastily sprinkled the contents on Mrs. Jacques’ face, which caused her to revive instantly, and she screamed: “stop, stop, that is pepper vinegar!” And so it was indeed, and had gotten into one of her eyes, whereupon Mrs. Jacques was accused
of “playing ‘possum” and we had a great laugh. Mrs. Webster remained a week with Mrs. Smith, a week with Mrs. Jacques and two weeks with me. She was treated with great kindness by every one, and money and clothes given her. Her story was as follows:
She came from Virginia to Texas early in 1838 with her husband, who she claimed was a relative of Daniel Webster. They built a house northwest of Austin, and in August of that year her husband was removing her and her four children to this wild home—they had also in the party two negroes and one white man. One evening they camped on Brushy Creek, not far north of Austin, when a large party of Comanches suddenly attacked them. Their three men fought bravely but were overpowered and killed. Mrs. Webster’s infant was taken from her arms, and its brains dashed out on a tree and her second child was killed. She and her eldest boy of ten years, Booker Webster were tied upon horses and she held her child of two years so tightly and plead for it so piteously that the Indians left it with her. They were taken by rapid marches to the mountains where they stripped Booker and shaved his head. He was attacked with brain fever, and an old squaw, who had just lost a son of his age, adopted him and nursed him very tenderly. The Indian allowed Mr. Webster to keep her little girl, but prohibited her from talking with her son. They made her cook, and stake out ponies, and they beat her very badly.
She had been nineteen months in captivity when she seized a favorable opportunity to escape. It was one night after a long day’s march when, having learned the general direction of San Antonio, she quietly and noiselessly slipped out of camp with her child in her arms and bent her steps toward Bexar. She spent twelve terrible days on the road without meeting a human being—sustaining herself all this while on berries, small fish which she caught in the streams, and bones left at Indian camps, which she followed, hiding and sleeping in the day and travelling at night by moon and starlight. She several times gave up to die, but gathering courage and determination, she would trudge on. The early morning of the 26th she lay down despairing on a hillside in a fog, not able to drag one foot after the other. When the sun shone out, looking to the east she saw a “golden cross shining in the sky”! Then she knew her prayers had been answered and that cross surmounted the Cathedral of San Fernando in San Antonio. She said he felt her weariness melt away and she grew strong and hopeful and again took up the march with a thankful heart. She was about thirty-two years old.
April 3rd. Two Indians, a chief and a squaw, the man with his bow strung and arrows in his hand, came into the public square and, remaining mounted, called out to the Americans that about twenty warriors were holding all the Americans and Mexican captives three miles from town, and that they were prepared to make the exchange proposed or agreed upon in the twelve days’ truce. The Americans sent scouts, who reported the Indians to be numerous and the captives few. Two companies of soldiers and nine captive Indians were ordered up from San José. The Americans declined to go with the chief to the Indian camp, but they gave him bread, peloncillos and a beef and agreed to talk “mañana” (tomorrow).
On the 4th, the chief returned and asked the Americans to take out two captives and exchange for two, and the answer was: “Bring two captives to the edge of town and we will meet you.” They came with a little American girl, Putnam’s child, and a Mexican boy, and received two Indians. The Americans being desirous of securing all the captives, not knowing they were murdered, asked why they did not bring American captives, and the Indians answered they had only one more with them, and if they gave him up they wished to choose an Indian in exchange. The boy proved to be B. L. Webster, “Booker,” the son of Mrs. Webster mentioned above, and they brought a Mexican boy with him and said these were all they had with them. The chief selected in exchange for Webster a squaw whose arm had been broken in the fight of the 19th. When asked why he chose her, he answered she was the widow of a great chief who had been killed in the fight, and he wanted her for his squaw, because she owned “muchas mules,” “muchas mules.” The squaw did not seem to relish this and so the Americans would not let him take her, but selected another woman, and a child, and threw in a blind Indian. The chief was not pleased, but departed with what he could get.
Thus we got back two Americans and five Mexican captives. Booker Webster’s head was shaved and he was painted in Indian style. One of the Mexicans ran away some time afterwards and returned to the Indians. The girl, Putman, was five years old, and cried to go back to the Comanche mother who had adopted her, probably in her second year. She could not speak or understand English, and had many bruises and her nose was burnt partly off. The boy, Booker, then told us, and we learned for the first time, how the Comanches had murdered the captives in their hands when they received the message borne to them by the squaw.
The Indians used the Spanish language a great deal, but they never tried to acquire any knowledge of the English tongue. This summer, 1840, the Indians were constantly stealing and murdering. Travel was especially unsafe, except when the company was large, and even then it was advisable to travel by night and camp by day, always keeping a sharp lookout.
Early in August, a band of about three hundred warriors suddenly appeared in the neighborhood of Victoria, having escaped detection on their route down the country. On the 6th, they appeared there in force. Circling around Victoria, they passed onto Linnville, a small town on Lavaca. Linnville was a very small town in which was located a Custom House and a few stores. When the Indians charged into town, most of the citizens took refuge on the boats anchored near, and thus escaped. Some were not quick enough, and were cut off and killed, and two ladies and a boy were taken prisoners. The Indians found large quantities of goods stored at Linnville, which they loaded upon pack animals, and even upon their riding horses. They spent the whole day there, and burnt all the houses and everything they could not carry off.
Meanwhile, runners had been sent out of Victoria to warn the settlers, and for the purpose of summoning volunteers to intercept the Indians’ return to the mountains. The call was responded to from every valley and settlement. From the Colorado to the Guadalupe and beyond, volunteers gathered, under McColloch, Lynn, Caldwell, Ed Burleson, Moore and others. Scouts who followed close upon their trail told of whole bolts of ribbon, muslin and calico streaming to the air from the saddles of the savages. On Plum Creek, a branch of the San Marcos, August 18th, they were at last surrounded, retreat cut off and they were forced to fight. The Texas forces, under General Felix Houston, had been gathering for one grand blow. The combat was remarkable for the terrible slaughter of the Indians. The battle ground extended over a distance of fifteen miles, for it was a running fight. None of the Texans were killed, and the Indians were so completely crushed by this defeat that they never dared to raid into that section again.
When they found they would lose the fight, the Indians lanced and shot arrows into their captives, who were tied to trees, and left them for dead, but Mrs. Watts recovered and returned to her friends. The capture of Mrs. Watts illustrates how vitally important a few moments of time may become. Mr. Watts had married this lady only a few weeks before the Comanches burned Linnville, and had presented her with an elegant gold watch and chain. After starting to run for the boats, Mrs. Watts thought she would secure her watch first, ran back into the house, and got it, accompanied by her husband. Having secured the trinket, they attempted to reach the boats, but some mounted Indians had cut them off. Watts was tomahawked, and his wife taken captive. She afterwards married again, to a Mr. Staunton, I am told, and died at Lavaca in 1878.
Now, why have I mentioned this raid? Well you shall hear. On April 21st, Mr. Maverick had left for New Orleans and returned in June by the way of Houston. He had only got home a week before this, and had intended to come by Lavaca, but was detained. He however, shipped by way of Linnville, goods, stores and a supply of clothing material for two years ahead, and unfortunately for us the goods were stored in Linnville when the Indians sacked the place. Mr. Maverick had purchased a supply of whiskey and brandy to be used on surveying expeditions—it being the custom for those having surveying done to furnish the liquor. He had purchased for me a silver soup ladle, twelve table and twelve tea spoons; the spoons we had travelled out with were only plated ware. He had also a number of law books with the other things. These law books were the only things we ever heard from, and what he heard was this: they were strung to the Indians’ saddles by strings run through the volumes, and used for making cigarettes.
I shall not mention the thousand and one incidents which happened in connection with the Comanches in and about San Antonio from 1838 until 1842, when we became refugees. They made life very unsafe on the frontier and during the period mentioned they were always within dangerous proximity to us and always doing some of their devilment.
However I will mention one or two more incidents before I bid them adieu. On May 27, thirty or forty Comanches came close to town, and being early discovered, they were hotly pursued by the “Minute Men.” They fled to the nearest timber on the Medina, where, darkness overtaking them, they speared all their horses and took to the bottom on foot. In the morning the dead horses were found but the Indians had escaped.
The Indians were always lurking around in small bodies, hiding close to town, waiting for an opportunity to strike without danger to themselves. We were compelled to learn this through many murders and robberies. They would suddenly appear from the river bottom, from behind a clump of trees, from a gully, and sometimes from the tall grass. It seemed they were always on the watch everywhere, but only acted at the most favorable moments.
In the spring of 1841, Mrs. Elliott and I set out up the river to gather dewberries. They grew in great abundance where the Ursuline Convent now stands. Mr. Elliot sent his two clerks, Peter Gallagher and John Conran, Mrs. Elliott’s brother, along, they being well armed. We with my son Sam and Billy Elliott and the two nurses Rachael and Julia took our buckets and started up directly after dinner. We found a great abundance of ripe luscious berries, ate all we wanted, filled our buckets, had a first-rate time and started home all right. We met just after we left the bend of the river a Mexican cartman going out to hobble his oxen on the fine grass we had just passed over. We had gone only a few hundred feet further, after passing the Mexican, when we heard all around us the sudden cry of “Indios,” “Indios.” Soon the alarm bell called to arms and we ran quickly home. The cartman we passed proved to be the victim—he was killed and scalped by the Comanches, who had been hiding close to us in the river timber when we were gathering the berries and having our good time just before. Our two armed guards on the watch had saved our lives. The Indians both escaped in the dark and we were grateful for the foresight of Mr. Elliott, and we learned a lesson never forgotten, for our foolhardy venturing.
[MEMOIRS 1841] President Lamar’s visit to San Antonio in June was to sanction and encourage an expedition to Santa Fé, New Mexico. The object of this expedition was to open a line for commerce between the two sections, and get a share of the lucrative trade between Santa Fé and Lexington, Mo. Lamar gave the project his sanction and encouragement, furnished governmental supplies and sought the endorsement of Congress. He appointed William G. Cook, Don J. A. Navarro, and R. F. Brenham, commissioners to go with the expedition. The expedition, after much delay, set out from Brushy, near Georgetown, on the 20th of June, 1841. The party consisted of two hundred and seventy armed men under General Hugh McLeod, and fifty traders with wares and pack mules. There were also servants and some super-numeraries. Some of our brave young men of San Antonio were of the party. The unfortunate expedition, its total failure and the unhappy causes and consequences of the final disaster, are told with great vigor and fidelity by George W. Kendall who was of the party and wrote a thrilling history or narrative of the expedition.
It was strongly believed by many that Juan Nepomicino Seguin, who had held the honorable position of Mayor of San Antonio, and Representative to Congress, from Bexar, and being a man of great pride and ambition, had found himself surpassed by Americans, and somewhat overlooked in official places, had become dissatisfied with the Americans, and had opened communications with the officials of Mexico, exposing the entire plan from its inception as “invading Mexican soil.” Certain it is that Governor Armijo of New Mexico was early advised of the expedition, and ordered to capture and put to death the whole party. From this time Seguin was suspected and Padre Garza, a rich and influential priest, was known to carry on traitorous correspondence with the Mexican authorities. Positive proof, however, was not obtained until Padre Garza escaped. Seguin indignantly denied the charge and many suspended judgement. His father, Don Erasmo Seguin, was a cultivated and enlightened man, who had befriended Stephen F. Austin in a Mexican dungeon, had been friendly to the Americans, and was much esteemed by all.
During the fall of 1841 and the following winter, many rumors came to the effect that the Mexicans were about to invade Texas in force. Sometimes friendly-minded Mexicans dropped in to warn us and even to entreat us not to remain and be butchered, for they felt sure the invading army would be vindictive and cruel.
In February 1842, the scouts advised Captain Hays that a force had gathered on the right bank of the Rio Grande, had crossed to this side and was moving on toward San Antonio. We thought it must be a foraging party which would not venture into San Antonio, but our soldier friends insisted that the ladies and children should not remain any longer. The ladies finally agreed to move temporarily from San Antonio. Hasty preparations were made, and on March 1st, 1842, our little band started on the trip which we have always spoken of since as the “Runaway of ’42.”
Mrs. Campbell and Mrs. Moore waited a few days and did not afterwards overtake us. Mrs. Riddle had a two weeks old baby (now Mrs. Eager), and could not move.
Our party consisted of Mrs. Elliott, three children and two servants; Mrs. Jacques, two children and one servant, also having Mr. Douglas, an invalid gentleman, in charge; Mrs. Bradley, six children, and seven or eight servants; Messrs. Bradley, Jacques and Elliott having remained behind to pack up and urge forward such of their goods as were most valuable. In the party was also Mr. Gautier, wife and child, Judge Hutchinson and wife in their carriage with driver, the only fine carriage in the caravan—and last but not least the tribe of Maverick. Mr. Maverick and I were mounted, as also our two servants Griffin and Wiley. Granville drove the wood-cart drawn by two horses, which carried Jinny, Rachael and quite a number of children white and black. In the cart we had also the necessary clothing, bedding and provisions. Our carriage got out of repair soon after we settled in San Antonio, and the wheel of our big Kentucky wagon was broken and we found no blacksmith in the place able to mend or repair either, so it will appear we were just a little crowded. Mr. Maverick thought we would go back very soon, and we left the house as it was with some gentlemen who would live there and care for it. We buried some articles under the storeroom floor and I left a bureau of drawers in the care of Mrs. Soto. In that bureau I placed some keepsakes, books, silver, my wedding dress and other articles I valued. Mrs. Soto begged me to send the bureau to her in the night-time so that none of her neighbors should know. These things she faithfully kept for me till we returned in September, 1847.
Our three children were sometimes in the wood cart and sometimes in front of the riders—Agatha the baby in my lap. Mrs. Elliot had a good large carryall, Mrs. Bradley a fine wagon and some riding horses. Annie Bradley rode on horseback with Mr. Maverick and myself. The weather was charming, the grass green and the whole earth in bloom—and I cannot forget the gay gallops we had going ahead and resting ’til the others came up. Strange that we refugees should be such a happy crowd, but so it was. So it always will be with youth and health—heedless of trouble and misfortune awaiting us.
The first day we travelled only five miles and camped on the west bank of the Salado. It rained gently on us that night and the children and I crept under our little tent. Mr. Maverick was on guard part of the time, or asleep in his blanket before the camp-fire. Once it rained so had that he took refuge under Judge Hutchinson’s carriage, in which Mrs. Hutchinson was sleeping. While he was lying there awake, Judge Hutchinson came up, opened the door, and remarking to Mrs. Hutchinson that he had just been relieved from guard and was wet and cold, was proceeding to enter the carriage, when Mrs. Hutchinson said in rather discouraging tones: “What makes you such a fool as to stand guard? You know you can’t see ten feet.” “Well, my love, can’t I come?” “No, my dear, you can’t, you are damp and would give me a bad cold.” The judge resignedly closed the door and retired to the camp-fire, where he smoked his pipe, ruminating over the cruelty of his young second wife, or possibly over his own unwisdom in mentioning the fact that he was wet before he had gotten fairly in.
March 2nd. We travelled eighteen miles to the Cibolo and four miles to Santa Clara and camped. Here Colonel Ben McCulloch, Mr. Miller and several other gentlemen met and camped with us—they had armed in haste, and were going out to San Antonio to “meet the enemy.” They were as witty and lively as could be and we all sat late around the fire enjoying their jokes and “yarns.” A guard was kept all night and in the morning, when McCulloch’s party was about to leave us, Colonel McCulloch told the ladies that Indians had been seen lurking in the neighborhood, which was the reason they had given us their protecting presence during the night.
March 3rd, twelve miles to Flores’ Rancho near Seguin, and here we met Major Erskine of the Capote Farm, who had come purposely to meet and conduct us to his place, in good old Virginia style. He was an old acquaintance and friend of Mr. Bradley, and also knew Mr. Maverick. We proceeded one mile further to Seguin when we camped for the night. Crossing the Guadalupe, Mrs. Elliott’s carriage turned over, breaking a shaft, but without injuring anyone.
March 4th, Mr. Maverick, my brothers and many others left us for San Antonio, and we went on twelve miles to Major Erskine’s. We were many, but they crowded us all into their hospitable house, gave us a fine supper, and a fine breakfast, and although Mrs. Erskine was an invalid confined to her bed at the time, they extended to us the kindest attentions, and treated us all like kin.
March 5th, After breakfast we insisted on relieving the kind people, and taking care of ourselves. Mrs. Elliott, Mrs. Jacques and I took possession of the blacksmith shop in the yard, and Mr. Gautier’s family took a shed alongside the shop. The Bradleys remained housed with the Erskines and the Hutchinsons went on east. We had a jolly time decorating our domicile—we placed flowers and green boughs in the chinks, and erected a shelf on which we placed a borrowed mirror and our perfumery bottles and bric-á-brac, and we made ourselves at home generally. The servants stretched tents nearby and cooked us a nice supper.
March 6th, Early, to-wit at 3 A.M., Capt. Highsmith rapped loudly on our door and, when we had answered, called out in a solemn and dismal voice “Ladies, San Antonio has fallen.” It was startling news indeed and, the night being very dark and cold we were seized with a vague sense of terror. Mrs. Jacques lighted a candle and commenced weeping hysterically, Mrs. Elliot fell upon her knees and ran over her beads oftener than once, and the other member of the matinee took a shaking ague and could not speak for the chattering of her teeth. The children waked and cried, the negroes came in with sad and anxious looks, and we were in fact seized with a genuine “panic.” Then Mr. Gautier learned from Capt Highsmith that the Americans had fallen back in good order, with their cannon—that Gen. Rafael Vasquez with a large force had entered San Antonio on the 5th—and that the Americans believing Vasquez’ forces to be the vanguard of a large army, had decided upon making Seguin our rendezvous, and were gradually retreating to that point. That miserable day, all day, rumors came, couriers passed in haste, and we were informed that an army of 30,000 Mexicans had cut our forces up, and was marching directly towards Capote farm presumably intending to cross the Guadalupe at this point.
During the excitement in the morning Mrs. Jacques burried her money, and Mrs. Elliott constructed three bustles, for herself and her two servant-women, and in the bustles she deposited her gold doubloons. We then prepared and recited what we should say to the Mexican officers upon their arrival. After dinner we all went out to the public road and sat down on a log, all in a row, and watched to see them approach, whilst the invalid Mr. Douglas, wearing his comical long red silk smoking cap, tried to cheer and amuse us with his jokes and witticisms. Soon towards the fateful west was seen an approaching horseman urging his tired steed with whip and spur——”A Courier!” cried Douglas, “Now we shall know all.” Sure enough it was my dear brother Andrew come to set us at ease about the personal safety of our absent husbands, as he had a better horse than they; for our husbands appreciated our anxiety, and had sent him forward as their avant courier, and before dark Mr. Maverick and Mr. Elliott came, followed soon afterwards by Mr. Bradley and Mr. Jacques.
Hays sent us word to go right on to Gonzales and we were informed that he with some three hundred men had concluced to march on San Antonio and attempt its recapture, Hays having satisfied himself that no additional forces were sustaining Vasquez. On March 9th, Hays with three hundred men entered San Antonio, and on his approach, Vasquez with eight hundred men fell back across the Rio Grande after having done considerable damage to property in San Antonio.
Meanwhile we had gone on to Gonzales, where Mr. Maverick left me again and returned to San Antonio. We remained in Gonzales until April 16h. The Bradleys remained with the Erskines a while and then went to the Brazos in company with the Chalmers. At Gonzales Mrs. Riddle overtook us—and joined me in the house I was occupying—a house vacated by the owners who had fled further east. Mr. Robinson, partner of her husband, brought Mrs. Riddle from San Antonio in a buggy, behind a fleet horse. She became very sick and for a time could not nurse her baby, and I gave her little Sallie a portion of Agatha’s milk until Mrs. R. recovered.On the way from Capote farm to Gonzales we had passed King’s Rancho, which had just been deserted by the owners. Here was desolation amidst plenty. The corn crib was full, the smokehouse well supplied, and chickens and hogs moved about as usual—but on the front door a notice was posted: “To all refugees, welcome, help yourselves to what you need. Also to all marching to repel the invaders, take what you want, but leave the remainder to the next comers.” This at first appeared remarkable, but it was founded in wisdom. All along the Guadalupe and even the Colorado, families ran away from their homes in the same way, and great losses followed. My brothers William and Andrew, living on the San Marcos, sent their negroes each with a “runaway” family, and went to the front with Caldwell and McCulloch, and while they were absent some wanton passerby left their fences down, and their hogs were killed and stolen—their cattle strayed off and to finish it all a flood came in May, swept away their bottom fences, and broke them up. Andrew left the business with William and in the summer went back to Alabama to complete his medical studies in Tuskaloosa, intending to return eventually with his diploma—he also had some property there, from Mother’s estate, to attend to.
While we were in Gonzales I met Mr. and Mrs. Vanderlip, young people living there, who afterwards came to San Antonio. Mrs. V. had a piano, was very pretty and not very long from New York city. I met also Mrs. Ballinger of South Carolina and her sister Miss Roach, afterwards Mrs. Frank Paschal.
A singular panic occurred in Gonzales when we were there. One evening an old and respected citizen came in from the country northwest of town and, in a state of the greatest excitement, reported that a large force of Indians was rapidly advancing on the town and would certainly arrive during the ensuing night. He said they could easily take and destroy the town, weakened in force as it was. This report spread swiftly and created the wildest excitement. The people from the suburbs and adjacent country crowded rapidly into the central part of the town, and many came to our house. Five or six gentlemen, well known as brave men, were to be the defenders of our house in case of an attack. The people came in pell-mell, they crowded into my room and Mrs. Riddle’s room and there was no chance for sleep or privacy that night. They ate all the provisions we had in the house (tho’ stored in a large fireplace and covered up), the children cried, and we had a dreadful night of it. The men stood guard, they barricaded the doors and windows, they furnished us women with pistols and knives, and every hour or so they reported “all’s well.” Patrols and pickets took care of the various roads and altogether everybody, except probably the old gentleman, had a frightful night. The old fellow who started all the hubbub became sick apparently and went off somewhere to sleep—and in the morning it was ascertained he had gone crazy from the excitement of the times. His story had been a mere vagary of his disordered mind, and there were no Indians in that part of the country!
Mr. Maverick returned to us in April. He had found our house robbed of everything. We had built a brick wall and a walnut mantel-piece together, so as to divide our “long-room” into two apartments, and even this mantel had been forced out of the wall and carried off. It had been sand-papered and oil-rubbed until it looked beautiful, and they took it for some rare wood. Mrs. Hutchinson’s piano had been chopped open with an axe and all kinds of damage had been done to anything belonging to Americans.
Mr. Maverick found it necessary to make another trip to the United States, and, being desirous of leaving us in a perfectly safe place during his absence, he concluded to take us to the Colorado River near La Grange, and leave us there until his return.
April 16th. We set out for the Colorado, Andrew accompanying us, and travelled twelve miles to McClures.
On April 17th, we travelled twenty-eight or thirty miles to Mr. Chadong’s on the west bank of the Navidad. It was on this day’s trip that I experienced a memorable foreboding which saved us from disaster. We had travelled about twenty-two miles when we reached a lone log house where a family, O’Bar, I think, had been massacred by the Indians four years previously. This house was much used by travellers as a stopping place, and we had expected to stop there, and now it was dusk and very cloudy and we had every reason to wish to remain there during the night, for it was eight miles to the next place; but as I rode up to the doorless cabin and looked into the large room, which appeared all right, a strange feeling of danger came over me so strongly that I turned and said to my husband and brother, “Don’t think of staying here for something very dreadful will happen if you do.” They laughed, and bantered me on being afraid of Indians, but I answered, “Not Indians, I don’t know what it is, but we must go on.”
We, people and beasts, were all very tired, but I was so urgent that we all went on after waiting for the cart a little while. Soon after, a tremendous thunder storm swept over us, the wind whistled mournfully, the lightning flashed vividly about us and the rain poured down in torrents. A tree at the roadside, just ahead of us, was torn to pieces by a lightening stroke. The road was full of water directly and our horses could only walk, so that it was after midnight when we approached Chadong’s house. But our trouble was not ended then—a ravine crossed our path between us and the house and it was overflowing its banks. Andrew swam over and found a fair crossing and then came back and led my horse. Agatha was sleeping in my arms at the time. I had kept her tolerably dry, and she slept peacefully through it all. Lewis was asleep in front of his papa and was kept dry by his Mexican blanket. After we had called repeatedly Mr. Chadong opened his door, and when he learnt who we were he apologized for keeping us out in the storm so long. He said he had to be cautious because of the dangerous times, and that it was not safe to let everybody in. He told us of a better crossing, and Andrew went back to guide the balance of our people over, and returned holding Sam in his arms.
The kind people of the house did all they could for us—they built fires, spread beds for us on the floor, and the children were soon asleep again. I turned about, and dried my clothes upon me and did not sleep ’til near day, the hogs were so noisy under the house, and the fleas so thick within. On the 18th, and until the 20th, the Navidad was impassable, and so we moved into Mr. Chadong’s corn crib and kept house for ourselves.
In the course of the day a man following our route informed us that the storm of the previous night had blown down the deserted old log cabin which I had refused to enter, roof and big logs all in ruins lay scattered upon the ground! We were very thankful for our Divine guidance from this certain death to some of us, had we camped in the house.
Our travel of the day before had been uncommon to say the least. We crossed the “bald prairie” which Indians were believed to be always watching, and through which ran their trail, generally passed over by them in the full of the moon, to steal and often murder or take captives. We had a very early start and only stopped at mid-day to lunch, and to rest our animals—the cart was lightly loaded and the people preferred to walk much of the time—but in eighteen hours we had gone twenty-eight or thirty miles—and we were wet, hungry and tired dreadfully yet no one of us was sick, or even had a cold.
While we were living in the corn crib, Mrs. Chadong invited us to dine with her. She had young chickens and green peas, and tarts of Mustang grapes, sweetened with molasses, the only sweetening to be had. They had coffee without milk or cream, although they were large cattle owners. They were very kind and hospitable to us, and we enjoyed the excellent dinner and their good cheer very much.
April 20th. Andrew went back, and we crossed the Navidad and travelled eighteen miles to Buckner’s Creek and stopped at Major Brookfield’s.——21st, six miles to the Colorado River.
On the west bank of the Colorado stood the office of Colonel J. W. Dancy, and the vacant house adjoining just left so by the family of Enoch Jones who had fled further east. Mr. Griffith Jones a brother was there and Mr. McAhron, the ferryman. They begged us to stop and take charge of the house, alleging that they were lonesome and were tired cooking for themselves. We rested there one week, and on the 29th, we returned to Brookfield’s on Buckner’s Creek, where we engaged board with his daughter, Mrs. Evans.
April 30th. Today Mr. Maverick left us to go to Alabama. He left to collect some money due him in Tuskaloosa and also for the purpose of bringing back with him my sister Elizabeth. None of my brothers were married, and as I was the only one who could offer her the comforts of a home, she had concluded to brave our wild country and unite her fortune with ours.
May 13th. Anton Lockmar rode expressly from San Antonio with letters from John Bradley and J. W. Smith, from which we learned that all Americans had left that place again—that seven hundred Mexicans were ten miles below and would probably seize the town, for our volunteers had disbanded and gone home. Radaz and some others were captured by the Mexicans thirty miles below San Antonio. About twenty men under Hays were out west and had overstaid their appointed time, and fears were entertained for their safety—Cornelius Van Ness had been accidentally shot and killed by James Robinson.
May 23rd. Agatha had a burning fever for three hours. Dr. Wells gave her senna.
May 24th. News from La Grange gave report that fifty Comanches had been seen on Peach Creek twenty miles from us. Most of the young men in that vicinity left in pursuit of the Indians.
May 26th. The young men returned, had found no fresh trail.
June 2d. Heard of Major Tom Howard and Mr. Hudson passing through Columbus going west. They were in the Santa Fé expedition, had been taken prisoners and had escaped.
June 11th. Mr. Maverick returned from Alabama with my sister Lizzie. They came up on horseback from Galveston, via Mobile and New Orleans, having bought horses for themselves and a new saddle for me.
June 21st. We returned to General [For Colonel] Dancy’s and took up our residence at his place, until we could provide a home for ourselves. This place is in Fayette County, opposite La Grange on the Colorado.
August 22nd. Mr. Maverick, with servant Griffin, J. Beale, Griffith Jones and Mr. Jackson set off for San Antonio to attend the Fall Term of Court. Griffin went along to bring back whatever he could find of our furniture. Lizzie and I and Colonel Dancy accompanied them six or seven miles of their way. I felt much depressed at saying goodbye, and deplored the necessity of his going so much, that Mr. Maverick remarked: “Almost you persuade me not to go.”
Alas! too surely and swiftly came a terrible sorrow.
[Memoirs 1842] On September 11th, Sunday morning, at day-break, General Adrian Woll with a large force of Mexicans consisting of cavalry and artillery to the number of thirteen hundred suddenly appeared before San Antonio, and captured the place. It was a complete surprise. The court was in session at the time, and, including the members of the bar and Judge of the district Court, fifty-three Americans were captured, one of whom was Mr. Maverick.
Before the little band surrendered, they showed a bold and vigorous front, even in the face of such fearful odds. They fortified themselves in the Maverick residence at the corner of Commerce and Soledad Streets—some of them mounted upon the roof, when Mr. John Twohig received a wound from which he has never entirely recovered. When the Mexican troops entered Main Plaza, the Texans fired upon them briskly, killing two and wounding twenty-six, six of whom died of their wounds.
General Woll beat a parley, and after he had shown the Texans they could not escape him and had promised to treat them as honorable prisoners of war and used some other plausible talk with them, the Texans held a consultation among themselves, when a majority voted to surrender. After they surrendered, they were kept in the Maverick residence, where they were closely guarded until the 15th.
[The late Mrs. Eager, daughter of Wilson J. Riddle, told me the following particulars of her father’s experience in the capture of San Antonio in 1842, which she had been told by her mother. The Riddles, who were English, had sought refuge in Gonzales during the “Runaway.” There a friendly priest informed them that a large force would soon attack San Antonio. Wilson Riddle determined to go and help the Americans, and his brother John accompanied him, saying “I cannot let my brother go without me.”
They arrived in San Antonio at the moment Woll and the Americans surrounded at the Maverick home. Riddle explained to the Mexican officer, “We are not soldiers, we came to confer with the Americans.” Colonel Carasco answered, “Well, there are your guns stacked against the wall—and you are not wearing that powder horn to drink milk out of!” Whereupon he arrested the brothers and they were taken with the other prisoners to Perote. They eventually secured their freedom through the English Minister to Mexico.
Herbert Gambrell, in his recent biography of Anson Jones, gives the following account of that fated session of the court:]
At San Antonio de Bexar, the Honorable Anderson Hutchinson wrote in his diary: “Monday Sept 5, 1842 Opened the District Court of Bexar No invasion expected.” There had been a rumor that Santa Anna was sending 1,500, maybe 3,000, men to San Antonio; but the worst anybody expected was a party of marauders. The case before the court was that of Shields Booker vs. the City of San Antonio. Dr. Booker, formerly of Brazoria and Dr. Jones’s assistant surgeon at San Jacinto, was suing for a fifty-pesos fee that Major Juan N. Seguin had promised him. His attorney was Samuel A. Maverick, a signer of the Declaration of Independence and congressman-elect. The testimony, which was in Spanish, ran on and on.
“The whole day of the 10th . . . passed . . . strengthening the general belief that the rumor was either a hoax or the character of the force advancing misrepresented [said Congressman William E. (Fiery) Jones of Gonzales, who was in San Antonio that day].
“At day light on the morning of the 11th Sept. we were aroused from our slumbers by the firing of a piece of cannon almost in the edge of town, succeeded immediately by the sound of martial music & the tramp of a body of men—A dense fog obscured them from actual observation until they had advanced into the public square when they were immediately fired upon by our party, who amounted to about fifty in number—the fire was soon returned by the Mexicans . . . This lasted a few minutes when the fog disappearing discovered to us that we were surrounded on all sides by bodies of regular troops. . . .”
The uniformed Mexicans disarmed the defenders of San Antonio and put them under guard, then marched into the courthouse. Judge Hutchinson, the whole personnel of his court, every lawyer in town except one, two congressmen-elect, and a former lieutenant governor were taken prisoners; and the case of Booker vs. the City of San Antonio was never finished.
[MEMOIRS 1842-1843] Mrs. Elliott was in San Antonio when my husband was captured, and she was allowed to visit the prisoners once or twice before they were taken off to Mexico. Mr. Maverick found an opportunity to hand Mrs. Elliott twenty gold doubloons for me. No one can imagine how dreadful this news was to me, especially when I learned that our poor prisoners were marched off on foot for Mexico on the 15th. At this time my poor little Lewis was dangerously ill with fever then prevalent in the neighborhood. Griffin came hurriedly back from San Antonio with the dreadful news of the capture of his master, to whom he was much attached. I called him to me, and talked to him about going out to San Antonio to pass himself for a “runaway,” follow to Mexico, and do anything he could to free or even aid Mr. Maverick, and he could have his freedom. He answered that to do anything for his master would delight him, and he had been wanting to ask me to let him go—”as for my freedom” he added, “I do not want any more than I have, master has always treated me more like a brother than a slave,” and he choked up unable to say more. He took a gun, a good mule, some money, and made ready and started within a few hours—happy to think he might do something to help his master.
15th, Juan Seguin killed Dr. Smithers, McDonald and McRhea at the Sulphur Springs on the Cibolo. 17th, 163 men under Mat Caldwell are on the Cibolo going west. 18th, Caldwell moved with 225 men to the Salado.
THE BATTLE OF THE SALADO
On the morning of the 19th Caldwell selected his battle ground on the left bank of the Salado about six miles from San Antonio and a mile below the Austin crossing of that creek. His choice fell upon a ravine in which he concealed his men and from the banks of which they were to battle with the enemy. Early in the morning he sent Hays with 50 men to draw the Mexicans out of San Antonio. Hays maneuvered successfully—he feigned flight and was hotly pursued to the Salado by 20 Mexican cavalry. Here the cavalry halted and awaited the arrival of the main body consisting of 1000 infantry (dismounted men) and a battery of two guns.
My brothers William and Andrew were both with Caldwell and they afterwards told me the particulars of the battle. The Mexicans charged in style. The Texans held their fire until they “could see the whites of the eyes” of their foes—then each “picked his man and laid him low,” and the Mexicans were repulsed with considerable slaughter. They returned to the charge again and again, but were repulsed each time with great loss. The battle lasted from eleven o’clock a.m. until five in the afternoon, when the Mexicans were completely routed and immediately fell back on San Antonio. General Woll reported his loss at 135 killed, but our people claimed this to be only a third of the Mexican loss. Amongst the Mexicans slain were Agaton and Cordova, two famous leaders of marauding parties. Not a Texan was killed and only ten were wounded. My brothers told me it was a pleasure to our boys to shoot down those Mexicans, “for they had broken up all our homes and taken many of our brave comrades into cruel captivity.”
On the morning of the battle, the Texans had butchered some beef-cattle, but before they could get their breakfast the order was given to fall in. But after the fight commenced, and they found it was such an easy-going affair, the Texans after each charge was repulsed, and before the Mexicans slowly reformed and advanced again, would descend into the ravine and take a lunch of broiled meat and hot coffee. They joked and sang and were very gay, and they wanted nothing better than to have the Mexicans come up and be shot—it seemed like child’s play! They themselves were quite secure behind the banks of the ravine and the cannon balls passed above and over them.
THE DAWSON MASSACRE
During the day of the battle of the Salado, Captain Dawson with his company of fifty-nine men from Fayette County, seeking a junction with the main Texan force under Caldwell, met a bloody and cruel fate. They fell in with Woll’s army and were surrounded by eight hundred Mexican troops when within one mile of Caldwell! Our faithful Griffin was with Dawson’s company. They fought so desperately that the Mexicans brought their two cannon to bear upon them, when Dawson, seeing there was no hope of escape, raised the “white flag.” This was fired upon, and the Mexican cavalry, disregarding the surrender, charged upon the gallant remnant and cut them down on every side. It was then that Dawson was slain. Colonel Carasco interfered at this moment and fifteen Texans were taken prisoners—three or four of whom afterwards died of their wounds. Thirty-three had been slain and the rest escaped.
Mr. Miller escaped on a fine horse before the white flag was raised. My uncle, Mr. John Bradley, was one of the prisoners. Ten of them, including Mr. Bradley, were marched off to Mexico, and finally joined the fifty-three who had started on the 13th.
Our poor Griffin was with Dawson and was slain. He would go into the fight with them and, though offered quarter several times, refused because he was thinking of his master, now a prisoner, and too of his young masters, William and Andrew, now possibly slain; the desire for vengeance seized his brave and trusty soul, and he wanted to kill every Mexican he could. He was a man of powerful frame, and he possessed the courage of the African lion. And this faithful and devoted African performed prodigies that day. When his ammunition became useless because of the proximity of the enemy, he fought with the butt-end of his gun, and when the gun was broken he wrenched a limb from a mesquite tree and did battle with that until death closed his career. He received more than one mortal wound before he ceased fighting.
The Mexican Colonel Carasco himself afterwards told Mr. Maverick that he had witnessed the feats performed by “that valiant black man,” and he pronounced Griffin the bravest man he had ever seen. Mr. Maverick grieved over his untimely death, and more than once did he say in his energetic manner: “We owe Griffin a monument!”
September 20th. The Mexican citizens of San Antonio who espoused the Mexican cause, with a guard of four hundred soldiers, left San Antonio for Mexico, taking with them five hundred head of cattle and much plunder.
September 21st. General Woll with his remaining forces evacuated San Antonio, and retired in good order towards the Rio Grande. Colonel Caldwell with six hundred and fifty men pursued them, and at night came upon their camp on the Medina. At daylight the next morning the Texans found the enemy had retreated during the night—they gave chase, and caught up with them early in the afternoon. Caldwell (“Old Paint”) commanded the first division, Morehead the second, and John H. Moore the third or reserve. J. H. Moore was the ranking officer, but Caldwell immediately took active command, and prepared for the battle. He commanded Hays with twenty picked men to make a diversion on the enemy’s left. Hays, with his usual dash and gallantry, entered vigorously into the spirit of the hour. He charged boldly into the ranks of the enemy and immediately captured the artillery. The Mexicans threw their women and children into the space between the captured artillery and their main army.
Then came a dreadful pause. A disgraceful scene was being enacted in the Texan army. J. H. Moore claimed his right as ranking officer to conduct the battle. Caldwell’s men refused to be commanded by anyone other than the hero of the Salado. Morehead’s men demanded that Morehead should command. After some delay Caldwell awoke to the importance of action and announced that he would follow Moore or any other man, and take all his men into the fight with him. But the contention had lasted too long; the important moment had come and had fled forever. Hays’ small band had captured the artillery, and the enemy was already casting timorous glances toward the rear—a charge by the Texans would have scattered them to the winds. As it was, Hays was in a perilous position—the enemy had time to recover from the first shock—they charged upon Hays in force and drove him from the field! Hays fell back out of range and witnessed Woll’s army successfully retire from the field and resume the march westward. Hays’ gallant spirit was wounded by this unaccountable and ignominious scene and his feelings found utterance in tears—yes, tears of shame and rage. The Texan army at last came forward, but it was too late, the enemy had escaped. The Texans were so disgusted and mortified that all discipline was lost and they returned in angry and humiliated squads to San Antonio. Hays had five wounded in his brilliant encounter, one of whom, Judge Lucky, died. The Mexicans abandoned their extra baggage and fled precipitately across the Rio Grande.
The blame of the failure was cast principally upon Colonel Caldwell, and he felt so humiliated and outraged that he became restive under the heavy burden, and from a condition of excellent health he sank into despondency and died of chagrin two or three months later. But his memory remained fresh and revered. He had been a noted Indian fighter, as I have mentioned before, and he had been an officer in the unfortunate Santa Fé expedition, and had suffered imprisonment. He had a great and good reputation throughout west Texas.
I now return to Mr. Maverick, and other prisoners captured on September 11th, in San Antonio during the Term of the Court.
On March 30th, 1843, Mr. Maverick, W. E. Jones and Judge Anderson Hutchinson were finally released in the City of Mexico by Santa Anna. Our obligations to General Waddy Thompson can never be forgotten. General Thompson was a native of South Carolina, and a connection by marriage of Mr. Maverick’s. He was the United States Minister to Mexico. After securing the release of Mr. Maverick, Jones and Hutchinson, he nobly exerted his influence to secure the release of all the other helpless and friendless prisoners, and he did not cease his efforts until he had succeeded in getting them all —all survivors—liberated.
On April 2nd, 1843, Mr. Maverick, once more free, left the City of Mexico, and on May 4th, he dismounted at our cabin on the Colorado, having been absent from his family eight and a half months, and a prisoner seven months.
Mr. Maverick’s only sorrow was that he had left so many friends and comrades in prison, and he felt almost ashamed when he met any of their families and friends, who all, of course, came to see him—to tell them of his own good luck and of the continued ill luck of the other captives.
June 16th, 1843, Santa Anna, as a special favor to General Waddy Thompson, signed the release for the balance of the Perote prisoners, but the order for release was so slowly carried into execution that it was more than two months before Mr. Bradley reached his family.
[The second of Samuel A. Maverick’s journals begins with the capture of San Antonio by General Woll in September 1842, and details the prisoners’ march to Mexico and their imprisonment at Perote. Maverick was released on March 22, 1843, and the journal ends with his arrival at Virginia Point on April 28. Less than a week later he was reunited with his family on the Colorado, on May 4, 1843. The journal is here printed from the copy made in 1879 by Edwin H. Terrell, whose notes are in brackets.]
Journal
SEPTEMBER 1842-APRIL 1843
San Antonio, 11th Sep’t 1842.
Fifty-six taken prisoners of war at Maverick’s Corner by Gen’l Woll with Eighteen hundred troops, stipulating that our lives and property should be safe and all of us treated as gentlemen. (W. E. Jones and S. A. Maverick Commissioners). Four released.
MEM: Protection left by San Antonio prisoners for the citizens of Bexar, Sep’t 11th 1842.
To the American Officers and Citizens:
To the undersigned, Americans, prisoners in the hands of the Mexican Army at this place, feel it to be a duty to recommend to all Americans, who may come here after our departure, to treat the Mexican population residing in this place with lenience and kindness. Up to the time of the unfortunate occurrence by which we were made made prisoners nothing transpired to prejudice them in our estimation, and since our captivity they have been untiring in their kindness, supplying us in the most liberal manner with everything which could conduce in the least degree to our comfort.
We do hope, therefore, should this place again fall into the hands of Americans, that for our sake the Mexican population here will not be in any way disturbed or injured either in person or property.
(Signed)
William E. Jones; H.A. Alsbury; A. Hutchinson; Chancey Johnson (Captain selected by prisoners); David J. Davis; S.L. Norvall; S.A. Maverick; S. Booker; John Lee; F.S. Gray; Sam’l Stone; J.C. Morgan; John Dalrymple; Trueman B. Beck; L. Colquhoun; Jas. L. Trueheart; John Twohig; D. Morgan; James W. Robinson; W.J. Riddle; J.R. Cunningham; C.W. Peterson; George Van Ness; D.C. Ogden; Joseph McClelland (liberated); Isaac Allen; James H. Brown; John Young; Simeon Glenn; Riley Jackson; Edward Brown; Francis Mackag; John Trapnall; J.S. Johnson (liberated); R.S. Neighbors; M.L.B. Rapier; George Voss; George P. Schaffer; John Lehmann; William Bugg; S.L. Nobles; John Riddle; Geo. C. Hatch; N. Herbert; Augustus Ellery; A.J. Leslie; Jos. A. Crews; John Smith; A. Fitzgerald; B. Callahan (liberated)
[NOTE: The other prisoners not in the foregoing list were: W.H. O’Phelan Andrew Neill, Thos Hancock, John Forrester, & Antonio Menchaca (liberated).]
With only a few hours notice the remainder of 52 were marched out on 15th Sept. under strong guard of about one hundred & fifty cavalry and infantry. We camped at Alazan near town; say 4 miles.
16TH We heard the firing of a grand salute in Bexar by Woll for the celebration of the Independence of Mexico. Marched near to ford of Presidio on Medina and up to Woll’s crossing. Camped on west bank. This day 34 [miles].
17TH J.R. Cunningham too weak to ride and is put into the carts with the wounded mexicans. Cap’t Posas refuses to let any of [us] stay with him. We go to camp on E. bank of the Seco.
18TH We part with Cunningham for last time. Go to the west bank of the Rio Frio.
19TH Monday. We cross pretty Leona and the Nueces and camp on the head of the Laguna of Espantosa, seven miles west of the Nueces (raining).
20TH We pass Chaperosa, a good location and fine grass, on Woll’s road eighteen or twenty miles west of the Nueces. Camp on west side of small creek among prickly pears. Rain this night again.
SEPT. 21ST Saw a mustang chase by the officers. Great killing of snakes today as for two or three days. A soldier bit in this way: Dn Maye (a young officer) offered the soldier a bit to take hold of the snake’s head. The soldier stepped on his tail and was boldly walking up, when the snake, too quick for that, bit him through a hole in his old shoe. They carried him to the river; he got better in a few days. Dr Booker cut open the wound and put salt in etc. We camped on the Cueva Cr. 30 miles.
22ND (Or 8th day) Cross the Rio Grande in two canoes. Horses made to swim; three or four drowned. Men astonishing swimmers. River here at the upper crossing at the lone pecan (on E. side) is about 350 yards wide. Kinto’s ranch in sight above. Camped in sheep fold. 10 miles.
23D To Presidio Rio Grande—six miles—water plentiful, but (gordo) salt and unfit for drinking. Sheep and cattle around. Old mission E. of town. Town old. The population villainous. Good labors N.W. of it and on almost all the way to San Fernando. Quartel—an old house on one side of the Square built by some La Garza in 1776. Population say 1000.
SEPT. 27TH Passed through a rich irrigable prairie all the way to Nava, before reaching which we saw thousands of acres of corn without fence. Soldiers say the land is public. Same kind of land as at Las Moras. To Nava—kind, hospitable people—26 miles.
SEPT. 28TH All the way a splendid, irrigable plain; just after leaving Nava and before ascending the highest plain it is all a live oak thicket—very rich. To San Fernando de Agua Verde—12 miles. Population 5 or 6000. This is the headquarters of Gen’l Reyes. Here a woman in the crowd asked us: “Quantos chevatos hay, carajos?” [How many buck-goats are there, damn you?] Here we are all—52—kept strictly watched, in one uncomfortable room. Sentinel inside the door and all around bawling every ten minutes. Weather and room hot. Fine sugar cane. Madam Marina Rodrigues y Taylor very kind to me, Hutchinson, Robinson, Neal and the other two of our mess, sending victuals three times every day. Her coffe-pot broken in our service. Also Arnold # Capt. Aligundo Vonlack. On 28th grand illumination. On the 4th of Octr. remaining ten men (Bradley, Barclay & Co.) of Capt. Dawson’s company of 53 (39 killed, 3 wounded & 1 escaped, Dawson killed—18th Sept.), on 4th they arrived and are imprisoned in another house. We were not allowed to see the town only on square and on cart ride to river. Fine river. Mrs. Taylor fed and packed us down with bread, biscuit and quince leather and gave Robinson a horse. Kind, good woman. [Mr. M., after his return home from prison, sent a fine set of China to Madame Taylor in remembrance of her kindness. E.H.T.]
OCT. 7TH (8 days sojourn here). Van Ness, Fitzgerald and Hancock taken away and put [in] to the guard house. We are marched out. I have the little, black (tender footed) horse given by Col. Carrasco for mine. [Mr. Maverick started on his own fine horse. R.M.G.] Here in the Plaza we are joined by the other ten who were taken 5 miles east of [the] Salado, making our total 58 men. [Van Ness, Fitzgerald & Hancock were old Santa Fe prisoners and were left behind to be shot. Fitzgerald was killed in the attack on the guard at the Salado. Van Ness & Hancock were brought to Perote with Mier men. E.H.T.] This day pass Morelos, where the brave federal, Zapata, (in their last struggle and defeat) was killed. Saw the doors of the house he was in, pierced by hundreds of ounce balls. Arista was at head of the Centrals, Zapata’s head [was] carried to Guerrero and stuck up. Fine valley all the way to San Juan de Eñas—15 miles. At San Juan the biggest and best sugar cane we ever saw. Fine big corn, rich land and large pecans. Plenty of water and large acequias. Good water. Saw old Solomon and several runaway negro men and women. Here I saw old Jose Aroche. This is the richest place we saw in all Mexico—But it needs population. Cattle, herds etc.
OCT. 8TH For several miles a rich valley, with pecans and mesquite, to the San Juan river. Good water. Here we rise the first hills, poor stony ground. Here Santa Rosa is almost in sight on our right. Camp at a rocky branch among lime stone. Here we burn bear grass stalks for fire-wood. Kill two beeves. 22 miles.
9TH Fine mountain scenery, but the country is poor. White marly soil to the top. No water. Hard travel to the Sabinas at a rancho where we camp in the cow dung a foot thick. Delicious water & milk. 35 miles.
10TH Cross over Sabinas; drown three horses. Camp on west side. One mile. Sabinas the finest water I ever drank. This river has rich pearls below. Some cypress, stunted trees and tolerable pasture.
11TH Travel in pretty plain with fine view of the mountains of Candela &c. going E. of south towards Candela and its high, remarkable mesa and the grand profile of the mountains of Candela. Saw great droves of sheep, but not much cattle and no horses. Indians traverse this region. Go to the old hacienda of Alamos; put into a large room. Here bought tortillas and kid. Saw palms royal, like the Carolina palmetto, some forty feet high—This day about 25 miles.
OCT. 12TH Cross a fine river (Alamo) near the hacienda. Travel this day S.W. to what was a splendid Hacienda of Encinas. It is now an agricultural and shepherd village of 200 souls, and, they say, 50,000 sheep. Fine irrigable stream. Good corn. Capt. Juan Rodrigues here (as at former times) drove our men from the water, saying “the hour is not far off: go on.” This property mortgaged by the widow for $41,000. It has some 50 leagues and good water facilities. Noble spring. Posas says worth 150,000 dollars. He said one league with water is worth 5000 or more unimproved in any settled part of the country. 21 miles. This Hacienda is in the chain of mountains that run from Santa Rosa to Candela. The profile of the Candela mountains is so striking, for beauty, variety and high sublimity I cannot forget it. This we saw yesterday.
OCT. 13TH Pass another ledge of mountains and enter the valley of the river of Monclova and cross the Salado and shortly reach the splendid sheep ranch of Las Hermanas [The Sisters], from the name of two hills close by. They said there were 250,000 sheep at this ranch. Some two or three hundred peons and dependents. It was built within the last ten years by Melchior Sanches. It is in the form of two contiguous squares, and presents a solid wall on all sides 16 to 18 ft. high. This wall is houses, mostly, on the inside. Squares 100 or more yards square. Entrance by one large gate into each square. We [are] put into a granary. This ranch with three or four others equally large are on a tract of land reaching from Saltillo to Santa Rosa, now owned by the sons Jacob. This day 18 miles.
14TH Soon pass the warm spring. Cross the Agua Sola from our right coming from Buena Ventura and San Vicente. Pass by the old ranch of Zapeda. Camp at Las Juntas. 18 miles. Here tuckalote [turkeys] hooted and crowed.
15TH To Monclova (first Puebla). Visits—Gardens—Waterpower—Don Victor Blanco and his son, Don Miguel, son-in-law of Don Ramon Musquis, and the Doctor—Don Ramon Musquis. Plantain—Acuacate-wheat-Burros-Cotton factory and growth of cotton, worth here $4 a 100 for seed cotton. Black Allen. Liberal in politics and friendly to Americans. 15 miles.
16TH In Monclova.
17TH Hacienda of Castenia—8 miles—where a soldier who was once my hireling at Espada remarked they needed a man of my punctuality and enterprise. Fine water and power.
18TH To Bajan; near which on our right we were shown the pass and road where Hidalgo was taken. We camped here in a cow-pen near some water holes. This hacienda broken up by the Indians two years ago. 23 miles.
19TH Tank of San Felipe—30 miles. No end to this mountain on our left. Comanches. Retreat of Jordan with 100 men by here.
20TH Ranch of Anelo (or of Tuckapu). Warm tank hauje. Singular creek and white salt plains.
21ST Ranch of Mesias or of the robbers on Piscaria. Pass the mouth of the river of Parras. Stable there in a granary. Hailstorm. Force of the Piscaria river when up as now. Today saw remarkable mountain top above clouds sometime. This a rendezvous of Boneto and other robbers. 15 miles.
22ND Capellanella (village of the Bishop’s church), 21 miles.
OCT. 23D Saltillo (Maguey). 10 miles. Dr. Knight a gentleman. Hewitson. Rogers. Rogues of soldiers. Indian town near. 27,000 [population].
NOV. 7TH Left Saltillo—Buena Vista—8 miles. Part of Jordan’s battle ground. 100 vs. 700 regulars and other hundreds. Fine retreat. Our ascent into another step of the mountains.
NOV. 8TH Agua Nueva. Dimmit and his companions escape, etc. Scarcity of wood etc. 12 miles.
9TH Hacienda of Encarnacion. Pass two tanks and quantity of sheep and enter into the side of the Saline valley. Well; work for cattle. Wheat straw for horses (gorda aguna) 26 miles.
10TH Poor ranch of San Salvador, where we slept cold on bloody rocks where a beef had been killed and burned. The palma orpeta or palmetto royal. 20 miles.
NOV. 11TH Fine Hall and Mazon of Salado. Wagon load of wool. The Comanches (1839) did worse here than at San Salvador, where they put the women in a house and burned them. 23 miles. This morning pass a well where is the corner of three or four states, viz: [Coahuila, Nuevo Leon, Zacatecas, San Luis Potosi]
12TH The poor ranch of Las Animas, where we saw the Bulliken pole and cleaned behind the house for our dormitory. 16 miles. Prairie dogs this day and the two following.
NOV. 13TH Vinegas, where we waited and exchanged the Saltillo Infantry for that of San Luis Potosi. Mines, refining work and silver. Blankets—spring—bath—no wood only pita. Tunas, oranges, etc. This near the Rial de calore and other silver mines. 14 miles.
15TH To Cedral. Old silver works; other works in operation. 5000 population. 10 miles.
16TH Matahuala. 8000. Fruit. Gift by a woman of $1.00 to fifteen of our men. 18 miles.
17TH To the Presas, where two gentlemen play and sing on guitar aided by two ladies. I baked some noble bread here. Here out of the Saline valley. 20 miles.
18TH Laguna Seca. Over mountain and by an old deserted village and rancho. 25 miles. Stable and soap house and chickaroni house for quarters. Liberal priest gave us a double hand-full of [blank].
19TH Vinado. Population 6000. Cold time. Paved yard—bursted stones. Well in the middle of Mazon yard with horizontal wheel.
20TH To Las Bocas. 30 miles. This day passed by Hacienda and City Hediendo. People at church. 4000.
21ST Pinasca, 15 miles. Owned by the Conde de Mora. Wall six feet or more thick. Fine place.
NOV. 22ND To San Luis Potosi (30,000) 15 miles. On entering we move the streets up and down.
NOV. 25TH To Las Pilas. Old mine—fine garden—grape vines—nopal—cigaritos—10 miles. Tall willow. Irrigation of gardens, etc.
26TH Jarral. A great estate of the Marquis [de Jarral] mills all over the fields. Granaries. Palace.
27TH Cubo. Property of Marq. of Jarral. 21 miles.
28TH Hidalgo Dolores. Passed this day the Museum [for Mission?] Church of [blank] Olive trees—vines—Ciprisa tree. Great old church of Hidalgo. This an old Indian town. 26 miles. Fine, painted mazon and well with jar. Ciprisa trees. Old priest Hidalgo was of this town. Urata.
29TH San Miguel Grande. 27 miles. Population twenty or thirty thousand. Saddle cloths and blankets. List made for shoes but no shoes. Fruit and dried mutton. Came up the hill. Organo & Nopal. [cacti. R.M.G.]
NOV. 30TH Santa Rosa. Horizontal well wheel. Riddle secures the road. We are in lime house—green wood—Calaboza [jail. R.M.G.] full.
DEC. 1ST City of Queretaro. 10 miles. Rich valley this day. Churches. Paved road out of repair. We are put into the extensive old convent of Santa Cruz (where we leave Norvall). Great aqueduct.
3D Hacienda of Colorado—10 miles—Treading out wheat. Saturday night when the Indians are paid off in corn and money at $2 per month, peck of corn and a patch of ground. Extensive fields. Rain water & creek irrigation.
4TH San Juan del Rio. Old bridge. Circus. Chocolate.
5TH Arroyo Sarco. Mazon. 300 flower pots. Stages on the Vera Cruz route. 30 miles.
6TH Tula—at the lower end of the great desagua; said to be older than Mexico. Catholic Church dated 1534 (begun then). This day we passed a splendid mill, water carried some miles near road—raceway a fine, high and long piece of masonry. Fine fields irrigated. House with ladies on piazza. Fine paintings on the wall in the piazza. This day passed the village and the high gap in the mountains of Chapulalpa. This is the highest ground between Rio Grande and the City of Mexico. Pretty red hills with oak growth and some pine. Thick forests. Villages at foot of mountains and tank. White tunas, Indians and pulque everywhere. At Tula dined with Don Eduardo Rodrigues with Col. Gregorio Gonzales, Col. Duran, priest & Co. “Ijos ó de la familia de Don Pableto Léon, pobres pero sin honor, malcriados y sin Estimacion.” [“Sons or of the family of Don Pableto Léon, poor but without honor, ill-bred and without estimation.”]
Prison full of deserters; those brought by us from San Luis Potosi left here. Overflows bad and hot house. 32 miles.
10TH Left Tula. Go to Agua Huetoca, over gulleys, naked hills, rich valleys. No wood. Lime kiln burnt with bundles of twigs and straw. Tunas. 20 miles.
12TH Cuantitlan—by Zimpango de la Laguna. A picture of a place over beyond a lake. Also Tepozotlan and numerous churches and huts and prickly pears. Fine valley of land. This the lowest of the lagunas of the valley of Mexico. Cross the great laguna. 10 miles.
13TH San Christoval Ecatepec. Old palace of the Viceroys. Great bridge and prison. Pulque and maguey farms. Indians. In sight of the volcano of Popocatapetl and that of San Martin covered with snow. Splendid but cold. Ecatepec is 12 miles from the City of Mexico.
DEC. 14TH San Juan Tihuacan — By numerous churches over a high ridge in sight of a lake back in the alley of Mexico. Neill’s escape. 15 miles. Over mountains and by maguey farms. Saw the City of Mexico in the distance.
15TH Chalpulalpan (village). Singular way of shaking hands by the Indians. Smuggler boy with his cigars. “Viva—” on the wall. 20 miles.
16TH San Martin (City) on the great Mexico and Vera Cruz road. Rich valley close to Ecatepetl and the others (Macho & Hembre). This is about 55 miles (21 lgs.) to Mexico. Here saw mules yoked to a cart three abreast. Put up stairs in a quartel. Fruit —oranges. Zapotes etc. This day crossed ridges and came down into the fine valley of San Martin and at the very foot of Macho & Hembre with Malinche on the other side, all in snow. This day 30 or more miles.
17TH Puebla, 25 miles. Splendid plain or valley all way. Cross fine bridge over Rio Prieto and observe the water oozing in a thousand little springs out of the sides of the many ditches in all the fields. Ploughing here and putting in barley and wheat. The road a shaded avenue with running water in the ditch on either hand. (So it was the day we came to San Christobal.) Here in view of four volcanoes covered with snow. They reap and plant the same day. At Pueblo saw some interesting foreigners, and a poor boy (peon) who had been attached to a Sante Fe prisoner, Mr. [blank], followed me all about as I was marketing with three others for the Company, showing us bakeries, meat shops etc. When we parted I was handing him two clackos when he was too quick for me and before I was aware he forced two clackos into my hand and ran off with a tear and a laugh, protesting that he loved the poor Americans and repeating the name of [blank] [Santa Fé prisoner]. The adobe temple of Malinche and two forts.
19TH At 10 o’clock, through a great crowd, we marched out under command of a shabby captain and the red-eyed Lieutenant (Mexia’s executioner.) The brave old Englishman went out a mile or two cursing our guard and walking in our ranks, giving cigars, etc. At last the officers tried to get rid of him. He drew his pistol and rushed upon them, telling them of Waterloo etc., and offering to fight them all; “I can whip six of you, carajos! etc.” “Negroes imprisoning white men!!”
How different this from the great plenipotentiary, Mr. Packenham, who was at Puebla on his way up from Vera Cruz, getting off the officers (Englishmen) from the steamers, Guadaloupe and Montezuma.
This day reached the village of [blank] where we were not permitted to get out of the door to cook and we were quartered in a long, old, damp room which appeared to be used as a privy. Here was the place poor Gen’l Mexia was shot by order of Santa Anna. The executioner was the brute lieutenant with red, bulldog eyes who was now accompanying us. God! What a perfect villain!! He refused our poor walkers to let them drink at the road-side, saying, We’ll get to the end of our journey soon.
AT PEROTE
Governor of the Castle: Gen’l Jose Duran
Mayor de Plaza: Ysidro Pombo
Captains: Bonilla, Pineda, Angel de Campo and “Old Guts,” or Diaz Guzman.
Lieutenants: Garcia, Mora, Castro, Jicatinca and old Dejalor Ventura.
Arrived at the castle of Perote on 22nd Dec. [1842]. Some put into the room No. 9, and the herd in No. 10. All chained, two and two.
DEC. 31ST Lieut. Hartstene, of U.S.Navy, visited us. He sent us from Vera Cruz $50.00.
JANY 1843 Put to work. [Mr. Maverick refused to work, and was imprisoned in a dungeon for some time with scarcely anything to eat and threatened with death. He was afterwards released from the dungeon and made a sort of overseer over the other prisoners at work. E.H.T.]
FEB. 2ND 1843 Southall [Purser U.S.N.] and Sam Norvall [leave] for U.S.
FEB. 8 Flag staff 80 ft. long broke in three pieces and fell into the water hole in the moat, with the buzzard roost.
15TH Letter to Mary, S.M. and Mr. Dobbin
MCH. 16TH Letter from Mary of 7th Jan.
18TH Letter from Gen’l Thompson of 16th.
19TH Chains taken off by order—walk.
20TH Letter to J. G. Aiken—ordering [him] to send $350 to Dr. R.W. Weir and the overplus to me care of Dobbin No. 16 N. St. N.O. by or before 20th proximo.
21st January 1843.
To His Excellency José Maria Bocanegra,
Secretary of State and of foreign affairs &c.
Sir,
I am one of the fifty-five Texian prisoners now unhappily confined at this place.
On the 11th of last September at San Antonio de Bexar we surrendered to Genl Woll, upon the most solem[n] pledge of his honor as a man and soldier “that we should be treated as gentlemen, &c” He was induced to offer this lenity without solicitation because he was satisfied, as he said, that we had truly and honestly mistook his army for a band of highway robbers. Such robbers, he knew, were numerous, organized, and daring on that frontier. He had moreover marched his army by a new and untravelled route.
On coming near our town he had seized and detained the three old and respectable Mexicans whom we had sent out with our white flag. In violation of the custom of civilized nations and even of his own proclamation of the 1st of September, Gen’ Woll kept these Commissioner[s] all night as his prisoners; thus not only unfairly depriving us of the benefit of our white flag, but also, absolutely turning the detention of those Commissioners into a proof, conclusive to every honest mind, that it could not be a regular army; but must, in consequence, be a lawless banditti.
Woll entered San Antonio about the break of day, before it was yet light,—and under the convenient shelter of a dense fog. Firing succeeded on both sides, in the midst of which we were visited by a white flag and by Colonel Camarco [Carrosco]. The General saw our numbers did not exceed sixty men, and that we were undisciplined citizens, and he said that it would be madness in us, situated as we were, to resist any longer his large army. It was for these reasons, and because the old Mexican men and women ran out into the streets, telling him that we were of the opinion that we were fighting off a company of robbers, that he urged upon us a surrender, upon those favorable terms.
After our surrender he perused the gazettes of New Orleans and of Texas and saw therein that England and other friendly powers were then offering a mediation between Mexico and Texas; and he perceived that Judge Eaves the American Chargé had, a few days before, officially and in the name of his government recommended to our president, a cessation of arms, which did in fact take place on our part, since we had a right to believe and did believe that Mexico would, if only out of respect for England &c, suspend hostilities on her part, long enough at least for the proposition to be presented and considered.
General Woll saw and owned how natural all this was; and for these and other reasons, he appeared really to lament the error, into which, he saw, we had fallen; and again he repeated his promises of kindness and his recommendations for our speedy release at San Fernando.
On the occasion, I acted as one of the Commissioners, and my memory retains every particular;—but in this connection I am bound to state that I wanted to stand out in spite of those deceptive terms, refusing to surrender at all and protesting to Woll that I was the agent of desperate men: I demanded of Woll that we be allowed to withdraw in a body with our arms in our hands, otherwise I would for one refuse to answer for the consequences to him. In this I was not sustained; but the majority prevailing, we were, in the end, through the specious promises of that general, coaxed into the horrid condition in which we now find ourselves.
Sir, what we told General Woll was, every word, the truth; and the smallest examination of the facts and the reasoning will convince you or any man of sense of the same. Woll’s proclamation was fulminated against those only who should be found in arms opposing the troops of the Mexican governm[en]t—Sir, after viewing this proclamation and these admissions of general Woll, does it not follow that we were doing only what was our duty without reference to the Mexican government? and that, not knowing whom we were fighting, but honestly (as Woll admitted) believing it was robbers—does it not follow that we ought to have been liberated at once?
And is it not an undeniable truth that we were in effect kidnapped?—and that we are now here in Perote, held by cruel force in opposition to law, justice and the plainest common sense? We have made known in respectful terms, these and the other cogent reasons why your government ought to permit us to go back to our suffering families; but it has not deigned to notice us in these cheerless stone arches, unless to notice, be to subject us to the most cruel treatment that humanity can indure.
Good Sir, It has been my hope that the old doctrine, that might is right, has lost its advocates—its open advocates—, in all civilized countries.
Sir, right or [w]rong we are prisoners in Mexico, and most wofully do we own the power of its governm[en]t over us.
Trodden on and tyranized over as we have been and every day, more and more, continue to be, how much better, O merciful God! would it not have been to have thrown away our blood and our crushed bones under the wheel of a relentless tyranny, rather than have tampered with and tasted that poisoned flattery of the false Frenchman. (Gen. Woll). Mistake me not, it is not of our liberation that I am writing. I shall not call upon you to keep the word of honor of your general.
You know the value of the pledge—I am quite at fault,—you shall weigh and measure the thing in your own way.
Besides it is true that I did not repose that confidence which others did and which they were authorized in doing.
And Sir I confess myself your implacable public enemy; but you owe me food, so long as you hold me a prisoner of war; and I have to request you to interpose your influence to save us from the malicious wrath and the practical cruelty and meanness of Captain Guzman, backed as he is by the Mayor de Plaza. This Guzman is Commissary and head overseer of our work.
I am loath to think so meanly of any governm[en]t on this continent as to suppose the existance of a particular order to starve us; although it be asserted that such is the case;—Even the Dey of Algiers before he was kicked by Christendom into a compliance with the usages of mankind—even he allowed food enough to his galley slaves, to enable them to perform their daily labor.
Here at Perote, after being locked up twelve hours, on cold stone floors, without sufficient clothing, in chains and misery, we were turned out to a breakfast consisting of a very small cup of hot water of a darkish color and a fragment of bread which weighs three little Mexican ounces. We are then hurried out, with hand barrows and cart, loaded with horse manure and the multiplied filth of this place.
We are then marched off to the adjacent mountain to pack in loads of stone, a distance of one league,—or to a considerable distance for loads of sand—a labor which the human machine cannot stand on three ounces of bread and the false coffee of Perote.
It is not the work, but the kind of work, and the work without adequate food, that I would complain of.
As emigrants from the United States and the various respectable states of Europe we have ever been taught to regard labor as the only foundation of National greatness as well as of personal respectability.
Therefore, however it may have been intended, we have not felt the mere labor as a disgrace.
But we are chained by the legs, with heavy ox chains, coupled like beasts, two and two together, and forced at the point of the bayonet side by side with your shameless convicted felons,—robbers and murderers.
I have even seen the most dastard felon, as overseer, strike an unarmed and free born Anglo American.
What is there will erase the memory of these permitted insults?
The heavy flow of ocean, the eternal tide of time itself cannot wash out these stinking, clotted, bloody stains. We are made to work, without eber once having the pains of hunger satisfied by the cheapest and commonest food.
At dinnertime we are allowed a spoonfull of rice which is the infinitesimal of eight and a half of your illiberal pounds weight, only two and half ounces to each man, the other remaining dinner pot commonly holds Irish potato broth (which is known to be a poison) sometimes, but very seldom it contains a poor soup and some bones, grissel and the voluminous entrails of a beef. Day before yesterday we had what they call a beef ration which is mostly bone and uneatable grissel. Some of the shares not having so much as one ounce of meat.
His Excellency the governor of this Castle, on being applied to through a respectful petition, thought proper to send back the Commissary and his compatriot the Mayor de Plaza; he himself refusing to look into the pot. From what I know of your people, I should as leave as not say that I suspect it to be tenderness of feeling, nay perhaps, even pity for us, and not hatred, that induces the governor to avoid us and evade an answer to our complaints—The dinner is finished out with red pepper and one loaf of bread—three of the size of which are sold by the women about the castle for a pacayune.
The afternoon work and its insults, are rewarded by one half of those diminutive loaves of bread of three ounces weight, with a double handful of badly boilded beans and the water of the same. These beans are unsound and unwholesome. Will your Excellency parden me if I send a little parcel of these beans (frijoles)—they afford such a true specimen of our fare. You will see by these beans how the whole matter stands.
I will not think to offend you with a specimen of the meat; you understand well enough what is literally meant by bone, grissel, and badly cleaned guts of a poor cow with maggots in them. The convicts get better food and much more of it, than we do. Our cooks being two of our own number, we are enabled to compute with considerable accuracy the cost of our daily food, which for fifty two men, at retail prices, does not exceed four dollars and three rials, not quite 8 ½ ¢ for each man. But as something or other is deficient every day, and the provisions may be bought at wholesale prices, it is evident that Six or seven cents will be nearer the truth.
For a while we had some little means for buying bread, rice &c from Captain Guzman;—it being a truth that notwithstanding he is Commissary and a captain and an overseer, he likewise keeps a little brokerage of eggs, shoes &c in our prison room under the eye of one of the prisoners, and other articles, in his own apartments. We were also made to accept from Lieutenant Hartstone, a stranger, a sum of money which has been of great use in the purchase of the Cheaper articles of food.
Very few of us have any means left; and so far from receiving any assistance from the soldiery and the people of the country the truth is that we have been borrowed, begged, and robbed by them in every way and by every scheme and contrivance out of hell.
Four of our number are already in the hospital from starvation and eating badly cooked beans and other unwholesome food,—And others are pining away under the effects of labor and starvation.
Three are in Solitary confinement and in chains, almost starved and nearly naked—two of them not having as much shirt on their broad backs as would cover the back of Your Excellency’s right hand. The offence given by these three carpenters is that having for a long time worked in the workshop nine hours per day they now have the audacity to ask for their wages at two bits (or reals) a day, as agreed upon, because they needed the small sum to buy, first bread, then a shirt &c. God ha’ mercy, these men are much to be pitied:—and, as I take it, they are in no wise to blame. They agreed, at first to work at their trade all day, in order to get a little money for their extreme necessities; and they cannot work so long without twice as much food as they are allowed.
Of all the officers of the castle whom I have seen I am inclined to think most of Captain Bonilla and Lieutenant Mora. I judge from their countenances and manner that they are ashamed of the dirty and low offices to which others have brought themselves.
Excellent, High Secretary, do I write too plainly?—and are you too elevated to notice these small matters? Perhaps you may be inclined to be ashamed to communicate with an ungrateful Texian; or it may be that the rights of humanity do not include our people. Or, if you mean t[o] degrade us, it will serve you as well to go into a rage at the plain terms in which I have stated plain truths. But Sir, turn as you will, and where you please, neither your anger nor your pride, nor that false and unavailing tenderness of feeling which characterizes the best of your people, can serve you as a shelter; Sir, you shall bear the responsibility of rejecting this appeal.
And if you be indeed the man of sense and feeling which they say you are, you will so order it that this Captain Guzman shall be removed and some other person less crafty and covetous put in his office of commisary;—and it will be so ordered that we be treated with more humanity, and, if required still to labor, fed like laborers and men of stomach.
This Commissary and this treatment would disgrace Algiers;—they disgrace Mexico—If you would allow me to judge in this matter, I should say upon my honor and with due consideration, they are a disgrace to human nature, and would shame the Devil himself.
Respected Sir, I thought it proper to address you this on my own separate responsibility, and without consultation with my fellow prisoners; because if evil instead of good come of it, the evil shall fall on me alone.
Another reason is that I am wholly insensible of any kind of fear in doing what I conceive to be right. I cannot conceive the idea or [for of] bad consequences in such a case; and if such follow, it is no business of mine. Another reason for my being forward in this unpleasant matter is that I am as insensible as a dog about the shame of putting myself in the attitude of a beggar for bread:—I shall even attempt to dignify my poor position [text lost; hole in the paper] declaring that there is no attitude of the graces so becoming, so full of soul and interest [as] that of the famished beggar, extorting from stony pride the rich morsel which is to prolong his life. A loaf of bread to the starved and abused prisoner is worth more to him than a mine of copper.
Another reason is that on the 5th of this month I was cast into a solitary prison for no other reason than that I said to this Guzman for the majority of my fellow-sufferers for whom I was deputed to act, that we were not of right in the condition of slaves;—that the slavish labor exacted from us at the point of the bayonet, was in violation of the laws and usages of nations, and directly opposed to the express terms of our surrender; and moreover, that if it was determined, in our case to violate all law and compact, all justice and mercy, all public faith and private honor; even then it still remained and was a physical impossibility, and high treason against God and Nature to require and exact from us labor without sufficient food.
You Sir, and none other I thought to address, because I heard something favourable of you, and on account of your being the Foreign Minister, whilst I was a small member of another government the name of which I do not choose unnecessarily to mention. I sincerely trust that though plainly, nevertheless your Excellency will feel how respectfully I have addressed myself to your sense of justice and humanity. A[nd] in fine, will your Excellency have the goodness to forgive me for the excentricity of offering to make to you one of [text lost] hearty and truly respectful bows in the world; this significant piece of pantomine I shall however reserve for that blessed day, which I pray God may be close at hand, when, with the kind interference of your Excellency, I shall be permitted to go from hence, with my fellow prisoners.
I have a mind to request either the British or American Minister to hand you this note: I wish to know of its actual delivery; and it was the English convention about Mediation, and the request of the American Charge, of which I have made mention, that unhapply, though undersignedly led us into the misery [of] our present situation. For this reason I feel confident that neither of those gentlemen would refuse me the courtesy (I had almost said justice) of placing this in your hands. Besides I have the good fortune to be able, to refer you to Gen. Thompson the American Minister;—whose word in my favor will both give credit to my complaint and supply the little want of etiquette which i have committed in addressing you at all. With every becoming token of profound respect,
I am your servant &c
Samuel A. Maverick
P.S. Owing to the advice of some of my friends who either through timidity or a well apprehended expectation that our miseries as well as the length of our slavery would be rather increased than diminished by such a remonstrance as that above written—and also deeming it possible that some relaxation might gradually reduce the government over us from extreme cruelty to tolerable moderation—I have till now forborne the sending this letter.
The evils of hunger, labor, insults, cold and nakedness continue up to this date as intollerable as at first.
We have tried the governor and every other authority, in vain; there appears to be no relief but in death itself: before we do, however, we shall try to make it known to the world how cruelly and how unjustly we have been treated in this devilish inquisition.
It is reported that day before yesterday, the President Santa Anna just before leaving here for Mexico, in connection with something said by the Governor, made this observation, “Oh they will do well-enough (the Texian prisoners)—just give them a plenty of beef and whiskey.”—Yesterday one of our queer Dutchman was receiving forty nine pounds of stinking uncleaned cow guts for the forty nine of us out of the hospital, and ventured to say to Capt. Guzman that he would like to see something of the beef and whiskey prescribed by the president,—Guzman as usual remarked that the money was wanting. Yesterday & today we have nothing of the meat kind. Perhaps half the time we receive the refuse parts of the poorest beeves—all the better & fleshy portions being taken off to be eaten or sold by Guzman himself.
We are equally unfortunate in the bread. We have changed two or three times from one description of bread to another: but all in vain. Whatever kinds we take are artfully reduced in size to mere nothing.
In one word our labor continues as it did. We are heavily chained two and two together and we are in the same extremity of hunger as from the first. In this last appeal to whatever sense of justice and humanity may be supposed to exist in the breast of that governmt, whose prime minister you are
S A Maverick
[The original of this letter was sent to the Hon. Maury Maverick when he was a Congressman by T. C. Thompson, the grandnephew of Waddy Thompson, United States Minister to Mexico. Evidently Waddy Thompson feared that the letter would not help his efforts to free Maverick, and he did not deliver it to Bocanegra as Maverick had requested. It is quoted here from the Congressional Record of March 28, 1938.]
[MEMOIRS 1842-1843] We lived on the Colorado from June 21st, 1842, until November 15th, 1844. I have mentioned our arrival, June 21st, at Colonel Dancy’s where we were to remain awhile. On August 21st, Mr. Maverick bought twenty-six acres of land, fronting on the right bank of the Colorado, and lying between two tracts belonging to Colonel Dancy. He had it surveyed by Hudson, and made arrangements to build us a temporary home on it. This tract was opposite La Grange in Fayette County and opposite the ferry.
It was on August 22nd, as I have mentioned, that Mr. Maverick left us for San Antonio, where he was captured and taken to Perote. During September, poor little Lewis became ill with typhoid fever. Griffin came back about this time and returned on his fateful errand.
September 29, I received a letter from my dear husband, now a captive. The letter was written on the eve of their being marched off to a Mexican dungeon. It was calm, cheerful and hopeful, and counseled me to be brave, to bear a stout heart, and to take care of myself and the children.
November 16th, we moved into our own house, which consisted of a log cabin of one room sixteen by eighteen feet, one smaller for a kitchen, and a shed room for Jinny and the children. This house was built by Granville and Wiley with much help from Mr. Griffith Jones, who was very kind to us. Lewis was now almost strong again. The fever had been severe with him, and had so reduced him, that he was unable to stand up for some time after it had left him.
My aunt, Mrs. Bradley, whose husband was also a prisoner in Perote, came to the Colorado and moved into Colonel Dancy’s house, which I had just vacated. She and I had some sad consolation conferring together over our troubles, and comparing such news as each of us occasionally received from our imprisoned husbands or from Dame Rumor. Mollie Bradley, my sister Lizzie, and Leonora Hill, daughter of a neighbor, became intimate companions, rode much on horseback together, and kept some youthful company and cheer of life about us. Annie Bradley had gone to Alabama to visit her relatives.
In La Grange lived Dr. Chalmers’ family, refugees from Austin. Here we met Thomas J. Devine, a young lawyer, and the Misses Elder, one of whom Devine married. We also met George Hancock and Tom Green.
As I have said Mrs. Elliott was in San Antonio when Mr. Maverick was captured. She visited the prisoners by permission, and Mr. Maverick handed her privately twenty gold doubloons for me, about $325 in our money. And the money came safely to me through John W. Smith. This amount with what I had in the house I tried to make go as far as possible. Coffee, sugar, and flour were very high, as indeed everything except beef, corn, fowls and butter. I had the twenty-six acre tract fenced in and purchased some milch cows.
My brother William came to see how I was doing, and stopped awhile with us, and worked with our men, until they built another log cabin, adjacent to the one previously built, leaving a passage or hall between them. In this hall we usually sat when the weather was fair. We had an immense live-oak tree for shade, and immediately in front of the house stood a “mott” of young live oak trees. In fact, we made ourselves as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. William remained with us as long as he could, and then left for Alabama.
In November I received a letter from my husband, written October 16th, at Monclova (Montelovez) Coahuila. He had marched four hundred miles and had eight hundred more, as he understood, to march before reaching the City of Mexico, where he expected to be released. My dear husband wrote to cheer me expressly, for he spoke of his excellent health, and hopefulness, but did not mention anything about the pens they were herded in at night, nor of the other abuses they were subjected to.
I, however, was constantly fearing that the next mail would bring some dreadful news from the prisoners — and only when I got an occasional letter so brave and fond, from S.A.M. could I hope. I tried to follow his advice, and kept up at times a semblance of cheerfulness, but I was then only twenty-four years of age, and almost a child in experience and I had the care of three helpless little children and the birth of a fourth to look to in the future. A refugee in a strange land and my husband a captive in the power of a cruel and treacherous foe. Ah, then I felt — “What weight of agony the human heart can bear.” But I strove to be brave and prayed to God that I might live for my children and my dear husband.
In February, 1843, I received a letter from Mr. Maverick written January 27th, at Perote. He mentioned in it how badly they had been treated in Saltillo — “that robber city of thirty thousand people, where we were closely imprisoned for fifteen days” — and where their captors threatened to take them to some secret place where they would never be heard from again. But in this letter, Mr. Maverick was quite hopeful of being released through the exertions of General Waddy Thompson, then United States Minister to Mexico.
This letter, full of deep feeling, along with other letters written by Mr. Maverick, whilst a prisoner, I have carefully preserved for our children as sacred. I have another written December 30th, 1842; one written February 2nd, 1843, also expecting a speedy release. Another written March 15th, contains the same hope. March 22nd, he wrote again stating that he and W. E. Jones and Judge Anderson Hutchinson were released from prison. Their final release would be received in the City of Mexico. He wrote of Dr. Booker, one of “our San Antonio boys,” being shot by a drunken soldier, and told of his dying in great bodily pain and mental agony, and he mentioned the death of General Guadalupe Victoria, the first President of the Republic of Mexico.
March 30th, 1843, on Thursday morning our second daughter was born — child of a captive father, and for him named Augusta. On the day of her birth, her father was finally released by Santa Anna in the City of Mexico. Mr. Maverick set out for home on the 2nd of April, and finally reached our cabin the night of May 4th, in splendid health, and happy as he could be and so was I, and thankful to our Heavenly Father for all his mercies. Augusta was five weeks old when she and her father met.
In June, Ada Bradley was born. In June and again September, Mr. Maverick visited San Antonio — to attend court and land business.
In December, 1843, Mr. Maverick went to Washington on the Brazos, the capital of the Republic of Texas, and attended the session of the Eighth Congress of the Republic, as Senator from Bexar. He had been elected whilst in Perote prison. He returned from Washington to spend Christmas with us at home, and we, with others, took Christmas dinner with the family of Dr. Chalmers in La Grange.
[MEMOIRS 1844] On June 20th, 1844, Mayor Jack Hays came to see me and gave me the particulars of a noted encounter he had with the Indians only twelve days before he called on me. The fight took place on June 8th. Hays, with fourteen men, was scouting on the Guadalupe about fifty miles above Seguin (it must have been between the present sites of Sisterdale and Comfort in Kendall County). Whilst some of the Rangers were cutting a bee tree, the spies galloped up with the news that a very large party of Comanches were close upon them. At once the Rangers mounted and made ready—by this time the Indians had formed an admirable order on the level top of a hill near by. The Rangers following their leader spurred forward in full charge, and, when they reached the foot of the hill which was steep and somewhat overhanging, they found they were no longer in sight of the enemy. Taking advantage of this, Hays led his men half around the base of the hill, still out of sight, and dashed up at a point not expected.
The Comanches had dismounted, and were kneeling down with guns and arrows fixed for a deadly aim. Strange to say, Hays was close upon them before they discovered his stratagem, and before they could mount their horses the Rangers were in their midst—shooting them right and left, with their new revolving pistols. But the Indians were numerous, some sixty-five or seventy warriors, and were led by two especially brave and daring chiefs. The chiefs rallied their forces and closed completely around the Rangers and fought with great daring, but the astonishing “six-shooters” did the work—the Indians speedily became demoralized and they broke and fled, leaving twenty-three of their comrades dead on the battle-field. This was opportune, for the loads were exhausted in the six-shooters of the Rangers, and they immediately took advantage of the enemy’s flight to reload their vigorous little weapons. The Indians, finding they were not pursued, paused and reformed for battle. The Rangers charged now with the same result. The fight lasted nearly an hour, the Indians fighting stubbornly and retiring slowly and still forty strong. A chief then made a great talk to his followers, rising in his stirrups and gesticulating—he rode up and down their lines and got them to make another desperate stand.
The Rangers were reduced now to eleven fighting men, and Hays called out: “Any man who has a load, kill that chief.” Ad Gillespie answered: “I’ll do it,” dismounted, aimed carefully with his trusty yager, and shot the chief dead, when a panic seized the Indians, and they fled in the utmost confusion.
Peter Fohr was killed, and four of the Rangers wounded and many arrows passed through their hats and clothing, for several thousand arrows were fired into their midst.
I wrote the memorandum of the fight just after Major Hays had related it. I was much struck with the odds in the numbers of the opposing forces—fifteen against sixty-five or seventy, and with Hays remark that “more than thirty Indians were killed.”
Hays modestly gave the credit of the victory to the wonderful marksmanship of every Ranger, and the total surprise to the Indians, caused by the new six-shooters, which they had never seen or heard of before.
I quote Colonel Hays’ closing remarks:
“We were right glad they fled, for we were nearly used up with the fatigue of a long day’s march that day and the exertions on the battle-field, and we were almost out of ammunition. The Indians made a magnificent fight under the circumstances. They seemed to be a band of selected braves in full war-paint, and were led by several chiefs, showing that they were marching down upon the settlements, where they would have divided into parties commanded each by a chief, and great would have been the mischief done by such a number of savages.”
August 11th, our dear little Agatha came near being killed. Brother Andrew came to see us on his way to Alabama, and, dismounting, hitched his gentle horse under the shade of the large live oak tree. Some time afterwards, Agatha was playing near the horse’s heels when the horse, kicking at a fly, struck her on the forehead and buried a small piece of his hoof in her head. She screamed and fell down and when her father picked her up she was in convulsions. We picked the scrap of hoof out of her forehead, bathed her head in cold water and we sat almost hopeless at her side awaiting the result. At midnight she became quiet and went to sleep, and just before daybreak she opened her eyes and said: “Papa, give me a drink of water.” He said with deep emotion: “Blessed by God,” and she was out of danger. Under the doctor’s advice, we took great care of her, and kept her out of the sun for some time.
In the summer of 1843, the balance of the Perote prisoners received their liberation [A slip of the pen or a lapse of memory; the remaining prisoners were released from Perote in March 1844.], and Mr. Bradley soon thereafter reached his family. In the summer of 1844, Mr. Bradley was persuaded to run for Congress. Whilst out electioneering, he was taken down with a fever, of which he died September 24th. . . .
For some weeks after her accident, Agatha was quite pale and she had a long and severe chill about the first of September. The doctor gave her quinine and she was soon a perfect picture of rosy health. Sam had a spell of chills and fever, and I became at last quite sickly myself during the summer. In fact, I became much reduced and was an invalid all the fall.
We concluded it would not do to live here any longer; the Colorado bottoms were too unhealthy. Mr. Maverick decided to take us to the Gulf Coast where we could enjoy sea bathing.
[MEMOIRS 1844] The Pass, or waterway, which connects Matagorda Bay with the Gulf of Mexico, is bounded on the south by Matagorda Island, the northern extremity of which is named Saluria, and on the north by Decrows Point, which is the southwestern extremity of the Peninsula. The pass is called Paso Caballo, and it is about three miles from Decrows Point to Saluria.
The Peninsula extends northeastwardly from Decrows Point, a distance of about fifty miles to the mainland. Where the Peninsula joins the mainland, Caney Creek formerly emptied into the Gulf of Mexico, but the creek has been diverted by means of a canal and now empties its scanty waters into the northern arm of Matagorda Bay. The Peninsula is a dreary, sandy flat, having an average width of about two miles; at the middle of this elongated strip of land is Tiltona, which was our farm. We lived at Decrows Point from December 7th, 1844, until October 15th, 1847, when we returned to San Antonio.
On November 15, 1844, we deserted our temporary home on the Colorado, and set out for Decrows Point. We had a carriage and two hired wagons, some saddle horses and seven cows. I was an invalid during the whole trip, and travelled lying down in the carriage. A wide board was laid from the front to the back seat of the large roomy carriage, and quilts and pillows were bestowed where they would give me the most comfort. The driver’s seat was on the outside. My dear little girls were generally with me, and sometimes Lizzie, but she usually preferred to ride on horseback with Mr. Maverick. Sam and Lewis rode in a wagon. We spent the first night in La Grange at Mrs. Angus McNeil’s, a third or fourth cousin of mine.
16th, got started in the afternoon and travelled only a few miles and camped. It rained and stormed all that night, and the next morning we started off in a norther.
17th, five miles to Rutersville, Mrs. Butler took us in, and she and Mrs. Robb were very kind. We established ourselves in a vacant house and waited for the weather to moderate.
November 21st, twelve miles to Breedings.
November 22nd, eight miles to Ohmburg’s; 23rd, eighteen miles to Alley’s; 24th, sixteen miles to Major Montgomery’s; 25th, eighteen miles to Crawford’s (Spanish Springs); 26th, sixteen miles to Cayce’; 27th, six miles to Dawson’s (wiggle-tail mud pond, awfully dirty water); 28th, six miles to Captain John Duncan’s; took dinner, and six miles to Mrs Hardeman’s where we spent the night; 29th, six miles to Rindrick’s, kindest people of all; took dinner here, and eight miles to Shepherd’s, which is two miles into the swamps; 30th, awful roads, swamps continuously, crossed three sloughs, in the last one of which Granville’s wagon stalled and one ox fell. he beat the ox awfully and then they prized him out and doubled teams and got through. Made eight miles today and camped. In the night it rained and a norther blew up, and we all got cold and wet.
December 1st, Sunday, five miles to the new canal, crossed it with great difficulty, and camped. 2nd, half a mile to a vacant house, where we camped. 3rd, one mile, came to Gulf of Mexico—magnificent, calm, gently heaving water, and fourteen miles on the beautiful smooth, hard beach, where we saw many bright shells. 4th, six miles to Mrs. Love’s, where we took dinner, and five miles to Sergeant’s and camped. Mrs. Sergeant gave us fresh buttermilk and butter and some coffee. 5th, seven miles in an awful north wind and rain, but all lived through it, and camped in a shanty. 6th, eighteen miles and we camped on the beach. It was cold and the smoke of the camp fire intolerable. I lost all admiration for the “deep and dark blue ocean,” and was most miserable and sick.
On December 7th, we travelled seven miles to Decrows Point—still in a brisk norther, but delighted to arrive at our journey’s end, and have rest once more. We moved into a house occupied by Judge and General Somerville, the arrangement being that we should keep house and furnish them board, they to retain a portion of the house. General Somerville was the Revenue Officer for the Port—collector of revenue. The house was very close to the bay, and every evening Mr. Maverick took me down to bathe in the salt water.
December 12th. Had the pleasure of an introduction to His Highness Charles Solm Solm, son of the Grand Duke of Braunfels, who was on his way to the Colony of New Braunfels of which he was the founder. The Prince and suite spent a day and night with us and the Somervilles. Next evening he came to land in his vessel and serenaded us.
General Somerville was a noted laugher—he saw the Prince’s two attendants dress his Highness, that is, lifted him into his pants, and General Somerville was so overcome by the sight that he broke out into one of his famous fits of laughter, and was heard all over the Point. The Prince and suite were all very courteous and polite to us. They wore cock feathers in their hats, and did not appear quite fitted to frontier life.
[MEMOIRS 1849] I felt that I could not live any longer at the old place, and Mr. Maverick, too, did not want to live there. We concluded that the high ground on the Alamo Plaza would be a more healthful location. When Mr. Maverick sent us to the springs, he remained in San Antonio to move our household goods from the old home to an old Mexican house he had bought on the Alamo Plaza, and also to make arrangements for building us a new two-story house.
When we returned to San Antonio, on July 19th, 1849, we settled down in the old house I have mentioned, and did the best we could. This house was situated on the lot now formed by the west line of Alamo Plaza and the south line of Houston Street. At that time, and for some years thereafter Houston (Paseo) Street was not in existence.
On September 1st, I had a sweet, consoling dream Agatha and Augusta came from the Spirit-Land to comfort me. I took Augusta in my arms, and clothed her in white robes. Then I asked to see Agatha, and she stood in the window, a little taller than in life—I clasped her in my arms. They told me they were very happy, and said we should be together in Heaven.
Singular how real it was, and how happy and thankful it made me.
September 30th, I heard an excellent sermon by Mr. Fish, the Army Chaplain, on the parents’ duty of training their children in the way they should go—with the blessed promise, “and when they are old they will not depart from it.” October 21st, Reverend Ambrose Smith preached his farewell sermon—I Thes. XI, 11. November 4th, Reverend Mr. Fish preached a splendid sermon—II Cor. IV, 7.
September 5th, Mrs. Elliott, Susan Hays and I had our daguerreotypes taken at Whitfield’s gallery—Mrs. Hays is going to California to join her husband. Susan and I had joined the Methodist Episcopal Church in ’48, during our husbands’ absence on the expedition to open a better route to Chihuahua. She preferred that church, but I only joined till my own, the Protestant Episcopal, should be established here, and we had been great friends, and “sisters” ever since, though she was so much younger. On Christmas Day, Mr. Young, the local Methodist minister for two years past, dined with us and said goodbye. He was going home to Mississippi—an earnest and zealous Christian and much beloved here.
[1850] Wednesday, February 6th, at ten p.m., was born our seventh child, John Hays. John was an old name in the Maverick family—Hays was in honor of our friend the Colonel. The baby and Willie were baptized on April 4th, by Bishop G. W. Freeman, of Louisiana. Sam, Lewis, Agatha, Augusta and George had been baptized at Decrows Point by the Reverend Caleb Ives of Matagorda. Johnnie looked so delicate that scarcely any one thought he could live. But I hoped on, and devoted my time day and night to him, and he was seldom out of my arms.
July 19th, he had a sudden attack of cholera infantum, and died before night—”Thy will be done.”
In July, Mr. Schmidt commenced building our new house of stone and built very fast.
September 10th, Bombre began the carpenter work.
September 15th. Susan Hays spent a day and night with me. She was as lovely and lovable as ever. She was to start in two weeks to join her hero-husband in California.
25th, Mary Bradley returned with Major Tom Howard and wife and baby Fannie.
29th, we and all old San Antonians bid Mrs. Hays goodbye—Bob Hays and Mr. Randall go with her.
Saturday, October 5th. Lewis was gathering pecans, when a rotten limb broke with his weight and he fell to the ground breaking both bones in his right arm, just above the wrist. Although it was a mile below town, he walked home—accompanied by Joe, Mrs. Elliott’s black boy. Dr. Dignowity set his arm. Lewis suffered much pain and I sat by him all night pouring cold water over his arm. The next day, Sunday, Dr. Dignowity put his arm in a tin sheath and he slept little—Monday night no sleep—Tuesday night the same. Wednesday he was better, slept some and enjoyed seeing the children at their play. Thursday he walked some with his arm in a sling. Friday the pain returned and sleeplessness—feverish and groaning—again I poured cold water all night. Monday 14th; the bandages and tin sheath were taken off, and we found an abscess below the elbow. I was frightened; it looked like gangrene. But the doctor said it was all right, applied a poultice with “number six” and gave a “course.” The swelling subsided and he slowly got over his suffering—but not before the 30th of November did he have any use of his arm—and it is not straight.
December 1st, 1850. We moved into our new house and found it very nice, after the old Mexican quarters we had occupied over a year. The new house, considerably enlarged, is standing today and is now known as the “Maverick Homestead.”
[1851] Mr. Maverick took Lewis to the Army Surgeon, Dr. Wright, to have his arm straightened, but it was too late.
March 16th. I am thirty-three years old today, and am trying to keep Lent. Sunday April 13th, after evening service, I was confirmed by Bishop Freeman of Louisiana.
On Tuesday, June 17th, 1851, at eight a.m. was born our third daughter, Mary Brown. How glad and thankful were Mr. Maverick and I to have a daughter. She was named for Father Maverick’s blessed grandmother “Mary Brown.”
Soon after Mary’s birth, I wasted until I fainted twice and grew quite helpless and almost speechless. This was caused by the midwife Mrs. D. willfully giving me lobelia—telling me it was raspberry tea. I felt my hold on life very slight, but in my fainting had felt an indescribably peace. For two weeks I could scarcely move without fainting, but after that I grew strong very fast. My precious baby grew thin the while, and Mrs. Beck, who had a baby born on the same day with mine, nursed Mary twice a day. Mary was sent to her each morning and afternoon for five or six weeks. When Mary was seven weeks old, we had to commence feeding her, and I began drinking ale and porter myself to see whether I could provide the proper nourishment—and I recovered my strength rapidly. Baby however was thin and fretful.
Mr. Maverick had been elected to the Legislature, and he wished to visit his father who had been stricken with paralysis, but he did not see how he could leave us.
August 23rd. We call in the services of a goat—feed it well—and milk it four or five times a day for baby, and she improves some.
August 28th, Mrs. Salsmon, an experienced German nurse, came to see baby, and persuaded me to bathe her daily in bone soup. The bone soup is made by boiling beef bones four hours, and then cooling to a temperature of about one hundred, and the bath is ready. Daily I put her into the bath, and kept her there some time, and then, while wet from the bath, rolled her in a blanket and put her to sleep. And when she awakened, I rubbed her well and dressed her. At first the bath did not seem to do any good. But Mr. Maverick asked me to try it one month, and then we saw she had steadily improved. The treatment was kept up for about six months.
Mr. Maverick bought a horse and buggy and drove us out into the country every evening.
September 28th, Baby is rosy and playful and good. November 2nd, Mr. Maverick weighed baby before leaving on the morrow for Austin—she weighed ten and half pounds, and we were happy over it. She was growing good-sized like any other baby, and I began to feed her rice and hominy water in her milk—also soup. Mr. Maverick writes often and is always solicitous about his daughter.
November 31st, Dr. Houston and Routez Houston, his wife, with their three children, Hannah Jane, Mary Elizabeth and Augustus W., and with wagons and negroes, arrive from North Alabama to settle in Texas—and they stay with us until after the holidays. Ross Houston with his household camped on the Cibolo.
December 30th, Mr. Maverick came over from Austin to spend Christmas with us, and we all enjoyed the holidays, and the children Santa Claus’ visit.
[1852] January 3d, 1852, Dr. Houston took his family to the new house on the Cibolo about twenty-seven miles E.S.E. from San Antonio. Ross Houston built his house one mile nearer San Antonio.
January 5th, Maley [the baby, Mary] caught cold and became quite sick and was not well again until the 26th, when she recovered her health and became playful and fat, and weighed thirteen and a half pounds. How misearble and frightened I was when she was ill. During January, we stopped using the bone soup bath.
February 15th. Baby and I were out riding and Lewis was driving the mare, when some one discharged a gun near us which frightened the mare and she ran away kicking and charging wildly. We, Lewis and I, together turned her head against a fence, when she reared and fell back on the buggy and broke a shaft. I jumped out with baby and the men who had been shooting ran to our assistance. Mr. Teagle helped us to repair the shaft and drove us home.
February 16th, Maley cut her first tooth and was not sick. 17th, weighed fourteen and a half pounds. 20th, had another tooth. 22nd, Mr. Maverick got home. March 17th, Maley weighed fifteen pounds. April 17th, sixteen pounds. May 17th, seventeen pounds.
On April 20th, Maley not very well. 22nd, Mary Brown was baptized by Bishop G. W. Freeman. May 1st, we all attend a picnic at San Pedro Springs. Willie narrowly escaped being run over by Judge Paschal’s coach.
May 7th, received a letter from Mr. Maverick’s sister, Lydia A. Van Wyck, saying Father was better and could whisper. 15th, another letter said he was very sick. 22nd, Mr. Maverick received a letter from a cousin, Robert Maxwell, giving the sad tidings of Father Maverick’s death—he died April 28th, 1852. The poor old man suffered over two years before he died. His son never ceased to regret that he did not go on to see him, ere he died—but he seemed to be tied here all the while, still hoping to start soon, and yet finding something to detain him.
June 17th, Mary, one year old, weighs seventeen and a half pounds. Mrs. Samuel made her a pretty dotted swiss dress. Mary can stand alone—is happy and playful. Sam and Lewis went down to Cibolo to visit the Houstons.
July 5th. Routez came up to see us.
Juy 13th, my sister with her two girls, Kate and Alice and nurse, came up from the coast to pay us a good long visit.
October 6th, Mr. Clow came up, spent a week with us and took his family home. Lizzie sent me an old china bowl, an heirloom in our family, which has descended through five generations that we know of, each time to the youngest daughter. Mrs. Agatha Strother owned it, and it is said in our family tradition she inherited it. From Agatha Strother it descended to Mrs. A. Madison —from her to Mrs. Lucy Lewis—from her to Mrs. Agatha L. Adams—from her to Mrs. Elizabeth Clow—from her to Ada Clow, her youngest daughter. (Lizzie wanted me to keep it in my family, but in 1879 I sent it to Ada Clow by my son Willie H. Maverick.)
[1853] January 4th, 1853, Mr. Maverick being away at the Legislature in Austin, I took all the children and left on the stage at ten p.m. for Dr. Houston’s. There we had a delightful visit. Heard of Fleming Bradley’s death, and his mother’s great grief and distress. February 8th, we returned from the Cibolo, and found the heavy snow of the 6th still unmelted. The excessive cold and the snow together had cracked our cement roof and it was leaking badly. February 13th, thermometer down to twelve degrees above zero at three a.m. Mr. Maverick got home on the stage quite ill with bilious colic. Although he had been quite ill at Austin for two weeks, he continued, without complaining, to attend to his legislative duties. He now submitted to a “botanic course” and kept in bed for several days—wonderful for him.
March 9th, Mr. Maverick went with John McDonald surveying to Fort Mason and the Llano, and to Fort Chadbourne and the Red Fork of the Colorado.
March 18th, X. B. Saunders held an examination at his school and our boys received prizes. We gave Mr. Saunders his board to help him and he to help our boys—fair exchange. Judge Saunders is now residing at Belton, Texas. George tells me that Mr. Saunders used to spank him daily, never omitting a school day, but that he did not “lay it on hard.”
April 25th, Mr. Maverick returned in good health.
May 1st, Sam and Lewis attend dancing school.
May 17th, Colonel Dancy took dinner with us, and in the evening we all had a gay time trying “table rapping.” Colonel Dancy was a spiritual medium—and he told me I was a medium also.
May 18th, George had the mumps. June 5th, Mary had mumps but she was not sick, and she laughed at “Mama’s baby” in the glass.
June 21st, Willie makes his first trip to school—with George.
June 28th, sat up all night with Mrs. Cox who is dying. She is the mother of Mrs. Ogden.
In July, a committee of six ladies were chosen to get up a church supper, in order to raise funds to complete the Methodist Church on Soledad Street.
On July 28th, our supper came off—we worked very had, and the supper was renewed the second night. The sum of $617 was netted, and turned over to the building committee of which Elder Whipple was president, and Miss Harriet Richardson, treasurer.
August 21st, we heard that yellow fever was very bad in New Orleans.
November 4th, Mr. Maverick attended the Legislature at Austin. Sam and Lewis came back from a long visit to the Cibolo—they had beaten all hands picking cotton. General Rusk, United States Senator from Texas, visited San Antonio, in November. He dined with me—we went to the Theatre at the Casino, then on south side of Dolorosa Street, near the present location of Hord’s Hotel, and saw the laughter-provoking play of “Bombastes Furioso.”
December 22nd. An Episcopal supper was given in the old Alamo Church—the weather was bad, and the venture brought us no return.
[1854] January 1854. Sam, Lewis and I joined Professor Ryan’s class in Psychology. March 15th, Mary Elliott married Russell Howard. I received a letter from brother Andrew, written at Huepac, Sonora, Mexico.
On March 29th, Mr. Maverick with Sam and Lewis, and Granville and four Mexicans set off for our old Tiltona Rancho on the Matagorda Peninsula, with the purpose of bringing Jinny and her children and the stock cattle to a tract of land on the left bank of the San Antonio River, about forty-five miles below San Antonio. The new location afterwards called by us the Conquista Ranch, because the noted Conquista ford of the river was on this tract. The tract extended along the river from a point half a mile above the Conquista ford to a point below the mouth of Marcellino Creek. They were gone two months, had a rough, hard time of it and all came back well and hearty on May 24th.
On Sunday, May 7th, 1854, was born our ninth child, Albert. I was very weak and did not have milk enough for him. In August Mr. Maverick established Conquista Ranch in due form—built a house, fences and pens and left Jack in charge of the place. On August 14th, Sam and Lewis with Mr. Maverick went down to the ranch. Joey Thompson and Lizzie Houston spent December with us and we enjoyed the time very much.
[1855] March 1855, Joey Thompson and Lizzie Houston came to pay us a visit. In April, I gave them a party which the girls enjoyed very much. We had a large company and the girls received great attention. In the latter part of August, our whole family went down to visit the Houstons and to partake of a birthday dinner given to Joey Thompson. While at the Houstons, we had a great Indian scare. A party of some twenty-five or thirty Comanches made a raid down the Cibolo, crossed the San Antonio River at the Conquista ford, and by rapid marches escaped to the mountains with impunity. They killed two persons, stole some horses and killed others. My boys, Sam and Lewis, joined the party which went in pursuit of the Indians, and I became wretched and anxious about them.
Wild rumors came soon after the boys had gone, to the effect that several hundred warriors had been seen not many miles from Dr. Houston’s house. This was a new and startling turn. Dr. Houston’s house was a large and substantial stone building and the people for miles around crowded there. We fortified the house and most of us kept awake the whole night. We dubbed the place, in is fortified condition, “Sebastopol,” which indicated our intention to defend ourselves to the last. But it all proved a mere scare of some easily frightened person.
While on this visit to the Houstons, we went up to a grand ball at Seguin, and to dinner and speeches the next day.
In December, Mr. Maverick was attending the Senate in Austin, when we concluded to pay him a visit. On December 20th, I with George, Willie, Mary and Albert and nurse Betsy accompanied by Joey Houston, went over to Austin to visit Mr. Maverick, and attend the inaugural of Governor Pease. We boarded at Mrs. Newell’s and had a nice visit of two or three weeks. Joey made a decided “impression.” She played and sang well, and was very attractive and lively and she had several offers of marriage to consider and decline before we left Austin.
[1856] We returned from Austin about January 10th, 1856, and on the 12th, we went with Joey to Dr. Houston’s. Sam Thompson, her brother, fifteen years old then, was there. He, on February 20th, 1856, took her back home to North Alabama. Colonel and Susan Hays and their two interesting children, Jack and Dickey, visited San Antonio and the Calverts at Seguin.
February 14th, Mr. Maverick returned from Austin. While in Austin, to please Jack, he bought Rosetta, Jack’s wife, and her three children, and brought them along with him in the stage.
April 19th, Mr. Maverick went with J. McDonald and eleven others surveying on the San Saba and up on the Red Fork of the Colorado, to be gone two months. Mr. Maverick returned June 11th. William McDonald accidentally shot himself in camp.
On June 22nd, 1856, Lewis, then seventeen years of age, left us to go to college, in Burlington, Vermont. I felt as if some dear one had died, and I missed my dear Lewis dreadfully.
July 3d, George was bit on the left foot by a moccasin snake, whilst bathing above town at the island, now the Grand Avenue crossing. Sam cut the wound and sucked the poison from it. George ran home and we had a great fright. Dr. Herff gave him whisky, and he got over it in a few weeks.
In September, Mr. Maverick sold to Mr. A. Toutant Beauregard all his cattle, estimated at four hundred head. They were at Conquista Ranch and scattered over the country around there.
[MEMOIRS 1856-1859] September 24th, 1856, Mr. Maverick set off with Sam; Mr. Maverick on business for the S.A. & M.A. Railway Company, and Sam for college. It was hard to let Sam go—he and Lewis so far away! On the day they left, Willie ran a nail into his heel and I was alarmed, but Willie got through safely. Mr. Maverick and Sam visited Lewis in Vermont, and Lewis ran down with them to New York City.
On November 8th, Sam sailed for Europe to attend the University of Edinboro in Scotland—across the ocean!
On October 17th, 1857, our fourth daughter and tenth and last child, Elizabeth, was born, a very delicate baby. We did everything we could to save her life, but all in vain. She died March 28th, 1859, aged one year, five months, and eleven days.
[MEMOIRS 1847] But after all the Peninsula was not home to us in the full sense of the word. Mr. Maverick was constantly returning to San Antonio on business, and on each visit he was making new investments and knitting his interest and his sentiments more and more with the life and growth of San Antonio and the surrounding country. To me the four years of our early married life spent in San Antonio seemed like a bright vision—a veritable romance. The memory of the stirring events of that period, and of the birth of my Lewis and Agatha there, kept my affections warm fro the dear old place.
On the 15th day of October, 1847, with bag and baggage, we left the Point and set off for San Antonio. It was right sad to leave a pleasant home and the friends we had gathered during three years, and not the least regret was it to say good-bye to Mr. Peck, who had taught our children faithfully for two years and been a member of our household, but his health was reestablished and he obeyed the urgent requests of his mother to return to her in his native state. He was quite anxious to go with us to San Antonio, but he parted with us at the Pass and returned to Ohio.
At Lavaca we stopped at Mrs. Staunton’s until the 19th, when Lizzie and I, with Agatha and George and his nurse Betsy, took the stage for San Antonio—my first stage ride in Texas. Mr. Maverick, Sam, Lewis and the servants took passage with the wagons and our household goods and we did not see them again until November 4th. We spent the first night in Victoria with Maggie Pearson, the second in Cuero at Cardwell’s. On the 21st we stopped in Gonzales with Mrs. Brown. It rained all night and until nine the next morning. The 22nd, we went only a short distance and stopped with old lady Trimble. Mrs. Trimble had lived here over twenty years, and had herself fought the Indians. Her first husband had been killed, and her second husband fell in the Alamo. Three months after his death, she gave birth to twin girls, now eleven years old. An older daughter’s husband had fallen with Dawson and she had given birth seven weeks after his death to a girl and had died. The pretty child was five years old when we were there and the idol of her fond grandmother.
The 23rd, we reached New Braunfels at the junction of the Comal with the Guadalupe. This was a pretty place, and rapidly filling up, and I thought the Comal the loveliest dream I ever saw.
Sunday, October 24th, at three p.m., we arrived in San Antonio, and stopped at Aunt Ann Bradley’s at the southeast corner of Commerce and Yturri Streets—everything covered with dust and the heat dreadful. The town seemed changed since 1842; many strangers had settled here and immigrants were arriving daily. Not until November 4th, did Mr. Maverick’s party arrive—the hired wagoners insisted on stopping five days at their home on the way, and I had time to grow very uneasy about them—but all were well and we moved directly into our old home with its dirt floors, for the cement had all worn off. The fence around the garden was nearly gone and the garden itself was in a dilapidated condition, but the figs and pomegranates were still standing. The weather grew quite cold, and we learned that many people were sick with colds and diarrhea, and almost every day somebody died, which made us quite doleful. I recalled our first residence in San Antonio, and it seemed that in those days there was scarcely any sickness and positively no case of fever, save the case of Colonel Karnes which was yellow fever imported from Houston. Now, all of our children suffered some illness.
Late in November, Lewis was spinning a top at the front door and George was sitting on the doorsill, when Lewis’ top bounced up and struck George on the forehead. George went into spasms, but we packed him in a wet sheet and blankets and he got well, but he was quite low for a week or so and he has ever retained the scar.
December first, brother Andrew, surgeon in Captain Veach’s company, spent a few days with us on his way to the Rio Grande.
On Friday, December 24th, our sixth child, Willie H. was born. The joyous bells of Christmas Eve were ringing when he was born.
The Angel of Death
Sunday, April 30th, my dear little Agatha took fever. Lizzie and I with the girls and Betsy with the baby were out walking and we were near the Mill Bridge when she first complained. I told Betsy to take baby and go home with her, when Agatha said: “O if my papa was here he would come with me.” At this time Agatha was a large and very beautiful child of seven years. She was the idol of her father, and in return for his devoted affection for her, she idolized him. The sentiment of love between Mr. Maverick and the sweet child was something extraordinary, something beautiful and touching to behold.
When I got home, I bathed her in tepid water and cared tenderly for her, but on the following day she grew much worse and I called in the services of Dr. Cupples. He gave her an emitic and then powders and enemas, but nothing seemed to reduce the fever or overcome the stupor. Day by day, Dr. Cupples encouraged me to hope, but I lost my appetite and passed many sleepless nights, for a terrible fear took possession of me. My fears whispered in my heart, “Agatha is dying,” and I lost hope.
The poor child, with crimson cheek and shining eyes, sometimes raved wildly—once she screamed out in agonizing manner, “Oh, Sam”—she thought she saw Indians about to kill Sam. When she took her medicine (the first in her life) she would say: “Mama, will you tell Papa I was good and took my medicine?” Once she said “Mama if I die—” but I could not bear it—I stopped her before she could speak another word. Ah, how often have I regretted my action, and fondly longed to know what the dear angel would have told me. Her father was still out on his surveying expedition on the Las Moras, and we had no means of communicating with him. On May 8th, the poor child breathed her last at two a.m., Tuesday, May 9th, 1848. Even now, in 1880, after thirty-two years, I cannot dwell on that terrible bereavement. The child was the perfection of sweetness and beauty and possessed such a glad and joyous disposition that her very presence was a flood of sunshine.
On May 12th, Augusta took the same bilious fever, which quite a number of people in the town had at the time. Dr. Sturgis came and treated her for two days, when she recovered and in a short while became quite well again. We now learned from the servants that our nurse Lavinia and Mrs. Bradley’s nurse had taken Agatha and Augusta and Mrs. Bradley’s girls Pauline and Ada, on April 25th, out walking and had allowed them to eat as many green mustang grapes as they would. I have always attributed Agatha’s death and Augusta’s deadly sickness to the grapes. Pauline and Ada had similar attacks about the same time but not as severe as Augusta’s.
Tuesday, May 23rd, at 7:30 a.m. Lizzie was married to Mr. Clow, Reverend Mr. McCulloch officiating, and at eight a.m. took the stage for Saluria.
Friday, May 26th, Mr. Maverick returned. Eleven miles west of town, he met an acquaintance who told him of Agatha’s death! He went to the grave and threw himself upon it, and remained there until it was dark. No one but God could tell the depth of his anguish. He was crushed and broken when he came home. He said he was striving “not to murmur at the will of God.” He said we should humble ourselves in sackcloth and ashes—and he never removed that sackcloth whist he lived—was ever after a sad changed man.
That night I dreamed so distinctly that Agatha ran through our room and out at the door again—the dream seemed so real that I jumped up, and looked for her with a candle in my hand, in spite of reason. And Mr. Maverick said: “She has wandered off in the dark and we will never on earth be able to find her.” Another time in his deep anguish he said: “Cursed land, cursed money, I would give all, all, only to see her once more!”
May 29th, Mr. Maverick wrote a touching letter to his father telling him of our loss—one of his sentences was this: “I feel as if, every moment, she is being torn out of my heart.”
My poor little Willie came near starving to death when Agatha was sick and after her death—my milk almost dried up. I got Mrs. Elliott’s cook, Patience, to nurse him two weeks, and then had to begin feeding him. This disagreed with him, and all summer he was very sick and thin and fretful—once he lay at the point of death with the dysentery, and the doctor told Mrs. Elliott there was no hope. Mrs. Gorch told me to make tea of pomegranate root, and give a teaspoonful every fifteen minutes until the dysentery was checked. I did this and I believe it saved his life. As he grew better and well, it was wonderful how he liked his hoarhound tea and drank goats milk.
August 13th, read in the Pendleton Messenger of July 7th, the following obituary:
Departed this life, Agatha Maverick, at San Antonio, Texas, on the 9th of May, aged seven years and twenty-seven days, eldest daughter of Samuel A. and Mary A. Maverick. “Oh, Almighty and all just God, teach us how it is that the poor little boon of the breath of life, could not be spared from they great storehouse to animate a little dear thing which though has made so perfect.”
The portion in quotation marks is an extract from Mr. Mavericks’s letter.
Poor little Augusta missed her sister “Tita” so much, and, as we grieved without ceasing, so did she. Daily she gathered flowers and kept them in water until the afternoon, and then she took them to the grave for “Tita”—Tita who had ever been her companion and her ideal of goodness.
Augusta was a child of great promise, gentle, patient, thoughtful, and pious beyond her years. She was very fair with blue eyes and light hair, and she had a high, broad forehead and a development of the mind beyond her age. She was very fond of attending Sunday School, and of listening to singing and of caring for the baby—and was always obedient. She repeated her prayers nightly and was ever talking of God and his angels and of “our Tita with them.”
Ah, pure and spotless angel, thyself!
In August, Colonel Hays was ordered to open a shorter and better trading route through the wilds to Chihuahua, Mexico. Colonel Hays asked me to persuade Mr. Maverick to go with the expedition. I answered, “Oh, no, he is not well enough for such a hard trip.” Then Hays replied, “Don’t you see Mr. Maverick is dying by inches? Every one remarks how gray he has grown, how bent and feeble he looks, and this will be the very thing for him—he always thrives on hardships, and his mind must be distracted from his grief.
I recognized the truth and force of this reasoning and that Hays loved him dearly and I set to work to persuade him to go. My husband was quite reasonable, and quickly saw that the trip had become a necessity for him.
On Sunday, August 27th, Mr. Maverick left with Colonel Hays, fifty men and fifteen Delaware Indian guides, to run out a new route to Chihuahua. They had a very severe trip, especially going—they got lost and were nearly starved and their horses suffered more severely than the men. One man lost his reason and was lost and afterwards saved by the Indians and recovered. While hopelessly lost, they met some Indians from Santa Fé who sold them some bread and peloncillos and pointed out to them the road to San Carlos on the Rio Grande, where they arrived a few days after.
Their return trip was much shorter. A good road, comparatively, was surveyed of about seven hundred miles from El Paso to San Antonio. They were greatly troubled on their return by the Indians hanging about, and trying to stampede their horses and they had one fight with them.
They got back Sunday, December 10th, and the three and a half months of hardship had done wonders for Mr. Maverick, just as Colonel Hays had thought. He said that Mr. Maverick had been the “most enduring and least complaining man of the party,” had encouraged others, walked much to save his horse—had cheerfully eaten roots, berries, mule-meat and polecats, and had chewed leather and the tops of his boots, to keep his mouth moist, when no water could be found. Besides coming back in good health Mr. Maverick was more cheerful and hopeful.
A ball was given to Hays and his company, and another to the officers of the United States Army stationed here, but we did not go.
Christmas was beautiful—glad day of redemption to the world.
[MEMOIRS 1849] New Years Day was bright and beautiful, but we heard the cholera had appeared in New Orleans. We also heard at the same time that some bad mess pork had caused the death of a hundred soldiers recently landed at Lavaca, and destined for this place—frightful! Some think it cholera.
And here in San Antonio violent influenza with sore throat and measles and scarlatina were prevailing. Pallas, Aunt Ann’s boy, died—he told his mother: “God came to me in a dream, and took me to heven,” and he asked her to pray with him, and then he died.
February 28th, Major Chevalier took smallpox at Aunt Ann’s, and was sent to an isolated room in the yard and nursed there. Russell Howard, one of the volunteer nurses, took the disease from him.
March 7th, sister Lizzie came, spent five days with me and went back to Mr. Clow in Lavaca. March 29th, Mrs. Elliot, Mrs. Lockwood and I sat up all night with Mrs. Richardson, mother of Mrs. Judge Pachal, and closed her eyes in death. Heard of the death of George Peacock and four others of cholera in Lavaca. We talked of going into the country and camping out, before the cholera reached San Antonio—this we made up our minds to do, but the weather was very bad, wind and rain and fog, continually, and we waited for better weather—alas! too long.
Monday the second of April, cholera appeared in San Antonio. For two weeks it was confined to Mexicans in low, damp places, and Dr. Cupples thought it was easily managed and would not become epidemic, but suddenly, in gloom overheard and in our hearts it appeared everywhere in the most violent form and would not yield to treatment. April 22nd, twenty-one died of cholera.
On Monday 23rd, O, world of grief! my darling Augusta complained of colic in the evening—it was damp and cold. We gave her the remedies which were ready in every house and she felt pretty well and went to sleep a perfect picture of rosy health and beauty. About midnight she awoke vomiting and purging violently. Dr. Sturgis was down with the cholera and we called in two other physicians, but all that could be done gave no relief.
God willed to take our darling. In four hours, her case was pronounced hopeless and she looked thing and emaciated, purple and sunken, but conscious to the last, and suffering fearfully. We humbly gave her up, beseeching God to stay the hand of teh pestilence, for Lewis and George were both attacked in daylight. At eight a.m., Augusta felt no more pain and tried to get out of bed, at nine o’clock, one hour afterwards, she breathed her last. She was six years and twenty-five days old. They buried her the next day by the side of Tita—I could not go.
Two nights before her attack, Augusta had a lovely dream, which made me tremble when she related it to me on Saturday morning, she smiling and happy the while over its loveliness. In her dream she was clothed in a new dress, all white and shining and flowing down below her feet. She got into a carriage and with a large procession went “way off to a big church” resounding with sweet music, and filled with people dressed in white. It was prophecy of her shroud and burial and resurrection.
God I thank Thee that we could yield her up unsullied by earth—her memory a white and shining light.
Just before she died, knowing she had only a few moments to live, I took her in my arms and held her in my lap before the fire, and said to her: “Gussie, do you know our Father in Heaven?” “Oh, yes, Mama,” she answered earnestly. She said “I hear them singing, Mama, put my bonnet on and let me go to church.” I put the little fresh muslin bonnet on her head. She loved the bonnet and was content—she looked up, listened intently and said: “Don’t you hear them, Mama?”
“Gussie, do you want to see God?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Do you want to see Tita?”
“Yes, Mama.” And these were her last words.
Thou wert purity itself my gentle child.
Death had no terrors for thee,
The gates of Heaven were open for thee:
Whilst yet in the flesh, thou didst behold they
Father’s face in Heaven.
On the day of Augusta’s death, Lewis and George both had the cholera. The doctors were prompt and their cases yielded to treatment, although George was very low for awhile. I also was threatened and had to go to bed by George’s side and take my medicine like the others. On that day, many children died, two of whom were friends and playmates of Augusta. Of our servants, Granville, Emmeline and Ann had the cholera, and in fact every soul of the household except Sam and Betsy was more or less affected. Idle would be the task of portraying the gloom of our household, or the terror which seized upon the community. Fear and dread were in every house—an oppressive weight in the atmosphere. Into every house came the pestilence, in most houses was death, and in some families on half died! All had symptoms and the weather continued close and damp and dismal. Men of strong nerve and undoubted courage shrank in fear—many drank hard and died drunk—some dropped and died in the streets—one poor fellow cut his throat when attacked. Never can those who were here in that terrible visitation forget its gloom and horror. The cholera lasted six weeks, and the priests thought that over six hundred people died. One third of the population fled to the ranchos and into the country and they generally got above this heavy atmosphere and escaped.
One aspect of Maverick’s career—his public service to the Republic, the State, and the city of San Antonio—is merely glanced at in his wife’s Memoirs, and is mentioned only occasionally in the letters in this volume. His son George Madison Maverick, in a brief account of his father, has given the clue to his character which may help to explain why his public service plays so quiet a role in the pages of this book:
Mr. Maverick was Mayor of San Antonio, first in 1839. He was a member of the last Congress of the Republic, and of the first legislature of the State. He was also a member of the Secession Convention of 1861. Though often spoken of for Governor and for Congressman, he was so excessively modest and retiring that he always peremptorily refused these honors in advance, and declined to allow the use of his name. But he occasionally took office whenever he saw that his services were necessary, deeming it in such cases unpatriotic to refuse.
The Secession Convention appointed Samuel A. Maverick, Judge Devine, and Col. Luckett a committee to seize and transfer to the Confederate Government, when formed, the forts, arms, and other belongings of the United States Government. This service they rendered fearlessly and creditably, and without bloodshed. After the war closed, Devine and Luckett were imprisoned, but, owing to his increasing age and his promptness in surrendering, Mr. Maverick was merely placed under arrest. . . . His life was spent in good and honorable deeds, his great influence being ever on the side of right and justice.
A full listing of Mr. Maverick’s offices is given in the Biographical Directory of the Texan Conventions and Congresses:
A delegate from Bexar County to the Constitutional Convention in 1836, he assisted in framing the Constitution and signed the Declaration of Independence. In 1839, he was Mayor of San Antonio; in 1841-42, he was city treasurer; and in 1841-42-43-44, he was alderman, though captured in 1842 by General Woll and held prisoner in Mexico until April, 1843. Maverick was elected Representative in the House of the Seventh Congress, during his imprisonment, and re-elected to the Eighth in 1843. With Captain Jack Hays, he was commissioned to open an overland route to El Paso. In November, 1851, he served his county for the first time in the State Legislature, having been elected a member of the House of Representatives in the Fourth Legislature. In the Fifth Legislature he held the same position, while in the Sixth and Seventh he served in the Senate. His last terms were in the Eighth and Ninth Legislatures to which he returned as Representative. In 1861, he also attended the Secession Convention, where he was appointed one of the commissioners to negotiate a surrender of the United States troops under command of General Twigg at San Antonio. The following year he served again as Mayor of his city, and in 1863 as Chief Justice of Bexar County, holding the office until removed by military fiat of General Sheridan. Retiring finally to private life, Maverick died September 2, 1870. Created February 2, 1856, Maverick County was named in his honor.
Maverick’s public services were summarized by his contemporary and colleague, John Henry Brown, in his article on Maverick in the Encyclopedia of the New West:
By the secession convention 1861, with the Hon. Thomas J. Devine and Dr. (afterwards Colonel) Philip N. Luckett, he (S. A. Maverick) was appointed a commissioner to demand the surrender of the army and garrison at San Antonio and other points, which was accomplished.
It should have been earlier stated, that on the 27th of August, 1848, he was one of an expedition authorized by the state government, of fifty men and ten Delaware Indians, commanded by Colonel John C. Hays and Captain Sam Highsmith, that left San Antonio to explore the country and open a road to El Paso, an enterprise then touching the popular heart of Texas, and deemed of the utmost importance, not only in developing the West, but in asserting our title to the Rio Grande as the western boundary of Texas.
This writer knows whereof he speaks, and the wisdom of Mr. Maverick was most signally verified by what followed in the great agitations and compromises in the American congress of 1850. At the time it was regarded as a hazardous expedition into a terra incognita. The party became lost, and underwent the pangs of thirst and hunger. Snakes, lizards and terrapins were eaten to prevent starvation; but the expedition was successful, and returned to San Antonio on the 10th of December, after an absence of three and a half months. The same trip will be made, inside of one year, on the iron-horse, in four days.
During the war Mr. Maverick was chief-justice of Bexar county from 1863 till removed by the military fiat of General Sheridan, of the United States army, after the close of the war.
Mr. Maverick remained in private life till his death in 1870. It will be seen that from 1835 to 1867, a period of thirty-two years, his services were in almost constant requisition by the people in some public capacity. He never sought office, never electioneered as a candidate, and was devoid of official aspiration. He simply served the people honestly when drafted into their service. No decent man lives who will aver that he ever did a dishonorable act, or swerved from the highest sense of regard for integrity and the rights of the people, in all his career.
This sketch of his Texas career is a voluntary offering from one who knew him long and well and often served with him in the councils of the state, and who aided, if he did not lead, in bestowing his name upon a county in Texas as a fixed and ever-continuing memorial of his honor, his patriotism and his rare intelligence. However honorable the name in New England and South Carolina, it nowhere shines more brightly or is cherished more kindly than in that of Samuel A. Maverick, deceased, of Texas.
Recollections of Mexico
There are one or two instances of heroic virtue, that I take special pleasure in recording. Amongst the prisoners taken at San Antonio in Texas, by General Woll, in the fall of 1843, was Mr. Samuel A. Maverick, a gentleman of very large fortune, and with a young and interesting family. He was a man of fiery and impatient temper, and chafed, under his confinement, like a chained tiger. A good deal had been said about a reannexation of Texas to Mexico, and negotiations were about being entered into to that end. I knew that Mexico only desired to save, in some degree, the point of honor, and that almost any terms would be conceded; such as that Texas should have her own laws, religion, &c.; that no Mexican troops should be quartered in Texas; the Texians to make their own revenue laws, appoint their own revenue and other officers, pay only a nominal amount to Mexico; in one word, and in the language of a distinguished member of the Mexican Cabinet, in conversing with me on the subject, “actual independence, with a mere nominal recognition of the sovereignty of Mexico.”
That even such a reunion, in name only, could have lasted long, no one could have believed. I know that the Mexicans themselves had no such idea. Santa Anna had boasted so much of reconquering the country, which he found himself unable even to attempt, that I have strong reasons to believe that he would have allowed the Texians to dictate the terms of even this nominal reannexation, which must have been of very short duration, and would, in the meantime, have given the Texians the advantage of the market of Mexico for their cotton, the high price of which there would very soon have filled up Texas with a population large enough to have enabled her to have dictated terms to Mexico. This was early in 1843, when annexation to the United States had not been spoken of seriously, nor, so far as I knew, thought practicable by any one. I wrote to Maverick, who was then confined in the castle of Perote, saying to him, that if he was in favor of such a reannexation as that, and which would have been so in name, only, and would say so to me, that I had no doubt Santa Anna would release him. I give an extract of his letter in reply.
“You say that you think Santa Anna will release me if I say that I am in favor of the reannexation of Texas to Mexico. I cannot persuade myself that such an annexation, on any terms, would be advantageous to Texas, and I therefore cannot say so, for I regard a lie as a crime, and one which I cannot commit even to secure my release; I must, therefore, continue to wear my chains, galling as they are.”
A man of principles less stern might, with an easy casuistry, have said, “I am dealing with an enemy who has violated the terms of my capitulation, and it is excusable that I should in turn deceive him.” How many men are there who would not have thus reasoned? Such an act recorded by Plutarch would have added another page as bright as that which perpetuates the noble constancy and heroic virtue of Regulus.
Maverick was shortly afterwards released, as a personal favor to me, together with Mr. William E. Jones, formerly of Georgia, and Judge Hutchinson, formerly of Mississippi, where he was distinguished for great learning, and beloved by every one for his virtues. I sent them “on their way rejoicing.” The residue of the prisoners taken at San Antonio, thirty-six in number, were those of whom I have before spoken as being released by General Santa Anna in so handsome a manner at the time I was leaving Mexico.
Waddy Thompson
It is a notable fact that the first blood shed in the Revolutionary War was that of Samuel Maverick, Samuel Gray, James Caldwell and Crispus Attucks.
Samuel Maverick, of South Carolina, married Elizabeth Anderson, daughter of the General of Revolutionary note. Their son Samuel Augustus Maverick was born at Pendleton, South Carolina, in 1803. Samuel Maverick is said to have sent ventures to the Celestial Empire and to have shipped the first bale of cotton from America to Europe. He was a prominent merchant of Charleston, and lived at “Montpelier.” He was one of the largest land proprietors in the State of South Carolina.
Samuel Augustus Maverick “was a man of education, culture and refinement, and left the impress of his splendid character and personality” upon the State of Texas. A graduate of Yale, having studied law under Henry St. George Tucker of Virginia, and with experience in having attended to his father’s properties in Alabama, Tennessee, and Georgia, he left his home in March of 1835, and arrived at Brazoria, Texas, at the end of April. He arrived at San Antonio on September 8, 1835. From the very beginning his policy was to concentrate all of his belongings in Texas. “Valuable properties in New York and Tuscaloosa, Ala., were sold, together with lands in various parts of the country given him by his father,” and all the proceeds invested in Texas lands. Indeed, he is reputed to have owned at one time, a territory extending from San Antonio to the Mexican border; and whole islands in the Gulf of Mexico. Upon his arrival in San Antonio he witnessed Ugartechea’s and Cos’ barracks in Military Plaza; and Cos’ turning the Alamo into a fort in November of ’35. Within several weeks, however, Mr. Maverick was arrested by order of the Mexican Commander, Col. Domingo Ugartachea, and guarded in the John W. Smith house, where he had been boarding. He was released by order of General Cos on December 3d.
“Through the battle of Concepcion, and the Grass Fight, Maverick and Smith carried on a smuggled correspondence with their friends through the aid of a bright and trustworthy boy, and, after General Cos had superseded Ugartachea, they managed to escape and joined the besiegers” under General Edward Burleson, and encouraged an immediate attack on San Antonio. “When Ben R. Milam led a division of the Texas troops into San Antonio, December 5th, he (Maverick) acted as guide to the troops, moving down Soledad Street; being familiar with the streets and alleys he was able and did render great service to the troops.” It was he who caught the body of Milam, shot by a sharpshooter, in the court of the Veramendi House.
Mr. Maverick’s was almost a solitary escape from the Alamo massacre. He was sent by those unfortunate men, only four days before the Mexican advance, as their representative in the convention which declared Independence. “The Alamo was already invested when the convention assembled at Washington on the Brazos, on the 2nd day of March, and the declaration signed that day by the members present, received on the day following the signature of the Bexar delegates who had been delayed by high waters.” The other delegates from Bexar were Jose Antonio Navarro, and Francisco Ruiz. The patriot, Antonio Menchaca, had been sent, by the council in San Antonio, to guide his family into safety, to avoid the personal wrath of Santa Ana.
William Menefee, another of the signers of the Texas Declaration of Independence, the first judge of jurisdiction of Colorado, said of Mr. Maverick:
“He was one of the most polished members of the Washington Convention. He had been educated in the best schools of the country and his manners and general deportment indicated a refined nature. Mr. Maverick made no effort to display his polite learning, but it so dominated his nature that one could not help feeling it in his presence. Not only was he a man of superior mental training, but he was a man of tact and ability. His course at Old Washington was that of a diplomat and statesman. He watched the proceedings closely and gave his assent to every proposition looking to the establishment of our independent Government. He was a cautious man and counseled prudence to speech and act. He recognized that whatever the convention did would but make Santa Anna more determined to crush opposition to his programme of subjugation. He was familiar with the prevailing sentiment in the United States, regarding the Revolution and he emphasized the necessity of cultivating that sentiment. ‘Let our acts prove to the world that we are sincere patriots,’ he said in a brief address before the Convention, ‘and we need not fear the result. The people of the United States fought for the same character of freedom and independence for which we are battling and they will sustain us as long as our fight is just. Let us not deviate from the programme mapped out by our leaders and the God of War will give us the Victory.'”
Another signer of the Declaration of Independence, Colonel Stephen W. Blount, a San Augustine settler, prominently identified with the development of Eastern Texas, said that he was convinced by Mr. Maverick’s several short, crisp talks before the Convention, that he was “a man of determined will, unyielding when advocating what he believed to be right, and uncompromising in favor of a definite programme of separation from Mexico.”
“After the battle of San Jacinto, Mr. Maverick returned to Alabama. While there he married Miss Mary Ann Adams, a Virginian by birth, a daughter of William Lewis and Agatha (Strother) Adams. This marriage took place August 4, 1836. The marriage ceremony was performed by Rev. Dr. Mathers of Christ’s Episcopal Church, at her widowed mother’s home on her plantation three miles north of Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Their first child, a son, Samuel Maverick, was born May 14, 1837, while on a visit to Mr. Maverick’s father at ‘Montpelier,’ in South Carolina. From there Mr. Maverick returned to Texas bringing his wife and infant child with him.”
Their first home in San Antonio was the Cassiano house between the Plazas. From there they moved to the property just north of the Veramendi House, which they rented from the Huizar family. Early in 1839 they moved into their own home at the northeast corner of Commerce and Soledad Streets, at Main Plaza (at site of the present Kampmann Building).
In 1835 Mr. Maverick took out his law license in San Antonio and until 1842 was one of Jack Hays’ Minute Men, who often followed the trail of the marauding Indians. On January 8, 1839, Mr. Maverick took office as Mayor of San Antonio. From ’41 to ’42, he was City Treasurer; he was elected Alderman from ’42 to ’44, and was on the Board when Seguin advised of General Vasquez’ raid on San Antonio. At this time Mr. Maverick took his family to the Brazos where they remained for several years, but he returned to San Antonio, and was there when General Woll captured it in September, and took the court and American citizens as prisoners to the Castle of Perote, in Mexico. A Perote Prisoner, with ball and chain, Mr. Maverick was made to labor on the streets and on the public works. When he refused to work, he was confined in the castle dungeon. With W. E. Jones, he represented the Bexar prisoners, in their Memorial to Santa Anna. “While they were here many attempts were made to bribe them with promises of offices and favor, and Mr. Maverick particularly, was approached on account of his influence in Bexar; but he, like his companions in captivity, had naught but scorn for their offers, which utterly failed to seduce them from their faith and allegiance to Texas.”
On March 30, 1843, Mr. Maverick, W. E. Jones and Judge Anderson Hutchinson were finally released in the City of Mexico by Santa Anna, through the intercession of General Waddy Thompson, then United States Minister to Mexico, a native of South Carolina, and a connection by marriage of Mr. Maverick’s.
While in Perote Prison, Mr. Maverick was elected to the Senate of the Seventh Congress of the Republic of Texas. He was re-elected a member of the Eighth Congress, the last session of the last Congress of the Republic. Mr. Maverick then attended the March term of the District Court in San Antonio; returned to his family in April; and shortly after, started off on a visit to South Carolina.
“Mr. Maverick was a member of the Convention of 1845, which framed the Constitution for the State, preparatory to its entrance into the Union. He afterwards served as a member of the State Legislature.”
Mr. Maverick was one of the Commissioners who accompanied Captain Jack Hays, in August, 1845, in opening up an overland route from San Antonio to El Paso. They left with 50 men and 15 Delaware Indian guides, on Sunday, August 27, to run out the new route to Chihuahua. Of this expedition Captain Hays said: “It was an experience that tested our nerves and power of endurance. One who has never passed through such an experience cannot imagine how depressed one feels when he realizes that he is lost and far from those things necessary to sustain life. The bleak mountain ridges seemed to unite in one vast vista of desolation, and sky and floating clouds appeared to frown upon us. But with brave hearts and determined wills we trudged along, hoping that every hour would bring relief. Discouraged, worn and fatigued, we came upon some friendly Indians, whom we employed to guide us out of the desert fastness. We were kindly received at San Alazario and after replenishing our almost exhausted supplies, we completed our journey without any further delay.”
After the cholera epidemic in ’49, the Mavericks moved their home to an old house on Alamo Plaza; by the end of 1850, a new house of stone was built, considerably larger and more comfortable than the old quarters. This was at the site of the present Gibbs Building.
After attending Legislature in Austin, 1853, Mr. Maverick accompanied several surveying parties.
Mr. Maverick’s connection with the cattle industry began “after his return from the Mexican captivity. He found his family in poor health upon his return, and carried them to the coast, at Decro’s Point, where he purchased property, built, and lived for over 4 years.” He and his family returned from the peninsula to San Antonio in October of 1847.
“He bought a stock of cattle from a Mr. Tilton, on Matagorda Peninsula, and in 1854 brought them, with the aid of his two sons and several herders, to his place at Conquista, on the San Antonio river, 50 miles south of San Antonio. Jacals, enclosures and pens were erected here and a negro man placed in charge, with several Mexican helpers. Great results were expected, but the venture proved a steady loss, through the negligence and general bad habits of the negro manager, who did not brand the cattle and allowed them to stray away, and in 1855 Mr. Maverick sold out his entire holding, brands and rights to Mr. Toutant de Beauregard, who lived near his ranch. Many of the cattle were on the range, unbranded, and it was in the contract that Mr. Beauregard was to hunt them himself, only a specified number having been turned over on the ranch. Beauregard’s men hunted and branded cattle in many counties, and when an unbranded animal was found, it was spoken of as “Maverick’s” or “a Maverick.” Thus the name Maverick as applied to unmarked stock originated.”
The Mavericks were not Puritans; nor were they Pilgrim Fathers. The first Samuel of Massachusetts was a loyal royalist; his opinions did not satisfy the Puritans. He was one of the four commissioners to settle the affairs of New England and to reduce the Dutch, in what is now New York. With no success among the Puritans, he settled in New York, where he was granted a house on Broad Way, 1669. The Mavericks in San Antonio were among the first to build the Episcopal Church. Samuel Augustus Maverick donated four city lots for the purpose, August 24, 1858. He also presented a cannon found on the homestead, in the grounds of the Alamo. It was cast into a bell weighing 526 pounds, by Messrs. Mencely & Co., of Troy, New York. This vestry bell at St. Mark’s Church bears the inscription “Ye must be born again… I also have been born again from works of death to words of life, through Christ’s eternal merit.” On the opposite side is a five pointed or Texas star enclosing the dates 1813-1836, the first having reference to the year during the revolution of Mexico against Spain when the first cannon was dismounted and buried and the later date having reference only to its being found in the grounds of the Alamo rendered famous in history that year.
In industry and progress of another nature, Mr. Maverick was also active. In 1858 he was elected a director of the S. A. & M. G. Railroad.
The following year he lead the celebration for Texas Independence.
Mr. Maverick loved the Union, and ever thought it sacred. The Secession Convention of 1861 compelled him to take his choice for or against his kith and kin. He did a simple, straightforward, unselfish act, an act which nevertheless gave him deep pain: he cast his vote for secession. In February, with the Honorable Thomas J. Devine and Dr. (afterwards Colonel) Philip N. Luckett, he was appointed a commissioner to demand the surrender of the army and garrison at San Antonio and other points. That he performed this delicate duty of procuring the removal of the United States troops from the State of Texas, without bloodshed and with little inconvenience or humiliation to the officers and men who had so long been friends among us, is one of his highest titles to respect and gratitude.
“With this closed the public functions of Mr. Maverick, which he had exercised in various capacities from the memorable day when he affixed his signature to the Declaration of Independence, and always with credit to himself and advantage to his constituents; his public services in either House, in conventions, or in any capacity whatever, being rendered with disinterestedness and freedom from all personal and party consideration…” Mr. Maverick retired to private life and to the conduct of a successful business he had built up in San Antonio.
Not strong or well, Mr. Maverick wrote his will in the fall of 1869. In the spring of the following year, he became feeble. He died September 2, 1870, leaving to the inheritors of his name, a heritage “richer than broad lands, more precious than fine gold—the name of a just, an upright and a conscientious man, of one who never compromised with his convictions, who never bowed the knee to expediency;” a name that had long been “a synonym for honor, integrity and truth.” When Mr. Maverick died, he was said by some, to have been one of the largest landowners in the United States.
To the Alamo Literary Society he left the signal honor of having inscribed his name on the roll of its founders, and the task of rearing on the site, a lot on Houston Street, which the society owed to his munificence, an edifice which might do honor to the donor and credit to the young Association, which had held its first meeting January 6, 1860.
“Few men left a greater impress on the State than Samuel Augustus Maverick, and few men who took part in establishing the Republic of Texas contributed more to its achievement.”
When a new County was created from Kinney County in the year 1856, it was named in honor of Samuel Augustus Maverick, a signer of the Declaration of Independence of Texas.
Of the sons of Samuel A. Maverick, the oldest, Sam, was educated at Edinburgh, Scotland. In 1871 he married Sallie Frost, daughter of Thomas Frost, of Tennessee. In 1861 he enlisted in the First Texas Cavalry, under Colonel Henry McCulloch. He served on the Indian frontier. With Mr. Kroeger he succeeded Brackenridge and Stapp in the lumber business (1872-78). He was President of the Debating Society, San Antonio; and organizer of a new dramatic club, 1879. He was the donor of $5,000 to build bath houses in San Antonio. His residence, facing Maverick Park, near the old Sunset Freight Depot, was built in 1881. The Maverick Building on Houston Street housed the Aransas Pass offices in days of railroad infancy here. “It was a skyscraper in its day, dominating the business district in that section of the city.” The Maverick Bank Building, at the Southwest corner of Alamo Plaza and Houston Street, was begun in May, 1884. Sam Maverick’s portrait was painted in oil, by San Antonio’s pioneer portrait painter, Iwonski, as an active Terry Ranger. His oldest son, Samuel, was born in 1872.
Lewis Antonio Maverick, 2nd son of Samuel Augustus Maverick, was born in San Antonio, March 23, 1839, and thus claimed distinction as being the first American boy born in this city to permanent American settlers. He was educated at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. He organized Company “E” for the 32nd Texas Cavalry, commanded by Colonel Woods, and served as Major in the Confederate Army. He married his cousin, Ada Bradley, daughter of John Bradley and his wife Anne Lewis Bradley, aunt of Mrs. Maverick, Lewis Antonio’s mother. They settled near Austin. Lewis Antonio Maverick died June 16, 1866, leaving no issue. His widow married, 1870, Jacob Frederick Waelder, his second wife. St. Matthew’s window, in St. Mark’s Episcopal church, is a memorial to Lewis Antonio Maverick.
George Madison Maverick, son of Samuel Augustus Maverick, was born September 7, 1845. He was educated at the Universities of North Carolina and Virginia. He served in his brother Lewis’ Company “E” of the 32nd Cavalry. He was active in the Irving Club (1870), organized for scientific purposes. In May of 1873, he made the first really definite proposition regarding the water question, which had been in constant agitation from the date of the Cholera, 1866; though it fell through. He married, 1872, Mary Elizabeth, daughter of John Vance and his wife Rowena Badwin Vance, of Castroville. He was active in building up San Antonio in 1877, at which time he erected Military Headquarters here. Four years later he erected a store, the “George Block” on Houston Street, adjoining the Vance House; and at that time arranged to build the Opera House. He was also active in promoting a Rockport-Fredricksburg Railroad. He was a 32nd degree Mason of the Scottish Rite. He practiced law in St. Louis, Mo. His daughter, Rowena, Mrs. Green, widow of Robert B. Green, one of the most loved of all of Bexar County’s public men, is prominent in San Antonio life today. His son George Vance Maverick, died in 1926, aged 46 years. Another son, Lewis, is in California, absorbed in constructive educational work.
William Houston Maverick, son of Samuel Augustus Maverick, was born December 24, 1847. He, also, was educated at the Universities of North Carolina and Virginia. He mustered in the Confederate Army in January, 1865, aged 17 years. He married, 1873, Emilie Virginia, daughter of General Robert H. Chilton, of Virginia. He acquired the “Ledger,” San Antonio’s first daily newspaper (1856), soon after Michael Burke had seceded Vanderlip and Hewitt; and left its management to John A. Logan, with headquarters in the historic old Vermanendi House. He served as Alderman in San Antonio, 1878. During this year his residence was completed. In 1882 he contributed to San Antonio’s progress, with four new stores in the Crockett Block. He died in 1923. His son William Chilton Maverick was an active citizen, and resided in Philadelphia in recent years; he died in 1932, aged 57 years. His son, Dr. Augustus, practiced medicine in Vienna, Austria, and in Philadelphia. His son Lewis, one of Roosevelt’s Rough Riders and guide to Pershing’s expedition, is well known in San Antonio. His son Robert, one of San Antonio’s most distinguished citizens, was a member of the Diplomatic Service of the United States.
Mary Brown Maverick, daughter of Samuel Augustus Maverick, was born June 17, 1851. She was educated at Staunton, Virginia, which place was founded by one of her ancestors, in the Lewis line; and also at Mrs. Ogden Hoffman’s School for Young Ladies in New York City. She was the wife of the Honorable Edwin H. Terrell, United States Minister to Belgium.
Albert Maverick, the youngest of the happy family of Samuel Augustus Maverick, was born May 7, 1854. He too was educated at the University of Virginia. After a trip to Europe, he married, 1877, Jane L. Maury, daughter of Jesse L. Maury of Charlottesville, Virginia, and sister of the late Mrs. James L. Slayden, of distinction in Washington, D. C. He, too, is a progressive citizen of San Antonio, and was instrumental in the early 80’s in building activities in the business center. He is a pioneer for the conservation of the natural beauty of our city, having publicly objected to the destruction of cypress trees as early as 1882. Among his numerous family, who live in union at Sunshine Ranch, are Albert Maverick, Jr., our present Bexar County Tax Collector.
Maury Maverick was admitted to the practice of law at the age of 20. He entered the United States Army, Training Camp, May 8, 1917, and was commissioned Second Lieutenant twelve days later. He served in the 157th Infantry, Camp Kearny, California. In France he served in the 1st Division of the 28th Infantry, entering the battle of St. Mihiel, 1917, as First Lieutenant. He was commander of Co. G, 28th Infantry, in the Argonne Forest; was wounded October 4, 1918, gassed October 3, 1918 and was not discharged from the hospital (Fort Sam Houston) until September 7, 1919. Maury Maverick was cited for “gallantry in action and extremely meritorious service.” He was decorated with the Purple Heart, Silver Star for gallantry in action, and has a war service medal with three clasps. After the World War he returned to San Antonio and was elected President of the San Antonio Bar Association. He became a part owner of Hillyer-Deutsch-Jarratt Co., and later organized the Kelly-Maverick Co. He was elected Tax Collector in 1930, in which office he has instituted many reforms. He has reorganized the automobile department, eliminating fees amounting to approximately $25,000 a year. He has conducted the office at a net saving of some $10,000 to $15,000 a year. He fought the Stoner system, which would have raised both urban and farm taxes. He has obtained a special ruling whereby citizens can get homestead exemption, even though not originally claimed. He has brought the new deal to San Antonio by securing the Labor Board for us. He has done “more for the highways of Bexar County than any other citizen. It is principally through his efforts the large expenditures have been made in Bexar County.” Maury Maverick is well-known to the Bureau of Public Roads, Washington, D. C., which is the high unit of highways. With his actual military experience, he has high standing and will undoubtedly become a member of the Military Affairs Committee immediately upon being elected. Through the relations of his uncle, James L. Slayden, who was in Congress for about 20 years, Maury Maverick will have immediate entree in Washington, D. C., which will prove of definite advantage to his constituents. A man with his background, and with his own personality, and direct way of dealing, is a candidate who should receive the unanimous support of all true Texans. San Antonio should give its wholehearted support to Maury Maverick, a real San Antonian, and one who will get things done for Texas.
To Asa Jones. I have eaten his frijoles in both Texas and Arizona. Maverickers were eating the beef—but nobody ever heard of a calf in his brand sucking the wrong cow.
Old Diamond Joe was a rich old jay,
With lots of cowboys in his pay;
He rode the range with his cowboy band,
And many a mav’rick got his brand.
—“Diamond Joe,” in LOMAX’S Cowboy Songs.
The word and its derivatives took on varying meanings. The simple facts of its origin were expanded by dictionaries, range talk, and books concerned with cowboy life into a cycle of legends. Despite Mr. Webster and other New England authorities on Southern speech, there are only two syllables in the word (mav-rick) as pronounced by any genuine Texan.
Charlie Siringo, who mavericked on the Texas coast and in 1885 published the first cowboy autobiography known, elaborates on how Samuel Maverick, “being a chickenhearted old rooster, wouldn’t brand or earmark any of his cattle.” All his neighbors branded theirs—and his too. Nevertheless, the “old rooster went on claiming everything that wore slick ears. . . . At first people said, ‘Yonder goes one of Mr. Maverick’s animals.’ Then, upon seeing any unbranded animal anywhere, they got to saying, ‘Yonder goes a maverick.’”
According to another source, at a great meeting of stockraisers in southern Texas each man declared publicly what brand and earmark he would use. Finally, after everybody but an “old Longhorn named Maverick” had recorded his brand, he allowed he wouldn’t use any brand at all; and then when range people saw anything unbranded they would know it belonged to him—and would please not claim it. As he was known to possess only “a triflin’ bunch of Mexican steers” and not a single cow, the other cattlemen agreed.
Samuel Maverick, the legend goes on, was in 1861 the largest landholder in the United States and owned more cattle than any other man in Texas. His ambition was to travel on his own land all the six hundred miles from San Antonio to El Paso and to stock it. After the Civil War he had a logical claim to tens of thousands of the unbranded cattle—“Maverick stuff”—though little good it did him.
But, no, another form of the legend persists: In the beginning Maverick had nothing except “an old stag, a branding iron, a tireless perseverance, and a mortality that was blind in one eye.” The stag was more prolific than Tommy Simpson’s Scotch cows, which always brought quintuplets, and the branding iron worked faster than a billy goat. A man had to get up early and ride late to do even a small share of the mavericking business when Maverick was on the range. He became “one of the cattle kings” and was the bull of the woods in “bovine aristocracy.”
The word “maverick,” says one writer, comes from the name of a great cattle driver whose herd, consisting of many thousands, stampeded in a snowstorm at a mountain pass ten thousand feet above the sea and were so scatterd that he could not regather them. Their offspring came to be known as “Maverick’s cattle,” though he had no more power over them than Mother Carey had over Mother Carey’s chickens.
Another “authority” tells how Maverick had his cattle on an island off the coast of Texas. As they were entirely cut off from all other cattle, he did not have to brand them to maintain ownership. But one night a tropical storm blew all the water out of the pass between the island and the mainland; the cattle rushed across, mixed with other cattle, and were dispersed beyond recovery. A variant of this story is that some fishermen sent Maverick word that his cattle had overpopulated the island. He had forgotten all about them. Now he ordered a big cow hunt to brand the cattle and move a portion of them to the mainland. Then, a herd of thousands having been assembled, they stampeded, swam the bay, scattered like quail, and became the quarry of whoever could rope and brand them.
Eight hundred bulls, however, the legend concludes, were salvaged by Maverick’s men and driven to the Salado above San Antonio. Just bulls and nothing else, and they were fiercer than fierce. Stockmen from all over the country got a “rawhiding” Maverick unmercifully. They would ask him about the price of bull meat, whether he threw in the hide and horns, how many ranches he intended to start, and “otherwise nearly ran the old gentleman to the verge of distraction.” Finally, in answer to any allusion to the subject, he would say, “For God’s sake help yourself to whatever bulls you want.”
There was, in truth, an island. The facts have long been available. Samuel A. Maverick, a lawyer, one of the signers of the Texas Declaration of Independence against Mexico, and an extensive speculator in lands, was the English-speaking citizen of San Antonio in 1842 when an invading Mexican army captured him and took him prisoner to Mexico City, where he was in time released.
In 1845 he was living temporarily at Decrow’s Point on Matagorda Bay. A neighbor named Tilton owed him $1200, could not raise the money, and persuaded Maverick to take four hundred head of cattle running on Matagorda Island in cancellation of the debt. Maverick did not want the cattle; he knew almost nothing about cattle and had no ambition to learn. Soon after receiving them, he left the four hundred head thus forced upon him, along with a few ponies, under the care of a Negro family nominally slave but essentially free—especially, free to be shiftless.
Matagorda Island, with its southern appendage Saint Joseph’s Island, is a great sand bar more than seventy miles long, in places less than a mile wide and in other places spreading out four or five miles. It is beached rather evenly on the outer side by the Gulf of Mexico and indented on the other by scores of inlets from Espiritu Santo, Mesquite, Aransas, and other bays. At shallow places like Dagger Point, the Karankawa Indians used to wade across from the mainland at low tide, and until recent times cattle were driven from the island to the mainland in the same way, though barges now take them across.
High sand dunes, some of them grassed over and some of them so loose that they shift constantly with the constant winds, parallel the Gulf shore. Running down the center of the island is an irregular prairie carpeted with coastal grasses. There are fresh water lakes, though wells and windmills nowadays supply most of the stock water. Three or four times a century hurricanes sweep Gulf water over the land. Far in from the bearded salt rye of the dunes one can see occasionally a great drift log, under which deer and even cattle shade. Ranching is the only occupation, and four or five ranches occupy the whole land. Prickly pear, Spanish dagger, mesquite, huisache, catclaw and other low growth are to be found in places. Coons, which live on water life, coyotes, sand crabs, deer, jack rabbits that look almost as big as the deer, rattlesnakes, an infinite variety of shore birds and, in winter, migratory fowls by the hundreds of thousands, give a profusion of life to a land seemingly empty.
Here Maverick’s cattle could roam as free as any other creatures of nature. They could scatter not only up and down the long island, but could, if the notion struck them, wade across to the mainland when the tide was low and the wind was blowing the water out of the bay. Perhaps some of them, like the deer, now and then passed to the mainland. Modern Herefords on the island will not make such a venture. When droughts dried up the little fresh water lakes, some perhaps died of thirst, the more thrifty standing in salt water for hours a day absorbing moisture.
The Mexican War was being fought; Texas was ceasing to be a Republic and becoming a state. Maverick was in the stir of the times. Now and then he heard something about the cattle and heard that the calves were not being branded. In 1853 he had his entire stock, in so far as it could be gathered, crossed to the mainland and driven to a range up the San Antonio River. His visible stock still numbered about four hundred head.
The Negro family came with the herd and continued to be the official caretakers. They became energetic enough to brand about a third of the calves. Owners of other cattle in the country were keeping their own calves branded up, and were hunting down older unclaimed animals. Surmising that at least some of the unbranded animals they saw were Maverick’s they got to calling all of them “mavericks”—and they “mavericked” them.
This was not thought of as stealing—it was not stealing; it was the custom of the range at the time. There was comparatively little stealing of cattle before the Civil War. All calves caught in the “cow hunts” were branded in the brands of their mothers, whether the branders knew who the owner of the cow was or not. The old-time cowman was a patriarch, but the range has always been matriarchal. Unbranded cattle of a year old and up went to whoever caught them.
But to get back to Samuel Maverick. In 1856 he sold out his stock of cattle, estimated at the original number, four hundred head, at six dollars around, range delivery. That is, the purchaser, one Toutant Beauregard, took the stock “as they ran.” If there were more than four hundred head, he was the gainer; if less, the loser. He hoped to find a considerable number of mavericks on Maverick’s range.
These were the last and only cattle that Samuel A. Maverick ever owned. His unintentional contribution to the American language was more important, perhaps, than his honorable and useful part in Texas affairs; at least it has done far more to keep his name green, and it has made him a notable factor in the history of a business he really never entered. One of his descendants, Maury Maverick, recently published a book with the punning title, A Maverick American. The word in time came to mean, as applied to persons, one who has separated himself from the heard, or a mere stray.
A “maverick brand” was an unrecorded brand. Theoretically it would “hold” an animal on the range against being driven off, but in case theft was suspected the brand could not be fixed—by any records—on the thief. “Mavericking” graduated into a soft synonym for stealing. The illegitimate “maverickers” would sometimes slit the tongue of a suckling calf so that it could no longer suck and would soon stop following its mother. If a calf with a slit tongue were put in a pen with other calves, it could not bawl and betray its strangeness to the place. Maverickers at times killed the mother cows and hid the carcasses, thus destroying evidence of theft, for a healthy cow with a swollen bag and no calf says that some thief has stolen her baby. Again the maverickers would cut the calves off, drive them to some canyon and rasp their feet so that they could not walk back hunting their mothers. Or the feet of the cows might be rasped so that they could not follow the calves.
Just as some men fudged on the age of the calves, anticipating the time when they might become true mavericks, others would brand nothing they did not absolutely know to be their own, though they would fight to finish in holding that. Jack Potter tells how one day on a New Mexico range he roped a bull maverick that looked to be past a year old and was about to brand it when a notoriously honest cowpuncher loped up yelling for him to wait. The puncher jumped down off his horse, grabbed the young bull’s head, and went to smelling its breath. “That yearlin’ has a ma,” he said, untying the rope. “He had his liquid diet this morning.” And sure enough, the very next day, the bull yearling, who had ranged away from his ma only temporarily, was found butting her bag for more milk.
Of the millions of cattle in Texas at the close of the Civil War, none were yet out on the Great Plains; all of them were far east of the Pecos River. Perhaps a third or a fourth of these millions were unbranded. Nearly all able-bodied men, many of whom were killed, had been occupied in warfare, either in the Confederate Army or against Indians. The slave population, very sparse in all but the eastern part of the cow country, had raised cotton and grain—and rested. The women and children and old men could brand calves that stayed around the homesteads. There was nobody to ride the far ranges and work the wilder-growing cattle. During the more than four years of war, calves by the multiplied thousands had grown into twisty-horned cows and fighting bulls without having felt the rope, many of them without having seen a rider, unless perhaps a Comanche. With peace established, the catching and branding of these cattle became in some regions almost the sole occupation of the returned men and developing youth. Even then, on some of the brushy and broken frontiers, for a decade mavericks developed almost as fast as they were caught out.
They were unbelievably numerous, and, therefore, cheap. Once, in a lull of Indian raids, Andrew Gatluf Jones and some other rangers took time off in the Nueces River country and caught four hundred head of mavericks, which they drove to Bandera and sold for two dollars a head—and as a result were fired from the ranger service. They were lucky to get that two dollars a head. Kil Vickers gathered up two hundred head of mavericks and big steers without visible owners, drove them to Rockport, shipped them by boat to New Orleans—and lost $2.50 a head on the deal.
Beyond the settlements there was a wilderness of mavericks. Not long after the war closed, a boy named Vinton James (who had just been cured of chills and fever by a tumbler of whisky mixed with the fire of an even one hundred Mexican peppers) went out with some men on the big divide above the headwaters of the Llano River. The first morning of the hunt, he says, “We succeeded, after a great deal of trouble, in gathering quite a bunch of all kinds of cattle. . . . There were many mavericks, among them a number of old bulls. These bulls absolutely refused to be driven or to leave the herd. They fought so viciously when we tried to cut them out, that the men drew their pistols and guns and killed several. Then a corral was built out of cedar and captured cattle were driven into it. That night, and every night afterwards, so long as we remained at this place, we kept large fires burning around the corral so as to keep the cattle from stampeding.”
According to an old saying representing a common belief, all it took to make a cowman—an owner—was “a rope, nerve to use it and a branding iron.” It took more than that. When mavericks were thickest, markets were remote and uncertain. Any man who developed a fortune on the open range was masterful enough to control his part of it and to maintain ownership of stock widely scattered and always being further scattered unless the scatterers were held down.
In the fall of 1876 Adolph Huffmeyer, twenty years old, was drawing thirty dollars a month branding mavericks for his employers and doing cow work generally. He had seen a man brand as many as eighteen mavericks a day; he himself had tied down and run the iron on a dozen in one day—for the men who had him hired. Some maverickers got paid by the head, fifty cents or a dollar being the standard price. Young Huffmeyer decided that if he mavericked on his own hook he could average at least six long-ears a day and in the course of a few months have a herd of his own. He had saved a little money. He bought three cow ponies, took a supply of coffee, salt and meal, a can for boiling coffee in, a skillet for making corn bread in, his overcoat, which would not shed water, two blankets, a running iron and an extra rope, and went to “laying out with the dry cattle.”
He was going to be a great cowman, and he decided to make his brand commemorate the year in which he began as an owner. Onto the left side of the first maverick that he roped, he burned 7 T 6—“Seventy-six.” His mark was a smooth crop on the right ear and under halfcrop on the left. After he had roped for six weeks, his tally showed around 250 head of cattle in the 7 T 6 brand. He was averaging six mavericks a day.
Then one morning a young cowboy friend rode up on him.
“Of course, you’ve got that brand and mark recorded,” the friend said when Huffmeyer told of his success.
The mavericker didn’t know much about records, had not though of the matter. At daylight next morning he was sitting on the courthouse steps in Frio Town waiting for the county clerk.
“What brand do you want to record?” the clerk asked.
“7 T 6,” and Huffmeyer scrawled it on a piece of paper.
In Texas brands are recorded by counties, not by the state. The law is that no brand may be duplicated in any county, and a brand cannot be legally claimed unless it is legally recorded. The clerk opened his brand book and scanned the pages on which brands beginning with the figure 7 were recorded.
“Why, just the other day,” he said, “So-and-so recorded 7 T 6 as his brand with the very earmark you give.”
That settled the matter. Adolph Huffmeyer did not have any cattle. He had branded 250 head for another man.
For all the good that the other man derived from his shoddy trick, he might as well not have played it. Two hundred and fifty head of jack rabbits in the chaparral, all branded in his name, would have been of just about as much worth to him as those two hundred and fifty wild cattle, scattered from hell to breakfast in a broken, brushy country as wild as they were. Unless the owner could be represented in many cow hunts, he would never get a tenth of the animals. It took far more power to gather, sell and collect the increase from a bunch of scattered mavericks than it did to merely rope and brand them. That was just the start. The open range was for the strong, for those who could hold as well as take.
Theoretically a man had no right to start a brand unless he had some seed cows to contribute to the general crop of calves, but in an enormous country of few people and many cattle this theory was often overlooked.
Young L. T. Harmon was working for a ranchman, branding mavericks, in Live Oak County, down in the brush country.
“Why don’t you brand a few for yourself?” the ranchman generously suggested.
“Why, I don’t have a stock of cattle and have no brand,” Harmon replied.
“Start a brand.”
Harmon started a brand. He became very energetic in applying it—X X X L. After he had worked on his own hook for several months, the man who had started him off bought him out, range delivery, for a thousand dollars. “You are not leaving me enough mavericks,” he said. Having a range of his own, and being potent enough to control his own brand, he could along with it take care of the X X X L brand. One cowman often gave a dozen brands concurrently.
The average cowman did not encourage cowless cowboys to “start a brand.” In the early seventies four brothers by the name of Dunn and young Ike Hewitt were branding mavericks at four-bits a head for cowmen operating on the Gulf coast. They figured their wages against the price of cattle and decided to start a brand of their own, which they recorded and went energetically to putting on what they could rope.
The cowmen who had employed these young men to maverick now looked upon mavericking in an entirely new light. One night a small posse captured the five, led them into a thicket, strung them up, and said adiós with a volley of bullets at the swinging forms.
One bullet entered Ike Hewitt’s body; another severed the rope by which he hung. It was a cold, cold night. Hours later he came to life. Dazed, he felt the bodies of his comrades. They were as stiff as frozen fish. Hewitt made his way to a friendly family, was nursed back to health, and became a coast freighter. He wore a coonskin cap and was known as “Coonskin Ike.” He never used his full name, and he never rode a horse after that night in the thicket.
Many little owners kept their stocks of cattle under day herd, penning them at night. When spring came, they would sell off their steers and keep the calves penned by day so that the mother cows would come to them each evening. Then while the cows stayed in the pen at night, the calves would be turned out to graze.
In 1871 Dan Waggoner, who ranched in northern Texas, made a trade with Joe Loving to handle a bunch of stock cattle for him for five years on shares. A partnership brand was put on them. Of course the more increase Loving could produce, the higher would be his portion. That fall he took an outfit of men and made a raid on counties to the south.
“We gathered,” says Dot Babb, who was working for Loving, “all the big early calves we could find that were not marked or branded. We took in the mothers of some of the calves and some we did not. When we did not want the mother cows, we cut them back, and if they returned we shot them in the nose or punched them. In this way we gathered about five hundred ‘mavericks’ and branded them, turning them loose on the Wagoner range. Then Joe Loving took his outfit in another direction and brought back all the big calves he could see or get, regardless of who owned them. The citizens very soon discovered what was going on, and there was talk of mobbing Mr. Waggoner. He knew nothing of the stealing—the ‘mavericking.’ As soon as he learned the facts, he bought out Joe Loving’s interest and made a satisfactory settlement with the rightful owners”—that is, the assertive owners who could get to him and prove their rights. “In those days,” Dot Babb continues, “unbranded cattle belonged to the outfits who could get to them first and then had enough fighting men to hold and keep them.”
The cattlemen were forced to make rules fixing dates for the beginning and ending of range work. Then every owner would have an even break, and the cattle would not be continually “choused to death.” “Sooners,” as men who rushed the branding season came to be called, violated the rules of course, but still the rules helped. In the fall of 1870 the cattlemen of Palo Pinto County assembled and fixed February first of the following year as the date on which branding should begin. One cold raining day not long afterwards W. C. Cochran was deer-hunting when he came upon a rancher named Will Allen hunting mavericks—legitimate mavericks this time—with dogs. There were not then any matches in the country, and the wood was too wet for Allen to start a fire with the flint, steel and punk that every man carried. He was carrying a chunk of fire from one bunch of cattle to another. He said he had caught and branded fifteen mavericks that day.
On the twentieth of January following he and his men appeared one evening at the pens of West Edwards’ ranch with about a hundred mavericks they had brazenly gathered on the Edwards range. He went to branding them under Edwards’ eyes. Edwards rode most of the night. By four o’clock next morning he had three hands, each with a blanket, some grub in a morral, a Winchester and two six-shooters each. They were “in good shape to work cattle.” They rode to Will Allen’s range and in two days branded two hundred and fifty mavericks.
In Hood County about the same time an enterprising rancher named Haley had a pen full of big calves and yearlings ready for branding just a day ahead of the date agreed upon for the community work to start. That night an indignant owner took some men, turned the mavericks out of Haley’s pen, drove them to his own, and then notified surrounding cowmen to come. They came, the percentage of calves going to each man being based on the number of cows he was supposed to own. There was no way of telling what calf belonged to what cow, but the aggregate of branded cows had produced the aggregate of unbranded calves. The owner on the open range kept tally of the calves he branded and of whatever he sold; he estimated the annual per cent of losses; and then he had a rough idea—sometimes very rough indeed—of the number of cattle he owned.
Mavericking was a sport in which the majority of ropers prized the game more highly than the property.
“We had no wagon,” a mavericker of 1866 wrote fifty-seven years later. “Every man carried his grub in a wallet behind his saddle and his bed under his saddle. A wallet is a sack with both ends sewed up and a slit in the middle. As a boy I had to stay on herd. I carried a lot of extra wallets on behind my saddle and a string of tin cups on a rawhide hobble around my pony’s neck. Whenver the boss herder couldn’t hear those cups jingling, he would come around and wake me up. We would corral the cattle every night at some one of the owners’ homes and stand guard around the corral. I didn’t stand any guard, but I carried brush and corn-stalks and anything I could get to make a light for those who were not on guard to play poker by. They played for unbranded cattle, yearlings at fifty cents a head, and the top price for any class was five dollars a head. If a man ran out of cattle and had a little money, he could get back in the game. For ten dollars, say, he could get a stack of yearlings. My compensation for light was two-bits a night, or as long as the game lasted. Every few days they would divide up and brand the mavericks and each owner would take his cattle home”—perhaps to day-herd them, penning them every night so that they would get gentle and locate permanently on his range—perhaps never to see them again.
The year 1869 was exceptionally wet in southern Texas. “You could almost travel in a skiff across the prairies from Houston to Corpus Christi.” It was also a fine year for mavericks. That fall Jim (J. N.) Jones, who ranched on the San Miguel Creek in Frio County, threw in with five other men for a maverick hunt. They took along a nest egg of gentle cattle and were able to “ease” many mavericks into the herd without having to rope them. They held what they caught, intending to brand them at the end of the work. A lone mavericker or a pair of maverickers could not operate in this way, but a cow crowd could. After having hunted for a week or ten days, Jones and his companions got back to the San Miguel late one drizzly evening with 260 mavericks, and shut them in the muddy pens.
As the hungry and wet maverickers sat down in the warm kitchen to a supper of hot biscuits, fried steak, and beans and bacon with plenty of black coffee, the rain began to pour. After supper they started playing poker, mavericks making the stakes. Each of the six men was provided with forty-three frijoles, each bean representing a maverick, the two undividable animals being left for future disposition. The game of freeze-out to see who should have all the 260 mavericks began to get warm.
After it had gone on for some time and Mrs. Jones was through washing the dishes, she came to the table and called attention to the rain. “It is a regular waterspout,” she said. “With the ground already soaked, the San Miguel is getting up into the pens. I know it is.”
There was no move on the part of the gamblers. The woman’s eagerness to break the game up, and thus forestall the chance of her husband’s losing his share of the property, was plain. “The cattle are all in danger of being drowned,” she went on.
The men continued playing. Here was something, for the moment, more interesting than rain or cattle. An hour passed. The rain was still falling in sheets. Again Mrs. Jones went to the gamblers. “Don’t you hear those cattle bawling?” she said, her voice high. “They are in distress. I know they are. You had better stop and see about them. Those pens are in low ground.”
“The water will never get up into the pens,” Jim Jones answered. “I built them above the high-water mark. Let the cows low and the bulls beller. . . . Raise you a maverick.”
More time passed. Then suddenly Mrs. Jones exclaimed, “Look, the water is coming up into the floor. The San Miguel is raging like the Mississippi.”
Now the men stopped, each making count of the beans he had left. The deluge had slacked a little. Peering out, they were aware of a vast expanse of raging waters. They went to the pens, which were made of mesquite logs, the gates being barred with poles. The cattle were moaning and bawling. As the men approached, they heard that clicking of horns and snuffing that told them the mavericks were packed in a mill—were circling like a whirlpool. Flashes of lightning revealed a crazy mass of cattle wound into such a tight ball that a rabbit could not have squeezed to the center from the outside. Doubtless some of the cattle in the center were already down and being smothered and trampled to death. The men tried to break the mill but they simply could not. The only way to break it was to open the gate and get the cattle headed out. The waters of the San Miguel were already a foot deep in the pen.
Turning a maverick, not yet branded, out on the open range was like throwing a dollar into the open sea. The men hastily saddled horses, pulled down the bars, and prepared to do the best they could to hold them when the mavericks should bolt for freedom. The water had risen perceptibly. Not an animal would notice the open gateway. The horsemen rode against the mass. They could not budge it. Again the heaven opened. The flooded creek was rising fast. Jones and his friends now became alarmed for the household. They found Mrs. Jones and her children on the table, water two feet deep on the floor. They were carried to high land. By daylight the water had taken the roof off the house.
When the San Miguel subsided, a few of the 260 drowned mavericks were about the remains of the pen. Most of them had been washed away. The game of freeze-out poker was never finished.
There were other ways of seeing who should take “the whole caboodle.”
When Seco Smith built his cabin on the creek in Medina County that still bears his name—the Seco—he had been a forty-niner. Once, on a scout out from San Antonio, he had lost the tracks of the Indians, though he was a noted trailer, because bears hunting Mexican persimmons were so thick they covered up all sign. Soon after building his cabin he married a young woman whom the Comanches had lanced, scalped and left for dead but who recovered sufficiently to help Seco raise a considerable family of children. At the age of eighty-six he had his third wife and fifteen living children, three or four of them still in the yearling age. When, in his palmy days, he came in occasionally to San Antonio, he’d give a warwhoop on Alamo Plaza that echoed against the cathedral walls on Military Plaza half a mile away. He was strong, wiry and untamed like the country—the country of mavericks.
One time Seco, George Redus, Lon Moore and perhaps another rancher or two went on a maverick hunt in the Frio Canyon country. At the conclusion of the hunt George Redus and Lon Moore, each of whom had thirty animals coming to him, decided to shoot at a mark with six-shooters to see which would take the other’s booty. Redus won. Seco Smith then bantered him to shoot for thirty mavericks—and won. Characteristically, he gave the thirty back to his boon compadre Moore.
If it had not been for the Indians, the mavericks, which went on breeding more mavericks, would have been more quickly branded up. In the Palo Pinto country Indians kept ranchers afoot most of the time. Five of the Cowden boys and three neighboring Bradford boys began their mavericking operations barefooted and afoot. This was in 1867. These eight boys, with a man to bring up the drags, would get around a bunch of cows and manage them into a pen. What they could not pen they would catch with two dogs named Buck and Tige. Jeff Cowden could run the fastest, and he always took the lead. He was the only one of the brothers that did not make a fortune. After the Indians were cleared out and he had all the horses he could ride, he kept on running. He roped the smokestack of the first steam engine run over the railroad built into his country.
A good “catch dog” was prized as highly as a good horse. There were dogs so well trained and so intelligent that upon sighting a bunch of cattle they would single out the only maverick in it and hold it by the nose until a man arrived and roped it. Some maverickers, instead of roping, tailed their quarry down. To run up on a flying cow so that the rider could catch her tail, wrap it around his leg or the horn of his saddle, and then swerve with a jerk in such a way that she would have the “wind busted out of her” required a good horse, well trained.
After cattle became valuable and a pushing population afforded contenders, mavericks in the long run meant more trouble than prosperity.
In the seventies, Jake and Joel English with a hired Mexican vaquero were mavericking in the Carrizo Springs country west of the Nueces River. Population was not pushing very strong in that neck of the brush country at the time.
“One day,” Jake English remembered, “we rode down a white-brush draw hoping to scare out something, when all of a sudden my horse, which was in the lead, gave a snort and a lunge to one side. There, swelled up on the ground bigger’n a skinned mule, was a dead sorrel horse.
“He had a bullet hole in his forehead. A few steps off was a two-year-old brown maverick bull with a lobo stripe down his back shot through the head also. On the other side of the horse from the bull was a new saddle hanging from the limb of a mesquite tree. Near it a new saddle blanket, grey with red stripes, was spread over two or three limbs so as to make a shade. Lying on his back under this blanket, was a man. A good hat covered his face. On his feet were a pair of fine shopmade boots, the Petmecky spurs still on the heels. He was dead with a bullet through his heart. He was a white man. We didn’t know him. We didn’t know who had killed him. The maverick bull explained in a general way. Whoever did the killing had made a neat job of arranging the corpse. Then he had ridden on. It wasn’t any of our business. We rode on also, after mavericks.”
John Champion, while mavericking on the Arroyo Tortuga in the same region, roped a dun maverick bull, only to discover that the thick brush he had been running through had grabbed his little branding iron. He tied the bull securely. The next day when he came back to brand it, the bull was gone. Near by Champion saw fresh horse tracks. After he had followed them a short distance, he heard brush popping and raking leather. He went to the sound.
A Mexican was leading the dun bull, though he had his own rawhide reata and not Champion’s on it. The Mexican said he had found the bull running free on the range. Champion, with six-shooter drawn, called him a liar and several other things, told him he had stolen the bull from the tree, and made a dead shot. Then he put a bullet into the bull at the base of the ear. There was a kind of prejudice against a maverick that had brought on a killing. The most famous example in Texas and the whole West was the maverick branded M U R D E R.
In 1890 most of the trans-Pecos country was still unfenced, and in the timbered and brushed roughs plenty of Longhorn blood still ran wild. On January 28 of that year the small cattle owners operating around the Leoncita waterholes in northern Brewster County—which is as large as some states, taking in most of the proposed Big Bend National Park—held a roundup to brand what calves had escaped the fall work. Between two and three thousand cattle were thrown together in the herd.
The chief operators in this part of the country were Dubois and Wentworth. They did not approve of such early work and were taking no part in it, but one of their riders named Fine Gilleland was present to represent their interests.
Among the “little men” was Henry Harrison Powe. He was a Mississippian who had left college to fight in the Confederate Army and was one-armed as a result. He had come to Texas during the hard-handed Reconstruction days. Not many miles from the roundup grounds he had buried the body—eleven bullet holes in it—of a murdered nephew. He was considered an honest man, not at all contentious. His brand was H H P.
In the roundup, among other branded animals, was a brindle yearling bull. It was not following any cow, but the roundup boss and another range man informed Powe that the bull belonged to a certain H H P cow. They had seen him with the cow and knew both animals well by flesh marks. “Are you positive?” Powe asked. They said they would swear to the brindle’s identity. Then Powe rode into the herd and cut the brindle out, heading him into a small cut of cows and calves being held by his own son.
Very soon after this, Fine Gilleland galloped up to the cut. “Does that brindle bull have a mother here?” he asked the boy sharply.
“No,” the boy replied, “but the boss told Father it belongs to an H H P cow.”
“He’ll play hell taking it unless he produces the cow,” Gilleland retorted. Then, without another word, he separated the brindle and ran him back to the main herd.
Powe saw the bull coming, followed by Gilleland. He rode out and the two men passed some words not heard by others. Then Powe turned back into the roundup and started to cut the brindle out again. Gilleland made straight towards him. Halted in the middle of the herd, the two men had some more words. They were very brief. Powe was unarmed. He rode to the far side of the herd and borrowed a six-shooter out of a friend’s saddle pocket.
Back into the herd Powe now rode, found the brindle bull and started him for the H H P cut, following him out. Midway between the cut and the big herd, Fine Gilleland met them. He roped at the bull but missed. Powe pulled his six-shooter and shot at the bull but missed. By the time, Gilleland was off his horse shooting at Powe to kill. He killed.
Gilleland now remounted and left the roundup in a run. In all probability he was honest in claiming the brindle maverick for his employers. Perhaps he hoped to make a reputation. There was a strong tendency on the range for little owners to “feed off” any big outfit in their country. The big spreads sometimes hired men to be hard.
The Powe boy rode immediately to Alpine to notify rangers of the killing. Meanwhile men remaining with the roundup branded-out the calves and yearlings, the H H P stock included.
When the brindle bull was dragged up to the branding fire, there was a short discussion. He was thrown on his right side. Then a man with a running iron burned deep into the shaggy, winter hair on his left side the letters M U R D E R. The letters ran across the ribs from shoulder to flank.
“Turn him over,” the man said. The bull was turned over. With a fresh iron the man branded on the right side, JAN 28 90. The bull was not castrated or earmarked.
A few days later two rangers killed Gilleland in the mountains. What happened to the brindle maverick, with that brand that no one would claim, is not so definitely settled. R. W. Powe, the son of the man who was killed, whose account of the matter has been followed in this narrative, says that the Murder Bull was eventually driven out of the country with a trail herd bound for Montana.
Whether he was or not, many stories still circulate over the wide spaces of the trans-Pecos country about “the maverick branded M U R D E R“; How for years he wandered a lone outcast on the range, never seen with other cattle, and, for that matter, seldom seen at all. How he turned prematurely grey, the hair over the scabs of his bizarre brand showing a coarse red. How cowboys in the bunkhouse at the Dubois and Wentworth ranch one night saw the bull’s head come through an open window; he was looking, they imagined, for the man responsible for that brand of horror traced on his own side. Some brands grow in size with the growth of animals; generally they do not. According to the stories, the M U R D E R brand grew until the elongated letters stood out in enormous dimensions, making one familiar with literature think of the pitiless Scarlet Letter that blazoned on Hester Prynne’s breast and in the soul of every being who looked upon it.
The Murder Maverick became a “ghost steer.” A cowboy might see him, usually about dusk; and then he “just wasn’t there.” There were some who did not want to see him. Eugene Cunningham, Barry Scobee and perhaps other writers have woven “the murder steer” into Wild West stories for the pulp magazines. The gray Confederate coat with slit sleeve worn by the murdered Powe of one arm is in the little college museum at Alpine, under the mountains where the roundup was held, JAN 28 90. That brindle bull hide with the outlandish brand on it really would be a museum piece.
“Maverick steer,” a phrase often come upon in fiction, is a contradiction of terms. A bull calf or yearling is turned into a steer—a bull of some age, into a stag—by the simple process of removing his testicles. When a bull is castrated on the range, he is invariably earmarked and branded or—in the occasional absence of iron or fire—at least marked. He is then no longer a maverick; he is a steer, though he may be wilder than he was in the maverick stage. Science does not record examples of males being born without testicles. Nevertheless, according to family tradition, John Mercer while killing wild cattle to supply beef for Sam Houston’s army, during the Texas Revolution, shot a very large and fat “maverick steer.”
It does not take a range man to understand why various Western states passed laws strictly defining a maverick and making mavericks and orphan calves of the open range public property to be disposed of according to law.
A stockman finding an unbranded animal a year old, or older, in his fenced pasture, where only his own cattle range and breed, calls it nowadays a maverick, though there can be little question of ownership.
About the opening of this century, the Leahy family had a ranch, well fenced, of ten or twelve thousand acres along the lower Nueces River in the thickest part of the brush country of Texas. Their cattle were so wild, the brush was so thick and the river water so uncontrollable that, though they had introduced graded bulls, maverick Longhorn bulls kept the old strain going. To clean out all this outlaw stock, the Leahys finally fenced off about three thousand acres against the river, where the outlaws were concentrated. They caught what they could with dogs and ropes. Everything that was roped fought. A two-year-old heifer when she hit the end of a rope would bounce back charging man and horse with the ferocity of a bull. One such heifer—black, mealy-nosed and line-backed—jabbed her dagger-pointed horn through the heavy leather leggins worn by the brush hand who roped her, through the calf of his leg, and into the vitals of his horse, completely disemboweling him.
By 1900 steer horns of the old length and size had become scarce. In the Leahy thickets were steers with prize horns, old mossy-heads that by day laid up in brush utterly impenetrable to horse and man. At night they would stalk forth on little openings, where they bawled long and mournfully, expressing to the starts their fierce wildness and the utter loneliness of the liberty that their aboriginal strength, their ceaseless wariness, their primitive instincts and keen senses preserved to them. No rider of moonlight or dawn could slip up within a rope’s length of them on the circumscribed opening where they pawed the earth like bulls and bellowed their challenges. Age and bullets could alone remove them from the range. The Leahys were determined to clear them out. Hunters with high-powered rifles came from Kansas City and other places, to shoot them for their mighty heads. Thus ended the day of their destiny, though here and there, in the Mexican part of the great brasada, or brush country, a sprinkling of Longhorn mavericks and branded outlaws endured some years longer—for a similar fate.
The Longhorns
center>
The Young Lawyer · The Texan · The Revolutionaries · Maverick Escapes Death · A Pioneer Bride · The Council House Massacre · Maverick Goes to Prison · Chihuahua Expedition · Maverick and Another War · The Maverick Heritage
Introduction
In a Frontier Society, where intellectual and educational attainments were ever rare, one with such qualities as Samuel Maverick became the indispensable man. Lawyer, businessman, landholder, and for decades a public servant in various levels of government, his accomplishments would be recognized by any generation; but his particular combination of courageousness and restlessness marked him as a natural leader for San Antonio in its years of turbulence.
Although among the first in the tradition of Texas boosters, he favored the annexation of Texas by the United States rather than continuance as an independent republic, and he favored union rather than secession prior to 1860.
Maverick became one of the great empire builders of Texas and a wealthy man. His dedication to San Antonio resulted in many personal sacrifices—the loss of personal property when the enemy invaded, gifts of money to needy persons, and always the contribution of his time and energy to the town, the Republic, and later the state of Texas.
That Samuel Maverick took a day-to-day matter-of-fact attitude in his approach to numerous hardships on the Texas frontier should suggest to the young reader in the twentieth century a valid and common sense approach to his own daily problems in a turbulent world. Indeed, this is the thesis of the authors, Kathryn and Irwin Sexton.
Mrs. Sexton had been unable to locate an appropriate book on Samuel Maverick when her young son developed an interest in this progenitor of many distinguished San Antonians. She reported her chagrin to her husband, who suggested that she begin the task of preparing such a book herself.
There resulted, as a joint enterprise, this account of a man who, in war and in economic depression, kept faith in the future of the town to which he returned from diverse adventures which were as dangerous as they are exciting for the present-day reader. Mr. and Mrs. Sexton have not ignored the contributions of Maverick’s wife Mary, a pioneer gentlewoman whose spirit equaled that of her husband, and whose Memoirs provided the springboard for this biography for young people.
James W. Laurie, President
Trinity University
November, 1963
Samuel A. Maverick, famous Texan, lived during his boyhood on a peaceful plantation in South Carolina. If he played Indians and soldiers as American boys have always done, he probably did not dream that he would one day live under the continual threat of Indians on the warpath. Nor would he have thought it possible that someday he would be shooting at Mexican soldiers from the rooftop of his own home. While studying law as a young man, he could not see ahead to the day he would help write the constitution for the Republic of Texas; and the peaceful years he spent at Yale University were in surroundings far different than those he was to find later in a Mexican prison.
Samuel A. Maverick’s life might not have been as exciting, dangerous and adventurous, if he had not heard about Texas at a time when he was wondering what he should do with his life. He had intended to be a lawyer. In fact, after graduating from Yale, he had set up a law practice in Pendleton, South Carolina, in 1829. He wanted to go into politics, too. However, at this time many South Carolinians were urging that their state secede from the United States. They were aroused by the tariff laws which they felt were very unfair to the South. Both Samuel A. Maverick and his father, Samuel Maverick, were against this drastic move. Tempers were high, and Samuel and his father were active in the fight to keep South Carolina in the Union. They wrote letters to newspapers, debated at public meetings and worked hard to change public opinion. At one meeting, the elder Maverick was making a speech in answer to John C. Calhoun’s arguments for secession. A young man in the audience called out slurring remarks about the speaker. Samuel, or Sam as he was called, was so angered by those taunts directed at his father that he challenged the young man to a duel. He wounded the man, and then took him into his home to care for him. Like many another young man, Sam was quick to fight; but would have followed a duel in which they were victorious by caring for their opponent. His readiness to fight for what he believed to be right would lead him to strange places before his life was over.
That duel was a turning point in young Maverick’s life. He realized then that as long as he was so opposed to the politics of the times he had little hope of being successful in public life. He withdrew from politics, from the practice of law, and from the state of South Carolina! At his father’s suggestion he moved to Alabama to manage the estates of his widowed sister, Elizabeth Weyman.
Samuel A. Maverick came from a fairly well-to-do family. His father had taken an active part in the business life of Charleston, South Carolina. He is said to have been the first one to ship American cotton to England. He had retired to a quiet plantation, Montpelier, in Pendleton, South Carolina, because the climate was a more healthful one for his children. He owned much land, some of which he had signed over to his children, Samuel Augustus (born July 23, 1803), Elizabeth (born 1807), Lydia (born 1814). He found happiness in his quiet plantation life and became well known as a horticulturist. No doubt he was relieved to turn over some of the management of his and his daughter’s affairs to his son. His wife, born Elizabeth Anderson of Virginia, had died when Samuel Augustus was fifteen years old.
Although very little is known of Sam’s early life, it is apparent from reading the letters between him and his father that there was much affection between them. Samuel Maverick continued to give advice to his son long after he left home, but love and pride shine through his letters.
The management of Elizabeth’s estates did not hold Samuel A. Maverick’s interest for long. Restlessly he toured the North and visited his married sister, Lydia Van Wyck. He went to New Orleans on a business trip. In this busy port town everyone was talking about Texas which at the time belonged to Mexico, and had only been opened up to American settlers since 1820. Like many other restless young men of that time, he decided he must see the fabulous place for himself. This proved to be more than a decision to take a trip, for the pattern of his life was to be changed completely. Texas captured his imagination and fired his ambition. Texas truly became his home—he fought for it, worked for it and loved it.
Maverick was excited by Texas, but it was the little town of San Antonio which completely won him to this new land. San Antonio was the only town of any size in the length and breadth of Texas. Velasco, on the coast, was the first Texas town he visited and there were only eight or ten families living there. The country was sparsely settled with a few isolated farms between the small settlements. While travelling he came down with malaria, and friends suggested he go to San Antonio, which had a more healthful climate.
The atmosphere and beauty of the little Spanish-Mexican town immediately charmed Maverick when he arrived in San Antonio on September 8, 1835. Although the population was under three thousand at the time, the town had a varied and colorful history. It was originally founded by the Spanish in 1718 as a fort (Presidio de Bexar), and a mission (San Antonio de Valero). The Spanish felt it was an excellent place for a settlement because of the plentiful water supplied by the San Pedro Springs and the San Antonio River. A group of colonists from the Canary Islands had also been sent to this site, and they named their settlement San Fernando de Bexar. Frequently it was called just Bexar or Bejar. Maverick usually referred to it as Bejar in his journals.
It is not surprising that San Antonio had the charm of a foreign city to Maverick, because the Spanish and Mexican influences were very apparent. He admired the charming manners of the Mexicans and their gaiety. He liked the way the adobe and stone buildings were built around open plazas. He was interested in the less prosperous homes, quaint log houses built of mesquite posts with roofs of straw or tule (a kind of rush).
No doubt, too, Maverick enjoyed the beauty of the cypresses which bordered the San Antonio River, and the quiet charm of the missions. The missions had been established by the Franciscan Fathers to teach the Indians Christianity and Spanish ways of farming. By 1800 the Franciscans had given up their mission work, but the mission churches were still used as churches. The best known was the one established as Mission San Antonio de Valero, the original name which was all but forgotten. The Mexican cavalry stationed on the mission grounds in the early 1800’s was called El Alamo from the name of the town where it was recruited, San Jose Santiago del Alamo de Parras. Mission San Antonio de Valero was soon called the Alamo. It was to play an important part in Maverick’s life, and in the history of San Antonio and of Texas.
Samuel A. Maverick, of course, quickly learned of the part San Antonio had played in the Mexican revolt from Spain. In the hands of first the Mexican army, then the Spanish army, it had been the scene of much fighting the discord. The revolution was drawn out from 1811 to 1821, when Mexico finally won its independence. The year before, 1820, Mexico had finally given permission to Moses Austin to settle Americans in Texas. He died shortly after that and his son, Stephen F. Austin, took over his work.
San Antonio, which had been nearly deserted at times during the Mexican Revolution, was beginning to grow and prosper when Samuel A. Maverick arrived there at the age of thirty-two. Although conditions forced him to travel far from there at times and to live away from it for many years, San Antonio was truly his home town. He contributed much to its growth and development.
It had taken Maverick from April 22 to September 8 to reach San Antonio. This was not only because of the slowness of travel by horseback, boat or wagon, but also because he stopped often along the way. He visited, he studied the land and he did business. He bought a parcel of land near Cox’s Point, the first of many he was to buy in Texas. From everyone he heard about the Texan quarrels with Mexican rule.
Mexico had won its independence from Spain, but now Maverick realized another revolution was brewing. Many of the Mexican laws were as oppressive to the Mexicans living in Texas as to the Americans. Mexico’s capital was far away, and it was hard to transact government business. Texans did not like the immigration laws which had been passed in the 1830’s to keep American settlers from coming to Texas in too great numbers. They wanted the more liberal Mexican Constitution of 1824 and not the harsher regime of Dictator Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. There was an ever-growing number of people who were saying that the only way to bring about a more just government and the re-establishment of the 1824 constitution was to take up arms and fight.
Like many other Americans who had come to Texas out of curiosity or to find success in business ventures, Maverick soon found himself caught up in the turbulence of the times. These Americans, now Texans, were used to a democratic and representative type of government, and they were willing to fight for what they believed to be their rights.
Even if Maverick had not been an ardent believer in the Texan cause, his imprisonment by the brutal Mexicans would have made him one. Although he recorded the event in his journals factually and not emotionally, it must have shocked Maverick to find himself a captive of the Mexicans just a few short weeks after his arrival in San Antonio. He was rooming with John W. Smith when Generals Martin Perfecto de Cos and Domingo de Ugartechea marched into San Antonio. They put both Maverick and Smith under guard in Smith’s house. The two generals had been ordered to San Antonio by Dictator Santa Anna. If he thought they could put out the spark of rebellion, he found he was mistaken. The militant Texans were now more than ever determined to fight.
In order to recapture San Antonio, Texan forces gathered at Mission Concepcion just outside of San Antonio. They could scarcely be called forces, this Texas army. They were volunteers, poorly organized, but eager to fight. Their commander, Stephen F. Austin, however, decided to wait for more men before attacking.
The fact that Austin was willing to lead troops against Mexico was in itself a sign that conditions in Texas had become deplorable. For years he had been a loyal citizen of Mexico. He had carefully obeyed all its laws when he was given permission to settle Americans in Texas. Then he had been imprisoned for months in Mexico because of his colonization activities. After that experience he saw the hopelessness of Texas’ remaining a part of Mexico. He had previously been very much against the Texas “war party,” but now he answered “yes” when asked to command the troops. He was not a military man by nature or training.
When the Texas Congress asked Austin to seek help for the revolutionists in the United States, he gave up his command to General Edward Burleson. Burleson, like Austin, waited. The Americans within San Antonio were waiting, too. Although under guard, Maverick had kept in touch with the Texas troops by sending notes back and forth with a dependable Mexican boy.
In his journal Maverick wrote how impatient he was at the situation. He could see the Mexicans fortifying the town. Cannons were being mounted at the Alamo. The streets were being well guarded. Underbrush, trees, fences—anything that could be a lurking place for Texan spies and soldiers—were being cut down. It would have been much easier to retake San Antonio with two hundred men, he wrote on November 3, 1835, than it was going to be with the fifteen hundred men Austin and Burleson were hoping would join them.
The Texan army had waited about six weeks, but they might have waited even longer if General Cos had not released Smith and Maverick. Their release was based on Smith’s promise that they would soon go back to the United States, but soon proved to be not soon enough for the Mexicans! Maybe Maverick and Smith intended to keep their promise, but first they wanted to visit their friends in the Texas camp.
Once in camp, Maverick urged the already restless men to act, and volunteered to lead them into the town. After he talked, there was much discussion. First a decision was made by the officers to attack, and then the order was cancelled. He was dejected and angry at the delay and so were many of the men. Finally, Colonel Benjamin R. Milam is said to have stepped forward and asked, “Who will go with old Ben Milam into San Antonio?” Over two hundred men volunteered. At that time there were about seven hundred men in camp. Maverick estimated that over two thousand men had been there through the waiting period, but had drifted away when no action had been taken.
Just before daylight on December 5, 1835, led by Milam and Frank W. Johnson and guided by Maverick and Smith, the Texans stole into San Antonio. Maverick knew the town well, although he had only been there a short time. He knew the strength of the Mexican forces and the fortifications they had made. He even had a plan of attack. No one can be sure what the plan was, but he mentioned in his journal that he had suggested one to Austin.
Four days the battle raged. House to house they fought, and room to room. They advanced by inches as they broke through the stone walls which were usually four to five feet thick. The Americans seemed to know which houses were strategic points. Was this perhaps the plan Maverick had suggested to Austin? Some people think it might have been.
Milam was killed on the third day as he entered the Veramendi House. (A daughter of the Veramendis was married to the famous Jim Bowie.) Maverick caught Milam in his arms as he fell. So greatly did the Texans admire and depend on Milam that they tried to keep news of his death from as many of the men as possible. The doors of the Veramendi House were later placed in the Alamo. This relic of one of the battles in the Texan fight for freedom is fittingly displayed in the Alamo, “Shrine of Texas Liberty.”
Although Milam was dead, General Burleson by that time had joined his men and assumed leadership of the attack. On the fifth day of fighting, Cos was captured. Maverick was a witness to the articles of capitulation signed by General Cos. The ancient adobe house in which the surrender was signed is known as the Cos House. It still stands today in La Villita, or Little Town, in San Antonio, and is visited yearly by thousands of tourists. A grandson of Maverick, Maury Maverick, was responsible for preserving this historic area.
The Texans could not possibly take care of over one thousand prisoners. Cos and his men were allowed to return to their own country after promising they would not fight against the re-establishment of the constitution of 1824. The Texans need not have bothered insisting on this promise. It wasn’t kept.
With San Antonio once again secure, most of the Texans left. Some joined General Sam Houston, now commanding the army of Texas, who was stationed near Goliad. Houston knew his army was too small and too ill-prepared to defend Texas against another Mexican attack which he was certain would come up too soon. He needed arms, men and time. He did not want to split up his forces by sending more men to the Alamo. Nor did he want the Mexicans to seize the cannon there for their own use or use the Alamo as a fort. For these reasons he gave orders to move the cannon to Gonzales and to destroy the Alamo. But the orders were never carried out. Colonel James Bowie delivered Houston’s message to Colonel William B. Travis. Travis, the Alamo commander, did not obey these orders, but pleaded for more men. It was his firm belief that Santa Anna could be stopped at San Antonio, the first important settlement in Texas north of the Rio Grande River and Mexico. Even if they were defeated, he reasoned that the Mexicans would be delayed long enough for Houston to muster and train more men. Bowie agreed with him and stayed on at the Alamo.
Texas had so recently been opened up to Americans that everyone, it seemed, was a newcomer. Reputations were quickly established. Maverick had already proved his loyalty to the Texan cause and his qualities of leadership in the battle to retake San Antonio from General Cos. The men of San Antonio recognized in the slender young lawyer qualities of courage and intelligence, and they elected him in February, 1836, to represent them in the convention. This convention had been called to decide if Texas were to remain an independent state, faithful to the Mexican government under the constitution of 1824, or if it were to declare itself a free and sovereign nation.
Sam Maverick might well have been among his new friends who died as heroes in the battle of the Alamo. It was not lack of courage or a desire to avoid fighting which took him from the tragic scene. Travelling on horseback was a slow process and the convention in Washington-on-the-Brazos, one hundred and fifty miles away, had been called for March 1. Maverick had already started for the convention when the Mexican troops were sighted.
The Texans had heard that the Mexican army, commanded by Santa Anna himself, was on the move; but they did not realize how quickly it was approaching. The lookout sighted Mexican troops on February 23, 1836. Quickly the little band of one hundred and eighty-three men fortified themselves behind the walls of the Alamo and the siege began.
The valiant band of Texans—under the leadership of Travis, the famous Jim Bowie and the legendary Davy Crockett—withstood the siege of over twenty-four hundred Mexicans for thirteen days. On the morning of March 6, the Mexicans finally made an all-out attack on the weary men. Every man in the Alamo was killed. Only a few Mexican women, a slave boy, an American woman, Mrs. Almeron Dickinson, and her baby escaped death.
The men of the Alamo died for the freedom of Texas and set an example of bravery for the whole world, but in those days of slow communication they perished unaware that the Declaration of Independence had been signed on March 2. They did not know that their delegates had declared: “Our political connection with the Mexican nation has forever ended; and that the people of Texas do now constitute a free Sovereign and independent republic….” Because of floods, Maverick and two other delegates from San Antonio, Jose Antonio Navarro and Francisco Ruiz, had not reached Washington-on-the-Brazos until March 3. They were permitted to sign their names to the historic document, however. Maverick was the only one to sign with the name of his town, and he added after his signature “from Bejar.”
Maverick stayed on at the convention as the delegates went about the difficult task of drawing up a constitution for the new nation of Texas. It was patterned after the Constitution of the United States and those of several of the states. It was said of Maverick by a fellow delegate, William Menefee, that he conducted himself as a statesman and a diplomat. His legal training and his wise political judgment contributed much to the convention. He was not a man to make a show of his knowledge and learning; but, as Menefee pointed out, it could be seen in all that he did and said. Another signer, Stephen W. Blount, wrote that when Maverick believed he was right, his strong will made him a determined man. And he was determined that Texas should be free of Mexico.
Texas had a constitution and governing officers by March 17, 1836, when the convention ended, but Santa Anna had not yet been defeated. It was not until April 21 at San Jacinto that General Sam Houston and his men defeated the Mexican forces in a surprise attack.
After the battle of San Jacinto, Maverick journeyed back to the United States to visit his family. By that time the tragic and heroic story of the Alamo had been heard by all America. Great was the joy of his family when they saw him.
Because of a handkerchief dropped on a muddy road, Maverick did not return to Texas as quickly as he had planned! While visiting his sister in Alabama, he rode out one day on horseback. Passing on the other side of a mudhole was a pretty young woman who dropped her handkerchief. Sam dismounted and picked it up for Mary Anne Adams. After this meeting he courted her for four months. They were married in August, 1836. Those who thought Maverick a reserved man would have been surprised at the keepsake Mary found among her husband’s things after his death. Even she had not known that he kept a piece of the green muslin dress she was wearing the day they met.
Samuel’s glowing accounts of life in Texas and San Antonio made his tall blonde bride anxious to see her new home. She must have had some doubts too, after hearing stories of the Cos attack, the Comanche Indian raids and the battle of the Alamo. Travel was slow and full of hardships and inconveniences. Eighteen-year-old Mary worried at the great distance that lay between Texas and her home, Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Over a year passed while they visited their families and Maverick transacted his business.
When they did start out for Texas it took them two months, from December 7, 1837, to February 4, 1838, to get there. In the party were their infant son, Sam, who had been born in October. Mary Anne’s fifteen-year-old brother, Robert, six Negro servants and four of their children. They made quite a procession with their large carriage, a wagon, three saddle horses and a filly. In the wagon were the tent, their supplies, bedding—and the children. It was a long, hard journey. They stopped frequently to rest or to do the washing. Sometimes they had to wait for muddy roads to dry, and one swamp fourteen miles wide took four days to cross.
Mary must have often wondered, “When will we ever get to San Antonio?” Even when they arrived in Texas, she had to wait four months to see the picturesque town she was to call home. Samuel left her in Spring Hill on the Navidad River while he went on to see if San Antonio was safe. There was always the threat of invading Mexican troops, because Mexico continued to claim Texas and disregarded her independence. In addition, the Comanche Indians were unfriendly and made frequent raids on the town.
Maverick wrote back to Spring Hill frequently and apologized for his long delay. One of the reasons he had gone to San Antonio was to buy some land there. He was having a difficult time, he told her. There were legal technicalities complicating land purchases. He complained also that land speculators were causing all sorts of problems. He missed her greatly, he assured her again and again, but their financial future depended on his staying. The letters of Sam to Mary were often a combination of love and business!
In June when Maverick finally came to get her, all the stories Mary had heard about unfriendly Indians must have come vividly to her mind. One day as they were breaking up camp to continue on their way to San Antonio, a band of Tonkawa Indians rode up. They were coming back victorious from a battle with the Comanches. They were dressed in war paint, armed, and were displaying two scalps. These frightening men asked Mary to let them see her little “papoose,” the baby Sam. She was frightened, but had the courage to say no when they wanted her to hand the baby out of the carriage to them. This was the first test of the bravery she was to show many times during the years to come. She did not show her fear. She held her baby up so the Indians might see, but she also kept her pistol and knife in sight so they would know she was prepared to defend him. All this time she kept urging Griffin, the servant, to hurry. It is easy to see why! Maverick showed his usual courage, too, and kept right on working with his men to get their equipment and possessions loaded as quickly as possible. As they left the camp site Mary’s hopes that the Indians would go in the other direction were not fulfilled. The Indians accompanied them most of the night. Toward morning they left, and the rest of the journey passed without any incidents.
Texans have a reputation for boasting of their state, and Maverick was no exception. Mary’s brother, Williams Adams, was so excited by Sam’s stories that he had gone on to San Antonio ahead of them. His being there made Mary’s arrival seem less strange.
William did not make a success of the store he owned and soon left San Antonio, though he returned later.
To have Mexicans as her only friends was an unusual experience for Mary. She wondered why other Americans didn’t come to San Antonio, because they were settling in other parts of Texas. Maverick suggested that the thought of possible Indian and Mexican attacks was one reason. It was a real frontier town, she wrote home to her mother. There were still marks of bullets and cannon balls on the walls of many of the buildings.
When the Maverick family first arrived in town, they lived in a house directly across from the site of what is now the Bexar County Courthouse, but moved from there into another house. In 1839 they moved into their own home, where their second son, Lewis, was born. The main house had three rooms, and the kitchen and servants’ quarters were separate. It was quite an establishment with a picket fence around the garden and grounds going down to the river. A fitting establishment, though, for the mayor of the town. In 1839, Samuel Maverick’s leadership was once again recognized and he was elected mayor. San Antonio had been incorporated in January, 1837, with an area of thirty-six square miles.
Samuel Maverick, it has been said, never sought public office, nor ever electioneered for it; but from 1836 to 1867 he continually held some public office for his town and for his state. He was a scrupulously honest man, a man of learning, and had a statesman’s wise and objective attitude. Undoubtedly his law training helped him carry out his public duties, but it was his staunch and upright character that made him a leader, and it was his love for San Antonio and Texas which made him accept these public duties.
Perhaps if Maverick had lived today, he would have conducted his land transactions in an office and made decisions based on surveyors’ and engineers’ reports. Perhaps not, though, for Maverick greatly enjoyed the surveying camp. He was keenly interested in buying up land and was frequently away from home on survey trips. These excursions were a combination of hard work and fun for him. They were also very dangerous, because away from town there was always the threat of Indians. One time in 1839 when he left with a survey party, Mary made him promise that he would be back by a certain day. He kept his promise and returned with one or two others of the party. The night after they left camp, all but one of the group they left behind were killed by Indians.
Business frequently took Maverick to Alabama and South Carolina. The trips were long, and must have seemed even longer to Mary, left alone with the children, than they did to him. Although mail service was slow and irregular, he wrote often. The letters reveal him as a loving and good husband who worried about his family. He was concerned for them and deplored the business which took him away. Sam’s father frequently wrote his son that health and life were more important than money. Maverick, a man of many interests and much energy, did not heed his father’s advice and continued to travel on business. He usually shopped for his wife on these trips as supplies were scarce. Mary’s shopping lists included everything from silver spoons and tea kettles to lard and pins, clothing and medicines. Maverick was generous to his family. His bounteous gifts to the city of San Antonio also amply testify to his generosity.
On the day of the Council House Massacre, Mary must have been especially glad that her husband was not away on one of his trips. March 19, 1840, was the date of that bloody and infamous fight. For some time past, the Comanche Indians had been very troublesome. In their raids on weak settlements, they had captured many white people. On this warm spring day the Indians had come into San Antonio supposedly to make a peace treaty. They met at the Council House, the courthouse of that time which stood near the site of the present Bexar County Courthouse. While discussing terms, the Indians suddenly drew their arrows and commenced firing. Everyone ran out into the public square. Soldiers were shooting. Civilians were running to get arms. Indians were trying to escape to the river.
Mary frantically looked for the boys. They were in the yard, and so was an Indian! The maid, Ginny, stood there with a rock in her hand to defend her own children and the two Maverick boys. The Indian hesitated, then ran on to the river. A bullet from Andrew’s gun killed him as he jumped into the river. By this time there was much hand-to-hand fighting. Mary, watching one fight, got so excited that she ran out of the house. One of the officers ordered her to get back. She explains in her memoirs that she was young at the time, just twenty-two years old, and was curious.
Maverick had made a wise choice for a wife, for she met danger fearlessly and suffered loneliness and hardship without complaint. Thirty-three Indians were killed the day of the Council House Massacre and thirty-three were taken prisoner. Six Americans were killed and one Mexican; ten Americans were wounded. The Indians had been given opportunities to surrender, but did not.
Despite the constant threat of Indians, more Anglo-Americans were moving into San Antonio; and Mary had many good times with her women friends, both Mexican and American. They had picnics and bathing parties. They felt safer because Jack Hays and his “boys” were guarding the town. From 1838 to 1848 Maverick was one of Hays’ “minutemen” and often went on Indian skirmishes and other expeditions.
Jack Hays had come to Texas from Tennessee as a surveyor when he was only nineteen years old. He had soon earned a reputation for courage and skill at Indian fighting. When he was only twenty-three, the Texas congress commissioned him as the first captain of the Texas Rangers. The Rangers were created to defend the isolated frontiers to the south and west and they became famous under his command. The slim, dark-complexioned young man was quiet and courteous and well liked, but to the Indians he was a man to be feared.
The year 1841 brought a welcome peace to the Mavericks and San Antonio, but it did not last long. In 1842 the people of the little town suffered one of their worst years. In February Captain Hays heard that Mexican troops had crossed over the Rio Grande. Most of the ladies and children left quickly. They took what possessions they had room for in their wagons and carriages. The Mavericks left their house in the care of two gentlemen who were to live in it. Mary entrusted her valuables to a neighbor. Little did they thinnk that she would not reclaim them for five years.
The group of refugees was still near Seguin, about thirty-five miles away, when they heard that San Antonio had fallen to General Rafael Vasquez. The women were all extremely upset until they heard that their husbands were all right and that Hays had recaptured the town within three days.
Maverick quickly joined his family after the victory and settled them in Gonzales. Their journey was a difficult one. Rains slowed their progress. They stayed at various homes along the way—once they slept in a corn crib. One night as they slept on the floor it was not only Mary’s damp clothing that kept her awake, but the sound of the hogs under the floor! Maverick left them again to return to San Antonio. He rejoined them in April saying that their home had been robbed. It had been stripped of everything in it, including a walnut mantlepiece built into the wall.
The Mavericks decided they would move temporarily to a place near La Grange on the Colorado River, because San Antonio was under the constant threat of another Mexican attack. Sam did not stay long, however, because he had to make an extended business trip to the United States. When he returned, he brought Mary’s sister, Elizabeth, to stay with them, much to Mary’s delight.
Court was in session in San Antonio so Maverick returned for it and to perform his duties as city treasurer. Mary mourned his leaving her, their two sons and their baby daughter Agatha, who had been born in 1841. Perhaps his blue-eyed Mary had a presentiment of events to come; perhaps it was only her experience of the past few years which made her so reluctant to have him go. He admitted afterwards in a letter that she had almost persuaded him to stay.
By the end of the summer Mary had good reason to wish she had persuaded him to remain. The Mexicans under General Adrian Woll made a surprise attack on San Antonio on September 11, 1842, with thirteen hundred men. Court was in session that day, with Samuel Maverick representing Dr. Shields Booker. The doctor was suing the city for fifty pesos, which, he said, had been promised him by the mayor, Juan Seguin. Judge Anderson Hutchinson was presiding over the court and all members of the San Antonio Bar were present.
When the Texans realized that the town was being attacked, they quickly fortified themselves in the Maverick home. Some of them shot at Mexican troops from the roof. They knew they were outnumbered and were ill-prepared in every way to wage a battle. Grave indeed was their plight; and, as they discussed it, they realized that to surrender was their only choice. They surrendered. Fifty-two men were taken prisoner, including Dr. Booker, whose case was before the court. The case was never completed.
The prisoners were kept in San Antonio for four days; then General Woll ordered them to the Perote Prison deep in Mexico. The trip was arduous, but they were allowed horses; in fact, Maverick started the long trek on his own horse. The alert Maverick kept his journal during this time. It was filled with details about the beauty of the land and the kind of crops and the irrigation. He commented on the towns, and noted the number of miles they travelled each day. Many another man would have been too discouraged about the future—and his present difficulties—to take an interest in such things.
Maverick’s slave, Griffin, had hurried to La Grange to tell Mary the sad news. They decided that he should follow his beloved master into Mexico. With gun, mule and money he set out. He never reached the prisoners. En route he became engaged in a terrible battle east of San Antonio, which was later called the Dawson Massacre. The Mavericks all mourned deeply when they heard that he had been killed after fighting very courageously. The Texans finally succeeded in forcing General Woll to evacuate San Antonio. The Mexican Army retreated into Mexico.
Life in prison was a trying experience for the men of San Antonio. They were forced to do backbreaking work. Their guards were cruel. The captain of the prison maintained a store, and sold to the prisoner the supplies that should have been issued to them. Soon they had no money to buy anything. Those who could pay for it had been given a little better headquarters, but Maverick scorned such an arrangement. He believed that all of them were there for the same reason and that they should stay together sharing a common fate.
At first Maverick refused to work because the food, and the small quantities of it, did not give the prisoners strength enough to haul sand and load bricks. He was put in a dungeon for his rebellion and was kept in solitary confinement on meager rations. He was finally released and ordered to act as a supervisor of the others. The thin broth, the moldy bread and the almost inedible meat were scarcely nourishing enough to live on. Yet his letters home were written to cheer his beloved wife, and he assured her these rations were keeping him at a good weight. She was not to despair, he told her. She should look after herself and go riding with her sister so that she would stay healthy and happy.
Maverick who escaped death at the Alamo, and who missed by a few hours being massacred by Indians, was once again fortunate. He was related by marriage to General Waddy Thompson, the United States minister to Mexico. It is typical of the kind of man Maverick was that he did not ask Thompson to work for his release. His father and others asked for him, however. General Thompson went to Santa Anna, himself, to ask for the release of Maverick, W. E. Jones and Judge Hutchinson. He also tried to get the others released. In his memoirs General Thompson wrote that he asked Maverick if he would announce that he was for the re-annexation of Texas by Mexico. If he would Thompson was sure he would be released.
True to his beliefs and ideals, Maverick’s answer was a firm no. Another prisoner, James W. Robinson, did not share Maverick’s attitude. The former lieutenant governor of Texas was released to discuss with President Sam Houston the terms that Santa Anna was willing to settle for—peace for Texas if it would recognize Mexican sovereignty.
While in prison Maverick wrote an extremely forceful letter to the Mexican secretary of state. Jose Maria Bocanegra, in which he declared himself to be Bocanegra’s public enemy! He described exactly what the men had to eat; why they had to have more and better food; described the cruelty of the guards and the dishonesty of the man in charge of the prison; and detailed the reasons why he felt their imprisonment was a mistake, illegal and dishonorable. He asked General Thompson to deliver this letter, but the man to whom it was written never read it. Thompson was certain such a letter would only harm Maverick’s chances for release!
Life in prison was made even harder for Maverick because he did not hear from his family for six months, although he kept writing to them. The lack of information about affairs in Texas also worried him, for he heard many conflicting rumors. He wrote to Mary that as long as he had no facts to keep his mind busy, he had much time for reflecting and for remembering only happy times.
Maverick immediately wrote to Mary when he was told that after seven months in prison he, Jones and Hutchinson were to be released. He told her that he would stop in New Orleans and she should write a letter there listing the supplies she needed and he would buy them. On the brink of a freedom he had almost despaired of getting, he remembered to ask her the size of his children’s shoes so that he could buy them some. Truly he was a family man as well as an acute businessman and respected political leader.
Maverick, Jones and Hutchinson had to report to Mexico City after their release, but by May 4, 1843, were finally home once more with their families. Mary, of course, was delighted to see him, but shuddered at his chain which he gave her as a souvenir. He was elated to see his second daughter, Augusta, who was born in March, 1843. His joy was mixed with sorrow for the friends left behind in prison. It was almost with a feeling of shame, he said, that he lived as a free man while they were suffering the hardships of prison life. One of his fellow prisoners wrote that conditions were even worse after the three of them had been released. However, General Thompson was still working for them. He was successful and two month later, on June 16, 1843, the others from San Antonio were set free.
On his return from Perote, Maverick bought a ranch on the Matagorda Peninsula. He was not at home long with his family. Although still a prisoner at the time of elections, he had been elected a senator. He was also serving as alderman for San Antonio, an office he held from 1841 through 1844. In December, 1843 he was in Washington-on-the-Brazos, serving in what was to be the last session of the last congress of the Republic of Texas. After it adjourned, he went to South Carolina on business. He did spend some time at home that year, but even at home he narrowly escaped death. While sailing on the Gulf, his boat was caught in a sudden squall. He and his friends were nearly drowned when the boat capsized. Luckily it happened near the shore and they were rescued.
Maverick ardently believed in Texas and urged his friends to buy land and settle there. Occasionally he became very annoyed at the ill-informed questions his friends and acquaintances in the United States would ask. He worked hard for the new republic as a legislator, but felt that Texas would be far better off as a part of the United States rather than an independent country. He was convinced that annexation of Texas by the United States would be to the benefit of both countries. Some Texan leaders shared his beliefs. Still another group, however, fought annexation. Finally those who wanted annexation were successful, and Texas became the twenty-eighth state in the Union on December 29, 1945. For ten years Texas had flown the Lone Star flag as an independent country.
Although the Mavericks had lived away from San Antonio since General Woll’s attack and had bought a ranch on the Peninsula, San Antonio was their real home. Maverick was constantly there as he became more and more involved in San Antonio’s business life.
Mary had her first ride in a stagecoach when they finally moved back to San Antonio in October 1847. She took their two-year-old son, George, their daughter, Agatha, and Lizzie, her sister, with her. Maverick took the rest of the family, the servants and the provisions in a wagon. After a five-year absence Mary was surprised to see so many new residents. People seemed to be arriving daily. With Texas a part of the United States, Mexico had finally stopped her attempts to reclaim it. Indian attacks were not as much of a threat, for a great many Indians had been removed to reservations. A peaceful San Antonio attracted people and the population which numbered eight hundred in 1846 jumped to over three thousand by 1850.
The Mavericks were happy to be back in their old home which now had dirt floors because the cement had worn off. Their son, William or “Willie,” was born there December 1847. Sorrow soon entered into it, however, when Agatha, the oldest of their daughters, died at the age of seven. Maverick was out on a surveying party locating some headrights. She had not been taken ill until after he had left. They had no way to let him know that she had been sick, or that she had died. He was on his way back into town almost three weeks later when someone along the road told him of her death. The shock of hearing the news in this way and his terrible grief at her death made him a changed man. He was silent. He was sad. He blamed himself for being away when she died. He took no interest in anything.
Mary and his many friends were very worried about him. Jack Hay’s, now a colonel, suggested to Mary that she urge Maverick to go with him on a proposed expedition to El Paso. Mary was reluctant. She didn’t want him to leave his family again. She did not think he was well enough to undertake such a difficult trip. Hays reminded her that her husband had always enjoyed life in the open. He felt that going on this expedition whose purpose was to open up a better and shorter trading route through the wilds of El Paso would help Maverick overcome his grief. Mary was finally persuaded. At her urging Maverick went along with the famous Chihuahua Expedition. El Paso was the Texas border town across from Chihuahua’s principal commercial town, El Paso Del Norte (later named Juarez).
It was a severe trip for the fifty men and their fifteen Delaware Indian guides. When the party lost its way, Maverick partly forgot his grief in his efforts to keep alive. They were forced to eat strange things in order to survive—grass soup, roots, berries, mule meat and polecats. They chewed leather and the tops of their boots to keep their mouths moist when there was no water.
Maverick made only brief entries in his journal on this expedition. He noted the number of miles they travelled and their route. Thirst was the word he used most frequently! Their lack of water was almost worse than the lack of food. The mustang meat wasn’t very good, he reported. One of the men in their party went insane because of the terrible conditions. When he wandered off from camp, they took the time to search for him but they did not succeed in finding him.
The half-starved men might have died had it not been for the friendly Indians they met, who guided them on to El Paso. The return journey was much easier, although they had one skirmish with unfriendly Indians. The dangers and the hardships of those three and a half months helped Maverick. He was more like his old self when he returned, but he never seemed to get over his grief for Agatha entirely. He had helped Texas once more, too, because the party had opened up a better trading route to El Paso and Chihuahua, Mexico.
Terror came to San Antonio when the dreaded cholera swept the town in 1849. Over six hundred people died during the six weeks the epidemic lasted. Death came to nearly every family including the Mavericks, whose daughter Augusta died.
For some time Maverick had wanted his home on the ground of the Alamo or near them. The place—where his friends had met the fate that so easily could have been his—had a fascination for him. Now he was even more determined because he felt that living on the higher ground there would be more healthful for his family.
There was considerable disagreement about the ownership of the Alamo. The army claimed it and so did the city. Because it had been used as a fort for so many years, the fact that it had originally been a mission had been forgotten. Maverick, a man of great determination and a man of action, set out to prove to the authorities that the Alamo was a part of the Mission San Antonio de Valero. He finally convinced them. The church leased the Alamo and grounds then until the state of Texas bought it in 1883. At Maverick’s request F. Giraud surveyed the site in 1849. Historians still accept his map, which shows the boundary as the inner line of buildings around the wall.
Maverick built his new home on the northwest corner within the old walls of the mission, but outside the boundary line as set by Giraud. Until they moved into the new house, the Mavericks lived in an old Mexican house on the grounds where a son, John Hay, was born. He only lived a few months.
When their new home was finished in 1850, it had two stories, two rooms up, two down, built of stone and of good size. There a daughter, Mary, was born in 1851. Travis Park, in the downtown section of San Antonio, was part of their orchard. San Antonio at that time had a population of thirty-five hundred.
Maverick had been a member of the last congress of the Republic of Texas, and in 1851 he was elected to the fourth legislature of the state of Texas as a member of the house of representatives. He served again in the fifth session. In addition to his public duties, he was active in business and was still practicing law as he had since he first took out a law license in San Antonio in 1838. Truly, he was a busy man; but he always had time for his family, too. They enjoyed driving in the country in the horse and buggy he had bought for them. The children were going to school and attending dancing class. Mary, as women have ever done, was busy raising money for the church by helping to give suppers.
Although Samuel Maverick helped make the early history of Texas and was one of the state’s outstanding political and business leaders, when people hear the name Maverick, they often think first of the word “maverick.” Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary gives two meanings: (1) “An unbranded animal, esp. a motherless calf, formerly customarily claimed by the one first branding it. (2) Colloq. A refractory or recalcitrant individual who bolts his party or group and initiates an independent course.” How did this man—whose business interests were not primarily those of a rancher, (although he owned a ranch), whose manner was well reserved and who brought to politics a seasoned, well-balanced and wise mind—happen to have his name used either for unbranded cows or recalcitrant persons? It’s an interesting story.
In 1847 Maverick accepted four hundred head of cattle in payment of a twelve-hundred-dollar debt. He kept them on his ranch on the Matagorda Peninsula. When they moved back to San Antonio, he left the ranch and the cattle in charge of his slave, Jack. Jack, it seems, was careless about his work and let the cattle stray.
In 1854 Maverick had the cattle moved to Conquista Ranch which he had established on the bank of the San Antonio River about fifty miles below San Antonio. He probably had the cattle branded at the time they were transferred. Branding was necessary to establish ownership when cattle ranges were not fenced and unbranded cattle could be claimed by anyone. The cattle were wild, and they strayed because Jack continued to neglect his work.
Jack’s laziness caused trouble when Maverick sold the cattle to A. Toutant Beuregard some two years later in 1856. Part of the contract was that Beauregard was to round up all the cattle. It was a difficult roundup. Whenever an unbranded yearling was found, they assumed it was Maverick’s, or, as they began to say, “a maverick.” They branded all of these. Cowboys carried the story in their travels and the term “maverick” was soon used by cowboys all over the United States for any unbranded cattle.
Eventually the word “maverick” was extended to include human strays, that is, people who do not conform, who stray away from the “brand” of an established group or a traditional way of thinking.
The years from 1854 to the outbreak of the Civil War were more peaceful ones. San Antonio was growing and prospering, with a population of eight thousand in 1860. Maverick, always a leader in the financial progress of his city, became a director of the S.A. And M. G. Railroad.
Samuel and Mary Maverick were busy, but often lonesome for their two oldest sons, Sam and Lewis. Sam was in college in Scotland, and Lewis was in a Vermont college. There were still children at home. Two were babies, Albert, born in 1854, and Elizabeth, in 1857. Personal tragedy came once again when Elizabeth died at the age of two.
Another tragedy—nation-wide—was in the making too. Maverick was very much concerned with the political strife in those years before the Civil War. He served as a senator in the state legislature from 1855 through 1858 and in the House of Representatives during the eight session, which met in 1859. Texas was Southern in its attitude toward slavery, for it had been settled primarily by people from the Southern states. Many of its leaders were planters who were chiefly pro-slavery. It was their belief that the South—and Texas—must leave the United States.
Texas had its group of ardent Union men, too, but they were in the minority. On January 28, 1861, when the legislature met in extraordinary session, it passed a resolution 152 to 6 “that the State of Texas should separately secede from the Federal Union.” In February the people of Texas voted for it overwhelmingly, 46,129 to 14,679. Secession went officially into effect in March, 1861, just twenty-five years after Texas independence from Mexico had been declared at Washington-on-the-Brazos. Texas joined with the other Southern states in the Confederate States of America. The Confederate flag was the sixth to fly over Texas succeeding the flags of France, Spain, Mexico, the Republic of Texas and the United States.
Maverick was a member of the ninth legislature which had voted on secession. Remembering that as a young man he had given up a political life in South Carolina because of the controversy about secession, one would have thought his vote would have been recorded as no. He voted yes. Why? Had his views so radically changed? Was he going along with what he considered would be a majority? Knowing Samuel Maverick to be a man of integrity, the answer to the last question must be a firm no. But in many ways his views had changed. It has been said that the Union guaranteed and protected the sovereignty of the states which made up the Union, and protected the rights of citizens. Once he decided that this sovereignty and these rights were not being maintained in the Union, then he was in favor of secession. It was still a difficult decision for him as it was for so many other men during those perilous times. He did what he thought was right, but it caused him pain.
In February of 1861, Maverick was appointed to the Committee on Public Safety which demanded the surrender of the Union army and all garrisons in Texas, including, of course, those at San Antonio. To their great credit the committee managed this difficult task without bloodshed. It was a peaceful withdrawal, and Texas was spared the destruction which befell other Southern states. Four sons of the Mavericks, George, Sam, Lewis and Willie, saw service in the Civil War. The letters exchanged between them and their parents during this difficult time reveal a wonderful feeling of affection. The Mavericks were a family who enjoyed each other.
In 1862 Maverick once again served as mayor of San Antonio. In 1863 he became the chief justice of Bexar County. For thirty-two years he served in many public capacities.
On September 2, 1870, Samuel A. Maverick died, having given bountifully of his time and energies to his home town and to his state.
Maverick was called one of the “empire builders of Texas” and at his death was said to be one of the largest landholders in the United States. Although he was a successful businessman, he did not work solely for personal benefit. He gave of his money and possessions to the city he loved and its citizens. Some gifts he gave anonymously, but others are known. At his death he left land for the Alamo Literary Society, of which he was a charter member. In 1858 he had donated four city blocks to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church for a building. He also gave to this church a 526-pound bell cast from a cannon buried on the Alamo grounds. He asserted this was one buried by the revolutionists in 1831 and not one used in the famous battle of the Alamo. To the city he gave his orchard, now Travis Park. He gave other gifts of land to benefit his city and to encourage business. He gave large gifts to charity, too. Texas honored his contributions to the state by naming a county for him.
The name Maverick is one not forgotten for Samuel Maverick’s children also did much for his city and country. Sam was a prominent businessman, as was Albert. William also served as alderman and one of his sons was a member of the U. S. Diplomatic Service. George promoted the cause of railroads before he left San Antonio to practice law in St. Louis, Missouri. George’s daughter, Rena Green, prominent in San Antonio’s life, was the editor of Mary Maverick’s memoirs which tell us so much about Maverick. His daughter Mary married Edwin H. Terrell, United States ambassador to Belgium. Albert, who was active in building activities in the business center of town, was also an ardent conservationist. His son Maury, Samuel A. Maverick’s grandson, was a prominent Texas political figure. He served in the United States Congress and as mayor of San Antonio. He was interested in preserving old San Antonio and was responsible for the law which made San Jose Mission a national historic site in 1935. When mayor, he obtained authority from the federal government in 1939 to restore La Villita, the old town. Maury Maverick, Jr., Maury’s son, is well known in political and business circles in Texas.
The Mavericks are a splendid example of a fine American family. They have lived up to the reputation Samuel Maverick established. Like him, they have worked for their city,, state and country in public and in private life. Samuel Maverick, a just man, a man of integrity, a man of honor, has lived on in them.
The orphan was called a maverick. There are numerous legends as to the origin of the name, but all agree that it was derived from that of the well-known Texas family, and that somewhere, at some time, there was a man named Maverick who neglected to brand his increase. Hence a rider happening upon a slick-sided cow or bull would say , “That’s one of Maverick’s,” or simply “That’s a Maverick.” One version has it that this wily character deliberately refrained from branding and then said, “Anything without a brand is mine.” The real story is told by J. Frank Dobie in The Longhorns and again by Robert H. Fletcher in Free Grass to Fences. A South Carolinian named Samuel A. Maverick had come to Texas and was practicing law in San Antonio some years before the Civil War. In 1845 he accepted 400 head of mixed cattle in lieu of cash on a note. Fletcher’s account continues:
The cattle were on long, narrow Matagorda Island four miles off the Texas coast. They were in charge of an irresponsible Negro family who seemingly came with the cattle as part of the deal. . . . The Negroes were not very conscientious herders and few calves were branded.
During the Mexican war Maverick was up to his ears in business and political affairs. He paid slight attention to his island bovines and due to defections by restless members of the herd (who had waded ashore at low tide) they still tallied four hundred after he had owned them for eight years.
In 1853 he had them moved from the island to the mainland where they mingled with the herds of full-time stockgrowers who kept their calves branded and who were forever on the lookout for slicks. When they found one, it was a twenty-to-one shot that it was a Maverick critter, which didn’t deter them from slapping their own iron on the beast. And so unbranded cattle became known as Mavericks.
In 1856 Sam Maverick sold his herd. . . . They were the only cattle he ever owned.
Sam Maverick was a Yale graduate, and thus an eastern institution of learning became connected, albeit remotely, with one of the most controversial aspects of life in the Wild West.
Wyoming law defined mavericks as “all neat cattle, regardless of age, found running at large in this territory without a mother, and upon which there is no brand.” Whose were they? Popular opinion had a ready answer: the unidentified animal belonged to the first man who dropped his loop on it. A “wide loop.” A “long rope.” The two terms meant the same thing. They meant trouble and loss for the owners of large herds.
Along with the long rope went the running iron. Respectable cow outfits imprinted their monogram on bovine hides with heavy stamp irons, but a slender rod with a curved tip would do just as well, in expert hands, to inscribe or burn over any brand. There were times and places where the mere carrying of a running iron on a man’s saddle was considered prima facie evidence of guilt.
In most respects the honesty of the West was proverbial. Doors were never locked. Word-of-mouth agreements were accepted on transactions involving tens of thousands of dollars. But the West had an elastic conscience when it came to stock mattters—it stretched like a piece of wet rawhide. Worse yet was the unsanctified sense of humor which made lawbreaking, which ought to have been a serious matter, a subject of infinite deadpan jesting on the part of everybody except the victim—unless the thief got caught, and then the joke was on him.
A whole family of yarns grew up around the assumption, which contained more truth than poetry, that no cow outfit on the roundup or on the trail ever willingly killed one of its own animals for meat. For instance there was the one about the Texas cowman who rode up to a neighbor’s camp at dinner time, and was invited in with typical plains hospitality.
“Come in, come right into camp, John, and have some dinner,” urged the host. “I’ll give you something to eat you never ate before in your life.”
“What’s that?” the visitor asked, falling into the trap.
“A piece of your own beef.”
The folklore rang countless changes on the theme, in vintage jests which grew warm with repetition. There was the one about the widow-woman who told her boys, when they brought in meat for the table, to be sure not to take an animal bearing their own brand, for she would as lief eat one of her little children as one of her own beeves. There were not-so-sly allusions to the cowman who was so extraordinarily honest, or who was so extraordinarily tough, that he could eat a steak from one of his own animals without feeling queasy; conversely, there was the cowman who unknowingly ate a bait of his own beef and it made him deathly sick.
Another classic was the yarn about the dishonest foreman, which proceeded from the tongue-in-cheek assumption that the foreman of any large outfit was inevitably dishonest and stole from his employer, who had of course stolen in his turn from somebody else; hence arose this chestnut about the foreman whose employer’s brand was a simple letter I. In time the foreman became ambitious and decided to start a herd for himself; he chose for his brand an IC. As years went by he too became rich and respectable, and his foreman, becoming ambitious in turn, started a herd which he branded ICU. Finally, we come to the third foreman. Following in the footsteps of the others, who branded ICU2. Pretty feeble, no doubt, but it remained good for a laugh after countless repetitions over coffee and beans in the cook tent.
An easy way of stealing, before the era of tight brand-registration laws, was for a newcomer to move in on a range and start a brand which was like that of a wealthy neighbor except for the addition of a few lines. There are countless instances of brand conversion; a CY, for example, was readily changeable to an OX.
It was a sagebrush axiom that all it took to start a cow outfit was a running iron and nerve enough to use it. To this day the barroom cynic in any cow-country town, always ready to enlighten the newcomer, is sure to offer half-seriously, half in jest: “Why, don’t you know how old So-and-So got his start?”—naming the ancestor of the largest cattle owner in the area. “He got it with a long rope and a running iron.” The remark has been made about every cattleman of any prominence from the Rio Grande to the Canadian line, and is so hoary with ancient usage that it is taken without offense. Since it is a well-known psychological principle that humor is generally a denial of some inner discomfort, the discerning will see in this enormous folklore of jests about stealing, the symptoms of guilt.
There were rustlers and rustlers. Their methods varied and so did their community status. The distinctions among the various kinds of rustling were like the difference between professional prostitution and an occasional fling.
Branding a maverick, in the minds of the generality, was a crime without moral turpitude, if a crime at all—like violating the prohibition law or cheating on an expense account. No amount of legislation ever wholly changed this attitude, though a few jail sentences helped. Even under the law it was rated a misdemeanor, not a felony.
But it was one thing to slap your iron on a maverick when you happened on him in the course of a day’s riding; this was a temptation few could resist, and men of the sternest anti-rustling persuasion have been heard to admit with the third highball: “Hell, I’ve done it myself.” It was another thing to scour the country deep into another man’s range looking for slicks on the pretext that you were merely out hunting strays, and to keep this up day after day. The more you made a business of mavericking the the closer you came to the fine line that separated the mavericker from something worse. “‘Mavericking,'” Frank Dobie has said, “graduated into a soft synonym for stealing.”
When the natural supply of mavericks was not great enough to satisfy the ambitious mavericker, especially in view of the competition, the next step was to forestall nature by placing your brand on a big calf that was going to become a maverick in a few weeks. You took the chance that nobody would ride by and notice it in the meanwhile; indeed, you took a second chance, for the big calf, displaced by a younger sibling, would continue to hang around its mother for some time hoping to get another suck, and this was a dead giveaway. But what the hell. The country was big, riders were few, and if a stock detective hired by the Association did happen to come along, the likelihood was he would not know who owned your unregistered brand, called a maverick—and suppose he did; you could take care of yourself.
The third step was to make mavericks by separating calves from their mothers until they were weaned. Granville Stuart in My Forty Years on the Frontier, mentions the case of the fortunate ranchman whose cows always gave birth to twins and triplets, while his neighbors’ cows hung enviously around his corral lamenting their own childless state. But as rustling went this was pretty crude stuff—settler stuff. Experts would pen the calves in some lonely corral in the foothills, then run the cows a long way off and hold them there until the calves were eating grass. This writer remarked to an old-timer that it must have taken a pretty good cowboy to run a cow off from her calf. “There were good cowboys,” he said.
If the rustler stopped there he remained semi-respectable, at least in his own estimation, and he might even have a certain Robin Hood dash. He was well above the line which divided the good bad man from the skunk. But others descended to such methods as slitting the calf’s tongue so it couldn’t suck, or killing the cow in order to make an orphan of the calf. During Johnson County’s time of trouble, calves bearing a rustler’s fresh brand were found still hanging about the dead body of the mother cow. Nothing dashing about that.
Finally the rustler might come to burning over other men’s brands with a running iron, or “blotching” them so badly they could not be read. He was now a full-fledged thief. Facilis descensus Averno.
Between the practices described in the last two paragraphs and the milder forms of stealing, the elastic conscience stiffened and became uneasy. A man who “made no bones” in later years about having branded any number of mavericks in his day would swear on a stack of Bibles that he had never altered a brand in his life. As for the other kinds of dirty business, we may quote the utterance of a likeable reprobate who was well known in Powder River country.
“I’m a thief and I’ve been a thief all my life,” he declared with disarming frankness, “but there’s one place I draw the line; I will not kill a cow to get the calf.”
Butchering a steer on the range, burying the hide and taking the meat home to eat was a cheap form of stealing, fit only for thieving Indians and threadbare settlers. It was disapproved more on social than on moral grounds. Another two-bit operation was to separate a calf from the cow, take it home and let the woman and children raise it by hand. This was called “finding a motherless calf.”
There was considerable sympathy for the man so poor he had to steal in order to feed his family, even when that man happened to be an Indian. Charlie Russell painted a picture called “Caught in the Act,” in which two bundled-up cowboys in the dead of winter have come upon a pair of Indians skinning a beef in the snow. One of the Indians points to his open mouth in the sign for hunger, and the uncertain attitude of the cowboys tell more plainly than words how they are torn between loyalty to their outfit and pity for the half-starved red men.
But the business of butchering beef on the range soon developed into a commercial enterprise, with the local meat market for an outlet. In western Nebraska in the eighties a member of a grand jury considering the case of a settler charged with killing a beef wanted to know whether he had killed it to eat or to sell!
To sum up the code, the man least condemned for rustling was the man who stole in order to build up a herd of his own and get a start, after which he would turn respectable. Most condemned was the thief so low he would cut the rope tying some settler’s old bony milch cow to the tailgate of his wagon and steal the cow.
Finally, let us not overlook the curious double meaning which attached to the word rustler. A rustler was a thief. But he was also a man of energy, a hustler who rose early and rode far in order to get ahead in the world. A money-raising committee would be referred to as “the rustling committee.” Newspapers called themselves The Bonanza Rustler or The Big Horn County Rustler. When a young boy won a prize for bringing in the largest number of subscribers to a local paper, the item was captioned, “A GOOD RUSTLER.” An animal which sustained itself on the range under adverse conditions was a good rustler too, and a man arriving home late with a guest would ask his wife to “go rustle us up something to eat.”
Moral confusion, or merely semantic?
But a horse thief was something else entirely. When you said horse thief, you had better smile.
Helena Huntington Smith, Frontier Times
Maverick spent three bitter months marching toward captivity in a Mexican prison; he was a soldier and explorer, a lawyer, and a legislator—but he is remembered by the public for the most trivial aspect of his amazing career.
The young lawyer from South Carolina who was guiding the three hundred Volunteers may have wondered how he got involved in this. He had arrived here just three months ago.
If Samuel Augustus Maverick was amazed to find himself so soon in the midst of the quarrel between Texas and Mexico, he would have been absolutely astonished to know that his name would become a widely-used word in the English language, and that legendary overtones would color his true story.
When Maverick arrived in San Antonio in September, 1835, he rented a room from John W. Smith and began to get acquainted with the small town. As he looked and listened, he became aware of increasing tensions between American colonists and the Mexican government.
This same month the new President of Mexico, General Santa Anna, had sent his brother-in-law General Cos with one-thousand well-trained troops to take control of San Antonio. They entered the town with little opposition and immediately made preparations for military rule. General Cos became suspicious of the activities of both Maverick and Smith, and put them under guard in the Smith house.
In the meantime, seven-hundred American colonists gathered under Stephen Austin and marched toward San Antonio, winning several skirmishes with the Mexicans on the way. Late in October they camped north of town on the San Antonio River to wait for more men and heavier weapons before making the final attack. Austin went to the United States for help, leaving Colonel Burleson to train the men.
Although Maverick and Smith chafed at their confinement, they used the time well by observing the preparations being made by the Mexicans. They noted which streets were barricaded, and which houses were fortified; they found where the cannon had been set up and where trees and underbrush had been cut down to eliminate potential hiding places. They kept in touch with the Americans at the edge of town through notes carried by a Mexican lad whom they trusted, and late in November, General Cos released them, after securing their promise that they would return to the United States.
On the way, Maverick and Smith stopped at the American colonists’ camp; there they found dissension and discouragement. The men were impatient at the delay. Many had signed up for only two months; their farms and families needed them and they began to drift away until only about four hundred were left. Colonel Burleson was ready to give up the siege but many of the men protested. Smith and Maverick encouraged them to attack, promising to act as guides.
While the arguments continued, an experienced frontier fighter, Colonel Benjamin Milam, stepped forward and shouted, “Who will go with Old Ben Milam?” Three hundred men volunteered to follow the forty-four year old fighter.
Guided by Maverick and Smith they slipped into town in the early dawn of December 5, 1835, and captured several houses before the Mexicans were aware of what was happening.
From then on, progress was slow and tiring for the liberating force. They avoided the snipers by making a passageway through the houses by the laborious process of knocking holes in the walls, some of which were four feet thick, so they could crawl from house to house.
On the third day, just one block from the Main Plaza, brave Colonel Milam was hit by a sniper located in a cypress tree along the river. He is said to have died in Samuel Maverick’s arms. When the Texans reached the Plaza the next day, the Mexicans surrendered, having had enough of this enemy who progressed, seemingly, like a mole through the earth. On December 9, Maverick had the satisfaction of watching General Cos sign the articles of capitulation. He was allowed to withdraw across the Rio Grande on the promise that he would not attack Texas again.
For the young South Carolinean, the battle was his baptism of fire which burned the love of Texas right into his heart from then on, Maverick never ceased being a Texan.
Although Samuel Augustus Maverick was a South Carolina gentleman, he was destined to lead a life of action and adventure in the West. His father, Samuel, a wealthy business man and land owner, was said to have been the first American to ship cotton from Charleston to England.
Samuel Augustus was born in 1803 at Mont Pelier, the family plantation just outside Pendleton. In 1825 he graduated from Yale University, studied law in Virginia and, upon his return home, set up a law practice. He had a strong inclination toward politics, a motivating force throughout his life.
There was dissatisfaction in South Carolina. In order to help pay for the War of 1812, the Federal government passed laws assessing high tariffs on goods from England. As the rates continued to be increased, some South Carolineans talked of nullifying the Federal laws; others suggested withdrawing from the Union. However there were leading men, including the Mavericks, who were against such drastic measures, and engaged in heated debates to disseminate their more moderate views.
One time while the elder Mr. Maverick was making a speech, someone called out a disparaging remark. The fearless Samuel Augustus challenged the heckler to a duel; the challenge was accepted and Samuel wounded him, then showed his compassionate nature by caring for him in the Maverick home.
After this experience the relentless young lawyer became convinced that his political beliefs were too divergent from those predominating in the state. He decided to travel.
After visiting a sister in Alabama, he traveled to New Orleans on business. As he strolled the streets and wharves of the interesting old town he heard much talk about Texas, in the Republic of Mexico. Mexico had gained her independence from Spain in 1821 and at once opened her northern provinces to Americans. Everyone, it seemed, was going to Texas—or at least, they talked of it.
To young Maverick the appeal of the new country was strong. Not only was he seeking adventure, but he was an intelligent man looking for business investment opportunities. He made up his mind to try Texas, returned home and disposed of his law practice. Selling most of his possessions, he was ready to set out for Texas.
He arrived in San Antonio de Bexar on September 8, 1835, with $36,000 in gold and a determination to follow the advice of his father: “Buy as much land as you can—it will inevitably increase in value.”
He came as a man of wealth, contrary to later stories, humorous but untrue, that he landed with no assets other than a branding iron and an ability to see unbranded cattle at a far distance.
There was a charm about San Antonio, then as now. The San Antonio River wound like a twisted ribbon through the small town adobe houses and massive Spanish missions. Cypress and cottonwood trees lined its banks; tropical figs and pomegranates flourished; wild grape vines hanging profusively from the trees were to provide jelly for Maverick’s table in later years. It was all vastly different from the plantations of South Carolina but it must have appealed irresistibly to Maverick, for it was the place he called home for the rest of his life.
Although Americans had been eager to come to Texas, they soon became disenchanted. They expected the same civil rights they had enjoyed in the United States. They resented being denied such basic civil liberties as religious freedom, and trial by jury. They wanted greater control of their own affairs. Soon meetings were held, rebellion brewed and the slogan, “Liberty and Texas,” spread across the land. It was to put down this burgeoning rebellion that Mexico’s president, General Santa Anna, dispatched General Cos to San Antonio.
Santa Anna was furious when he learned of the defeat of Cos and vowed to march through Texas and even on to Washington, leading the army himself.
The Texas Volunteers, feeling certain that Mexican troops would return to San Antonio, prepared to fight. Headed by William Travis, another lawyer from South Carolina, and James Bowie, a famous frontiersman and fighter, they prepared to make a stand at Alamo. This structure had been built to serve as a mission, and its great flaw as a defensive buttress lay in that it was poorly suited to being a fortress, since its thick walls were low enough to be scaled. Samuel Maverick probably would have joined the historically doomed group in the Alamo had not fate intervened.
A convention was called for March 1, 1836, to decide what course Texans were to take. Maverick, having proved his courage under fire, was one of the three delegates elected to represent San Antonio. This was the beginning of his many years of public service to Texas. As they were about to leave for Washington-on-the-Brazos, the rains came. And how it rained—it simply poured!
Maverick and companions left immediately on horseback and they had a merry time of it. The horses slipped, strained and struggled in the mud. Often they had to wait for flooded streams to subside, and frequently they were cold and wet. It was a slow exhausting trip. And as they pushed along, through the storm events were taking place in San Antonio that Texans—and the world—would never forget!
Early in the morning of February 23, a lookout spotted Mexican troops outside the town. The Texas Volunteers converged on the Alamo from wherever they were billeted in town, rounding up thirty cattle and one-hundred bushels of corn on the way. In the mission were about two hundred men, armed with rifles, pistols, hunting knives and tomahawks. They refused Santa Anna’s demand for unconditional surrender—and the eternally memorable struggle began.
The Alamo was bombarded for thirteen days, and the world knows what ensued. Travis sent out appeals for help which mostly went unheeded. His last letter was written on March 3, to the delegates at Washington-on-the-Brazos who were too far away to assist. On the morning of March 6, the Mexicans, armed with scaling ladders, axes, crow-bars and guns, swarmed through and over the walls. The command “No quarter given!” was taken with seriousness. In thirty minutes of actual fighting it was over. The memory of the defenders’ gallantry in the face of death will forever continue to engender both grief and pride wherever in the world men yearn for independence and admire courage.
It was a raw day at Washington-on-the-Brazos. A norther blew in and the half-finished blacksmith shop where the convention was held was not adequate to keep out the cold. The delegates declared the independence of Texas from Mexico on March 2; Maverick signed “from Bexar,” which is the name he used at that time when designating San Antonio. They went to work at once to write a constitution for the new republic.
As they were hard at work on March 6, a letter from Travis was delivered by John W. Smith, Maverick’s good friend from whom he had rented a room six months before What fateful events had come to pass in that half-year! Travis, in his letter, appealed urgently for aid and closed it with the words “God and Texas—Victory or Death!”
The brave men at the Alamo died without knowing that Texas had declared her independence and the delegates, continuing their work, did not know the Alamo had fallen, its interior strewn with the mutilated bodies of its heroic defenders.
Maverick’s legal training was of great value in the chore of drawing up the constitution. His ability to think clearly, his resolute conviction that Texas should be free from the bonds of Mexican rule, made him an invaluable delegate. By March 17 the Republic of Texas had both a constitution and governing officers.
Samuel Augustus Maverick always felt that he had not been elected to the consitutional convention, he too, would have perished with the heroes of the Alamo. He seemed to have an obsession about this, and in 1850, at great effort, he acquired a portion of the Alamo mission land as a site for his new home.
In joining with the Texans in their fight for greater civil liberties, Samuel was continuing the pattern set by his ancestors. In 1624 a Samuel Maverick, with his bride, sailed from England to America as a representative of the Plymouth Company, to explore the country for a suitable location, and start an Episcopal settlement. He settled at the mouth of the Mystic River near present-day Boston, where he built a fortified house to be safer from the Indians. He was impressed with the new country, writing to England that the “land also is exceedinge good.” He acquired land in both Massachusetts and Maine.
From his fortified house Maverick watched the ships of the Puritans sail by on their way to Salem. He dispensed hospitality to any who came and was said to live like a king. Although he was helpful to the Puritans on their arrival there was trouble between them later on because of differences in religious beliefs.
The straight-laced Puritans, determined to make Congregationalists of everyone, disapproved of Maverick’s free and easy way of living. He, in turn, called them “Saints” and moved to nearby Noddle’s Island to get away from all that sanctity.
In 1646 he was one of the signers of a petition to the General Court of Massachusetts asking for full civil rights, and permission to maintain an Episcopalian church and a minister of their own. Other Samuel Mavericks of succeeding generations were to follow him in the fight for individual rights and liberty.
The young Samuel A. Maverick who was a descendant of his illustrious forebears, had been away from home a year when he returned to visit relatives. No doubt he had much to relate concerning his adventures in the fabulous Texas. While visiting in Alabama with his sister, he met eighteen-year old Mary Ann Adams. After a four-month courtship, they married in August, 1836.
The pull was irresistible, so in December 1837, he started for Texas again, this time with a menage: a young wife and infant son, Samuel; his fifteen-year-old brother-in-law, Robert Adams; six negro servants with four small children.
For three years the Mavericks lived in a three-room house situated on land sloping down to the beautiful San Antonio River just off the Main Plaza, where Maverick had once held the dying Milam in his arms.
Samuel opened a law office and was shortly elected mayor, a mark of recognition he was to receive more than once. He had taken seriously his father’s admonition to buy land, and spent considerable time on this business. Mary was absorbed with homemaking and caring for their growing family, but never too busy to write in her diary, which has proved an invaluable source of information to historians.
It was during these years that Maverick met Jack Hays, and association which was to lead later on to an exciting and near-disastrous adventure.
Hays was a young Tennessean who, after serving in the Texas Volunteers, came to San Antonio in 1838 with a letter of recommendation as a surveyor. Maverick employed him and went with him on numerous surveying trips.
San Antonio was one of the last outposts of civilization in Texas. Since it was in territory claimed by the Indians, there was constant trouble, and surveying was dangerous business. Hays had many such encounters and word got around that he was quite an Indian fighter which didn’t hurt his popularity.
In 1840 Jack Hays was selected to command a company of mounted volunteers called Texas Rangers, who were to defend the lonely frontier settlements from Indian and Mexican attacks. Maverick became one of the Rangers and as such, frequently went on skirmishes against the Comanches.
1842 was a bad year for San Antonio and for the Maverick family. Even though Texas had declared herself a Republic independent of Mexico, the Mexicans did not give up. In March, General Vasquez captured the town but was driven back; that summer there were rumors of another invasion. Samuel Maverick and most of the other men took their families to adjacent towns in what was called “The Runaway of ’42” until conditions were more settled. The Mavericks, with their slaves, settled in a temporary home at La Grange on the Colorado River, about one hundred miles east of San Antonio.
The regular fall session of the District Court at San Antonio was called in September. Maverick had a case to try: a Dr. Booker was suing the city for a small amount of money. Had the doctor known what fate held in store for him, he would have been glad to concede the case. Maverick journeyed to San Antonio from La Grange in early September; he was not to see his family until eight months later.
Early that month, Jack Hays found that he was unable to get any gunpowder for his men in town, which was unusual, so he sent two men, one of whom was Big Foot Wallace, to Austin, seventy-five miles away, for more powder. Also, he was uneasy because he had observed the Mexican residents acting strangely; he concluded something was afoot and ordered some of his Ranger to reconnoiter toward the Mexican border. At the Medina River, about twenty miles out, the men spied General Woll and his Mexican troops.
When this report was received in town a mass meeting was held. A company of 175 men was organized and told that if trouble came, they were to gather at the Maverick house on Main Plaza.
Before dawn of the next day, September 11, 1842, the Mexican forces entered San Antonio for the second time in six months. In a heavy fog they were inside the Military Plaza almost before the Texans were aware of them, with Mexican flags flying and their buglers playing the stirring Andalusian dance song, “Las Cachucha.” The Texans gathered at the Maverick house, which became the major target for the Mexican guns.
Soon an emissary from the Mexican forces approached with a white flag. He informed the Texans that General Woll had two thousand troops, which was only a forerunner of a much larger army which was on the way. The town, the emissary told them, was surrounded with Mexicans and Indians, and he suggested they surrender in thirty minutes.
The Texans, feeling there was no choice, elected Samuel Maverick and three others to act as commissioners to treat with the Mexicans. They agreed to surrender as prisoners of war with the provision that their lives were to be spared and their property kept safe.
Included among the fifty-five prisoners was the entire District Court: judge, jury, lawyers and clients, including Dr. Booker.
In September 21, General Woll and his army left with the fifty-five prisoners and as much plunder as was practical. He commandeered all the carts and wagons he could find and filled them with wounded Mexicans and Texans. He pushed so hard to reach the border before the Texas forces caught up, that for eight days there was no time to stop and treat their wounds. Some died.
Perote Prison was their destination. For three months they marched, making twenty to thirty miles a day through hot, dry barren land—and over freezing mountain passes. At times the supply of water ran low and there never seemed to be enough food. Shoes wore out and the clothing worn on a hot September afternoon in San Antonio was inadequate for the cold in the mountains. The many acts of cruelty by Mexican officers and soldiers were hardly balanced by the occasional kindnesses shown by Mexican citizens in small villages, who supplied clothing for a few.
Between Puebla and Jalapa on the eastern slope of the Sierra Madres, in an area of extinct volcanoes, is the town of Perote. Its eighteenth-century fortress, built by the Spaniards, has sixty-foot high walls of dark lava rock, which gives it a forbidding appearance. The fortress is surrounded by a very wide moat enclosing a total area of 26 acres.
The view from the prison across the valley and beyond to the perpetually snowcapped Orizabe delights visitors today, but the suffering prisoners hardly enjoyed the scenery.
The Christmas season was approaching when Maverick and his fellow prisoners marched through the fortress gate in the midst of a fierce norther, but there was no warmth, no comfort, no celebrating at Perote Prison.
From six at night until nine the next morning they were herded like cattle into a long, narrow corridor, with no light except that which entered through a loop-hole measuring four inches by twelve.
It was cold in Perote, at an elevation of 7,800 feet. One prisoner wrote in June, 1843, that it was “colder at this time than in Texas in December” and men suffered from the lack of warm clothes. They slept on icy floors with inadequate blankets, fought with lice which infested the place, and devised means of passing away the time. In March, 1843, they were joined by other Texans who were given adjacent cells; the two groups suffered and joked together.
The Mexican government allowed twenty-five cents a day for food for each prisoner, most of which went into the pocket of the comisario who furnished the rations. The meals, which generally consisted of poor bread, scorched cornmeal coffee and a stew of stringy beef seasoned with onion and chile, were badly cooked and far from adequate to sustain the prisoners for the hard work they were forced to do.
After carrying out the filth of the prison in handbarrows each morning, they were sent one and one-half miles away, under guard, to carry stone to repair prison fortifications. Maverick refused to work unless the rations were increased and he was placed, for a while, in a dungeon on an even more meager diet.
Throughout their imprisonment some of the prisoners showed their ingenuity and a sense of humor. Although the high, thick walls seemed impregnable, some Texans escaped through a hole they made. After this, the remaining victims were chained in pairs with heavy log chains, the weight of which made an added burden on their weakened physiques.
Finding a stone and six-pound cannon ball in the prison, they covered the stone with a blanket, placed a chain link between the stone and another layer of blanket to deaden the sound and hammered away with the cannon ball, turning the link frequently until it was broken. This freed them of their “jewelry” during the night; in the daytime they so carried the chains that the guards never suspected they were broken. When this trick was eventually discovered, the guards were more cruel and watchful.
In March Mr. Maverick’s client Dr. Booker, was killed when a Mexican soldier, too drunk to take good aim, shot him instead of the uniformed fellow Mexican he was trying to kill.
When Maverick’s father in South Carolina learned of his son’s imprisonment, he started working for his release. The Maverick family was related by marriage to the United States Minister to Mexico, General Waddy Thompson, also from South Carolina. He was able to secure Maverick’s release if he would swear that he was for the re-annexation of Texas by Mexico. Maverick’s grandson, Maury, later wrote that Maverick refused, saying, “However galling are the claims of slavery, I regard a lie as dishonorable. To say that I would lay down the arms of my country would be a lie.”
There was certainly great excitement among the San Antonio prisoners when, in late March, Maverick, Judge Hutchinson and Will Jones had their chains removed and were sent to Mexico City. One of them wrote, “We wate there (sic) return with great anxiety—expect to be liberated on their return which will be some 11 days,” but they were to be disappointed.
In Mexico City, Maverick and two companions, dirty and ragged, were paraded for fifteen minutes before the Palace before they were released. After General Thompson took them to his house, they cleaned up and did several days of sightseeing before they left for Vera Cruz where they were to return to Texas by boat. They stopped at Perote on the way to say goodbye to fellow prisoners and to take letters to mail after they reached Texas. Maverick felt guilty at leaving the others in Perote; they were finally released in June, 1843, due to the diligent efforts of General Thompson.
It was May when Maverick reached La Grange again, carrying his “jewelry” with him as a souvenir. To add to his delight at being home was the two-month old baby girl, Augusta, their second daughter, born during his absence, and the knowledge that the citizens of San Antonio had elected him to be a Senator of the Republic of Texas. So, in December of that year, he was again in Washington-on-the-Brazos, attending to Texas affairs.
That summer Maverick acquired a 385,000-acre ranch on Matagorda Peninsula, a long finger of land laying parallel to the mainland of Texas, which led to the event which made his name a commonly used word in the English language.
Various stories have been told as to the origin of the word: that Mr. Maverick was too tender-hearted to wield the hot branding iron; that he used his iron indiscriminately and thus built up a cattle empire dishonestly; that since all the other ranchers branded cattle, he wouldn’t use a brand and everyone would know the unbranded ones were Maverick’s. Even today, many are surprised at the true story.
Mr. Maverick had a client on the neighboring Matagorda Island who owed him $1,200. Being unable to raise the cash, he offered Maverick 400 head of longhorn cattle instead. Maverick accepted them, probably without enthusiasm. Legends that he owned more cattle than anyone else in Texas are not true; he was more interested in land than cattle and this was his only experience in cattle ownership.
He sent his slave, Jack Armstrong [Jinny Anderson’s son, as I understand], across to the Island to care for the cattle and Jack’s mother, Jinny, to care for Jack—he needed looking after. Maverick secured a branding iron with the initials MK and told Jack to mark all the increase in the herd. Maverick himself was too busy with personal and governmental affairs to give further thought to the cattle.
In those days Texas was an open range. Cattle were free to wander and any unbranded calves caught away from their mothers were fair game for whoever found them. Jack Armstrong neglected his duties and didn’t use the branding iron, and storms which came in from the Gulf of Mexico washed up sand bars so that the cattle could walk across to the mainland.
When cowboys found unbranded cattle they said, “They must be Maverick’s” and so the word found its way into the English language as meaning “an unbranded animal.”
The word seemed to catch on, and it spread rapidly. In 1848 gold was discovered in California and the rush began. Men from the East came to Texas by ship and cut across the land to the Pacific. As they passed through the state they became acquainted with the word “maverick” and carried it along. In San Francisco, some of these Gold Rushers sailed on fast clipper ships to another gold rush—in Australia—and the word went with them. In time it came to mean a non-conformist, and individualist.
To go back a bit, shortly after Maverick received the cattle, in lieu of $1,200 from his neighbor, the family left Matagorda Peninsula to return to their old home in San Antonio. The battle of the day of General Woll’s invasion and the plundering which followed had made a shambles of it, but they were happy to be back on the Main Plaza and the San Antonio River.
It was seven years before Maverick decided to move the cattle to the land he owned in Conquista, nearer San Antonio. Jack Armstrong was still in charge and the cattle continued to roam unbranded until their owner sold them, in 1856, to a nearby rancher for six dollars a head. The herd still numbered 400, since the unbranded calves had been appropriated, according to western custom, by other ranchers throughout the nine years of his ownership, due to Jack’s disinclination to brand the new-born calves.
This is the truth of cattle ownership—vastly different from the legend which grew taller and taller each time it was told around the campfires.
For ten years the Republic of Texas proudly flew the flag with a single star, but there was continuous discussion as to the advantages of uniting with the United States. Maverick was a member of the convention which met in Austin in July, 1845, to approve the annexation of Texas and again he helped write a constitution for Texas as the 28th state in the Union, thereafter known as the Lone Star State.
During these years he was buying more and more land. He hired surveyors and went along whenever possible. One surveyor declared that Maverick checked on every step. While on one such trip in 1848, his daughter Agatha, seven years old, took sick suddenly and died. Since there was no way to reach Maverick, he did not know of her death until his return three weeks later. The shock was considerable and he brooded over it, feeling guilty that he had not been home at such a critical time.
That summer a group of business men in San Antonio raised $800 to establish a wagon road to El Paso. They knew that the American traders who came from Missouri to Santa Fe continued down the Rio Grande to El Paso, and from there south to the town of Chihuahua, were doing very well financially. A good wagon route between the coast of Texas—through San Antonio—and on to Chihuahua via El Paso should be an economically profitable venture since it would be a shorter land route.
These San Antonians were aware that this would be no tea party. They would travel over unexplored country for six-hundred miles, across an area frequented by Apache and Comanche Indians who took unkindly to invasion of their hunting grounds. An outstanding man was called for to lead this expedition and Jack Hays was chosen. Hays was aware of Maverick’s depression and, knowing how he loved the outdoor life, urged him to join the group. So much happened on this trip that Maverick had no time to brood on his sorrow for long.
Late in August, 1848, the explorers set out, thirty-five citizens of San Antonio, an equal number of Texas Rangers, with a Delaware Indian and a Mexican to act as guides and interpreters.
Following a westerly direction, they crossed the Pecos River near present-day Del Rio. All went well up to this point. There was ample game and the Indians gave no trouble, but they were finding water difficult to obtain. Maverick wrote in his diary that on September 26, they reached the Pecos “in great thirst.”
West of the Pecos the story was different. It was a wild and rugged country, a wilderness where none of them had ever been. The guide, Lorenzo, became confused and led them southwest toward the Big Bend of the Rio Grande. There followed twenty days of severe privation.
Maverick made succinct entries in his diary. When no water was available they chewed on leather to stimulate the salivary glands enough to moisten their mouths. The food supply had run out when they encountered four old buffalo bulls; they evidently were lost also, since the great herds of buffalo were always seen east of the Pecos. The bulls furnished tough but welcome chewing for a few days, but by the first of October the explorers were reduced to “eating mustang meat” (wild horse).
A few days later they dined on panther, then bear grass from which they made a soup. They rejoiced when they came to a canyon where there were “fine tunas,” the edible fruit of a prickly pear cactus. Finally, two months later, on October 10, they had to kill one of their mules for breakfast which was “very poor and tough.”
Not all could stand the pressures of that trip. Maverick wrote “Dr. Wham crazy,” and a few days later related that the Doctor had ridden off in a fury into the night. They sent back men to search for him but were unable to find him in the wild country.
They now were in the high Chisos mountains in the heart of the Big Bend of the Rio Grande, noted for their ruggedness and vivid colors. Some friendly Indians took them to a branch of the Great Comanche War Trail, whitened with the bones of many animals. It was used by Indians on their annual raids on farmers and ranchers who lived in an area four-hundred miles wide in the states of Durango and Chihuahua, Mexico, and as far north as the Llano Estacado (Staked Plains) in Texas.
They followed this trail across the Rio Grande into Mexico. On October 17, they killed another mule for food, and leaving the trail, continued along the river to the northwest. Two days later the thin and weary men straggled into the Mexican village of San Carlos. They hurriedly apologized for trespassing on Mexican territory, before feasting on bread and milk. Here they rested a few days.
Although relations between Texas and Mexico had been touchy for years, Americans usually found the Mexican people compassionate and helpful.
Continuing up the river, they reached Presidio del Norte, (present-day Ojinaga), which must have looked familiar to Maverick, for it was here he had crossed the Rio Grande in a canoe as a prisoner of the Mexicans only six years before. The explorers crossed back into the United States and camped at Fort Leaton for sixteen days. While feasting on barbecue, tortillas, and coffee, they debated their next step.
Colonel Hays hated to give up on any mission, but he knew that too many members of this party were not equal to the task of continuing, so the decision was made to return to San Antonio—mission unaccomplished!
It was now November and getting cold; the men had only summer clothes. With a supply of pinole (parched, ground corn) and thirty days rations of meat, they followed the northern branch of the Commanche War Trail toward settlements in Texas. They were back in San Antonio in time for Christmas, after more than three months wandering and hardship. Not a man was lost; even “Dr. Wham” was found later and returned home!
Although they had not reached El Paso, they had learned that the country of the lower Pecos was to be avoided and a more northerly route preferred. Their records and experiences were used by the United States War Department, which sent explorers the following spring to find a route between San Antonio and El Paso. They were just in time, too: already hordes of impatient men were arriving in Texas, hunting a short cut to California and gold by way of El Paso. Within the next several years, thousands of Forty-niners were to travel the wagon road for which Maverick helped make the initial exploration. He came this way himself, a few years later to buy land in the El Paso area.
Mr. Maverick lived for twenty-two years after the Chihuahua expedition, seemingly with a finger in every Texas “pie.” The legend that he was the largest landowner in the world probably was not true, (so his grandson, Maury, wrote,) but he owned land all the way from El Paso to the Gulf of Mexico and some of the Gulf islands. Also, as far west as the Mexican border. He had interests in mining, salt lakes, railroads, ranches and city property. In fact, so vast and varied were his holdings that General William Tecumseh Sherman wrote in later years that he “seems to have been the owner of everything not actively in the possession of somebody else.”
Maverick did not permit his business interests to interfere with his love of public affairs. For thirty years he participated in public life at city, country, state and national levels.
He was a quiet, scholarly man, yet fearless and tough physically so that he could endure a lot of physical privation. He died in 1870 at the age of 67.
Although Texas had given him much, he had reciprocated with time and energy as well as possessions for the town and state he loved. He lived under four flags of Texas: Mexico, Republic of Texas, United States and the Confederacy. For all his achievements, it is ironic that he is best known as the man whose cattle roamed unbranded—”mavericks.”
Who can deny, in truth, that the real story of his life is more exciting than the legends!
Opal Waymire Beaty, True West
From the Texas Volume of the Encyclopedia of the New West, published in 1881 and edited by that splendid historian, John Henry Brown, we take the following in regard to the career of the subject of this sketch, Samuel A. Maverick:
“Samuel A. Maverick graduated from Yale College in 1825, afterwards attended a law course under Judge Randolph Tucker, at Winchester, Virginia. He came to Texas in 1835, and to the day of his death occupied an honorable prominence as a citizen, a public servant and landholder. His acquisition of lands by the purchase of scrip, headrights and bounty warrants and their location upon the public domain continued to his death, whereby he was reputed by some, but doubtless erroneously, to be the largest landholder in the world. His possessions, however, became immense and were acquired in so honorable and legitimate a manner that no term of reproach ever stained his name.
“Mr. Maverick in February, 1836, was elected from San Antonio de Bexar to the convention that declared the Texas independence on the 2nd day of March. This document was first published March 2, 1836, which was the first day of the sitting of the convention. Consequently those members who came in a day or two late, have their names to the Declaration, but not to this first printed copy. (These were Samuel A. Maverick, of Bexar; A. Briscoe and John W. Moore, of Harrisburgh; S. Rhodes Fisher, of Matagorda; George Childress and Sterling C. Robertson, of Milam; Samuel P. Carson, of Red River; John W. Bower of San Patricio, and J. B. Woods.) He was mayor of San Antonio in 1839, and again in 1862; an alderman in 1841-4, and again in 1851; and was city treasurer in 1841-2. While a prisoner in the Mexican castle of Perote (having been captured in San Antonio September 11, 1842 with the judge, lawyers and citizens) he was elected a member of the eighth Texas congress of 1843-4, and released by Santa Anna at the intercession of his old friend and kinsman, the Hon. Waddy Thompson of South Carolina, then minister to Mexico, and reached home in time to sit in that body. He was representative in the legislature in 1851-2, and in 1853-4; senator in 1855-6, and in 1857-8, and again a representative in 1859-60 and the two extra sessions of 1861. He was from December 5 to 9, 1835, in the successful storming of San Antonio under Milam and Johnson. He first arrived in San Antonio September 8, 1835. On the 16th of October, 1835, he was arrested and imprisoned by the Mexican commander, Colonel Domingo Ugartachea, but released by General Cos on the 3rd of December, and escaped to the Texas forces, then besieging the place, in time to re-enter the city under Milam.
“By the secession convention of 1861, with the Hon. Thomas J. Devine and Dr. (afterwards Colonel) Phillip N. Luckett, he was appointed a commissioner to demand the surrender of the army and garrison at San Antonio and other places, which he accomplished.
“It should have been earlier stated that on the 27th of August, 1848, he was one of an expedition authorized by the state government, of fifty men and ten Delaware Indians, commanded by Colonel John C. Hays and Captain Sam Highsmith, that left San Antonio to explore the country and open a road to El Paso, an enterprise then touching the popular heart of Texas, and deemed of the utmost importance, not only in developing the west, but in asserting our title to the Rio Grande as the western boundary of Texas. Not as a mere adventurer nor as a soldier, but unknown to himself, Samuel A. Maverick was a volunteer in that expedition, actuated by the higher impulses of a statesman. No brighter spot occurs in his history. His action, a man of wealth and education, given to secret communion with his wiser self, has never been explained, and is doubtless an unknown factor in the make-up of his sterling character to his own children, then mere children or unborn. This writer knows whereof he speaks, and the wisdom of Mr. Maverick was most signally verified by what followed in the great agitations and compromises in the American congress of 1850. At the time it was regarded as a hazardous expedition into terra incognito. The party became lost and underwent the pangs of thirst and hunger. Snakes, lizards and terrapins were eaten to prevent starvation; but the expedition was successful, and returned to San Antonio on the 10th of December, after an absence of three and a half months. The same trip will be made, inside of one year, on the iron horse, in four days.
“During the war Mr. Maverick was chief justice of Bexar county from 1863 till removed by the military fiat of General Sheridan, of the United States army, after the close of the war.
“Mr. Maverick remained in private life till his death in 1870. It will be seen from 1825 to 1867, a period of thirty-two years his services were in almost constant requisition by the people in some public capacity. He never sought office, never electioneered as a candidate, and was devoid of any official aspiration. He simply served the people honestly when drafted into their service. No decent man lives who will aver that he ever did a dishonorable act, or swerved from the highest sense of regard for integrity and the rights of the people in all his career.
“This sketch of his Texas career is a voluntary offering from one who has known him long and well and often served with him in the councils of the state, and who aided, if he did not lead, in bestowing his name upon a county in Texas as a fixed and ever-continuing memorial of his honor, his patriotism and his rare intelligence. However honorable the name in New England and South Carolina, it nowhere shines more brightly or is cherished more kindly that in that of Samuel A. Maverick, deceased, of Texas.
“Mrs. Maverick was eminently worthy of such a husband. One who has known her long and intimately, says: ‘She is a noble woman, wife, mother and patriot—a woman of great thought and great heart—yet the most modest and unpretentious of women. She has fine administrative abilities, and in all respects is justly entitled to be classed as a model woman. Texas is proud of her, and jealously regardful of the character of her children.’
“The children of Samuel A. and Mary A. Maverick were ten in number, four of whom died in infancy. Of the others, Samuel, born May 14, 1837, was educated at Edinburg, Scotland; is merchandising at San Antonio, Texas; married May 14, 1871, to Sallie, daughter of Thomas Frost, late of Tennessee. Their children are Samuel A., born September 2, 1872; John Frost, born March 23, 1874; Mary Agatha, born September 12, 1875; Sallie, born August 20, 1877; and Elizabeth Givens, born October 11, 1879. Lewis Antonio, (the first American boy born in San Antonio) born March 23, 1839; was educated at the Universities of Vermont and North Carolina; married Ada, daughter of the late, John Bradley of San Antonio. Lewis died June 6, 1866, leaving no issue. His widow has since married Judge Jacob Waelder of San Antonio. George Madison, born September 7, 1845; was educated at the Universities of North Carolina and Virginia; is practicing law at St. Louis, Mo.; married June 26, 1872, to Mary Elizabeth, daughter of John Vance of Castroville, Texas. Their children are Mary Rowena, born February 10, 1874; Lola, born November 24, 1875, and George, born April 16, 1880. William H., born December 24, 1847; educated at the Universities of North Carolina and Virginia; is in the real estate business at San Antonio, Texas; married June 24, 1873, to Emilie Virginia, daughter of the late General Robert H. Chilton, of Virginia. The children are William Chilton, born February 19, 1875; Lewis, born February 12, 1877, and Laura Wise, born November 22, 1878. Mary Brown, born June 17, 1851; educated at Staunton, Virginia, and Mrs. Ogden Hoffman’s, New York City; married August 17, 1874, to Edwin H. Terrell, lawyer, of Indianapolis, Indiana, now residing at San Antonio, Texas. Their children are Maverick, born June 12, 1875; George Holland, born October 1, 1877, and Edwin H., born July 23, 1879. Albert, born May 7, 1854; educated at the University of Virginia, and is now ranching in Bandera county, Texas; he was married March 20, 1877, to Jeannie L., daughter of Jesse L. Maury, of Charlottesville, Virginia. They have two children, Jesse, born December 27, 1877, and Agatha, born December 9, 1879.”
John Henry Brown, 1881
Since the above was written nine more children were born to Mr. and Mrs. Albert Maverick, as follows:
Jesse Maverick, born December 27, 1877; married to James S. McNeel; Agatha Maverick, born December 9, 1879, married to Norval J. Welsh; Ellen Maverick, born December 2, 1881, married Louis A. Wright; Albert Maverick, born August 14, 1883, married Lillian Williams; Reuben Maverick, born September 7, 1885, (deceased); Phillip Maverick, born January 2, 1887, married Jean Evans; Virginia Maverick, born March 3, 1889, married Murray F. Crossette; James Slayden Maverick, born December 27, 1890, married Hazel Davis; Mary Maverick, born October 17, 1892, married Robert McGarraugh; George Madison Maverick, born December 11, 1893, married Ruth Newell; Maury Maverick, born October 23, 1895, married Terrell Dobbs.
In thirty-two years of married life Samuel Augustus Maverick and his wife Mary Adams Maverick lived in seven houses. This strikingly high number is due in part to the fact that the Mavericks rented two houses early in their San Antonio residence, purchased a third, built two houses elsewhere in Texas, and rented one more house in San Antonio while building their final residence.
In their early years in San Antonio they adapted their houses to the local architectural vernacular (which was, of course, Hispanic), but later built a log cabin, then a raised cottage before building a house that recalled Sam’s native South Carolina, a house situated in the very shadow of the former Spanish mission known as the Alamo.
And while the house types in which they lived were either Hispanic or Anglo, the hands that built some of those houses belonged to African Texans and German Texans. Although none of the Mavericks’ houses survive, the memoirs of Mary Adams Maverick, combined with documentation of the structures, gives us unusually good data as to how one Texas family adopted and modified several Texas vernacular traditions before building a house form that was deeply rooted in Sam’s youth.
To understand the cultural environment of San Antonio in the 1830s and 1840s, it is necessary to delineate the roots of Sam and Mary Maverick in the American South and Sam’s role in the Texas Revolution. Samuel Augustus Maverick was born in 1803 in the Pendleton District of South Carolina, in the far western part of the state. Though Pendleton was a raw, recently settled area, the elder Maverick was a Charleston merchant. Young Maverick lived both in urban Charleston and in the country at Pendleton until 1810, when the family permanently located to the latter location. Young Sam attended Yale, graduating in 1825, and subsequently studied law in Winchester, Virginia. Returning to South Carolina, he became involved in politics, but, as an opponent of John C. Calhoun’s view that the states had the right to nullify any national law, Maverick realized that his chances of political advancement in his native state were remote. After briefly settling in southern Alabama, he decided to explore the possibility of moving to Texas. He entered Texas for the first time in April 1835, and arrived in San Antonio that September.
When Sam Maverick arrived in San Antonio in the fall of 1835, he found a town that was the most populous in Spanish Texas. It was defined by the mission of San Antonio de Valero on the east side of the San Antonio River and the Presidio of San Antonio de Bexar on the west side. The presidio created what became known as the Military Plaza, which by 1749 included the house of the commander of the presidio.
After an influx of settlers from the Canary Islands in 1731, the Main Plaza was laid out just to the east of the Military Plaza; with the construction of a parish church, San Fernando, the area on the west side of the river was often called the villa of San Fernando de Bexar.
Though four other missions were founded downriver, San Antonio remained centered on its three plazas.
In the fall of 1835 Anglo American colonizers were concluding that the repressive measures of Mexican President Antonio López de Santa Anna could be opposed only through armed conflict. One month later Mexican Gen. Martín Perfecto de Cós arrived with troops, determined that Bexar should remain a part of Mexico. Both the presidio and the Alamo mission were quickly fortified by Mexican troops. Maverick found himself placed under house arrest, but was freed in time to fight in the house-to-house combat that was the culmination of the siege of Bexar. Maverick was present when Ben Milam, the commander of the Texian forces, was shot and killed at the Veramendi house, just north of the Main Plaza.
The revolutionaries, who included both Anglos and Mexicans, forced Cós to surrender and retreat to the south.
The Texians secured the now-abandoned Alamo, and the talk of the town turned to the election of delegates to the convention to declare independence and draw up a constitution, which was to be held at Washington-on-the-Brazos. The residents of San Antonio—almost entirely Mexican—refused to allow the Alamo defenders to vote, considering these transients rather than residents. The Texians at the Alamo responded by holding their own election on February 1, 1836, and chose Sam Maverick as one of two delegates to represent them. Later that month Gen. Santa Anna arrived with his own forces and those of General Cós, and laid siege to the Alamo. Maverick remained at the Alamo until March 1, and did not arrive at Washington until after the vote for independence had been taken. He was in Washington, however, when word arrived that Santa Anna’s troops had overrun the garrison on March 6, killing all 187 defenders. Maverick remained there until the independence convention had finished its business, then returned to Alabama to take care of his own affairs.
In Tuscaloosa Sam Maverick met Mary Ann Adams. Mary must have had a refined air about her, as Tuscaloosa was then the capital of Alabama, as well as home of the University of Alabama, which opened in 1831. The town was graced by a number of neoclassical buildings designed by the state architect, English-born William Nichols, including the capitol, the university, and Christ Episcopal Church, of which Mary was a member. Sam and Mary quickly fell in love, and they were married in the summer of 1836. After visiting with family in Alabama and South Carolina, the Mavericks returned to Texas at the beginning of 1838.
The Mavericks moved to Texas with an entourage of enslaved servants. From the Maverick side came Wiley, who drove the wagon; Jinny Anderson, a cook and Maverick’s former nurse; and Jinny’s four children. Mary’s mother, Agatha Adams, gave her daughter three slaves: Rachel, a nurse, and Griffin and Granville, adult males. In 1845 Samuel would purchase four more African Americans for use as slaves. Frances and her son Simon, Nora, a seamstress; and William, a carpenter. The Mavericks owned more slaves than the typical Bejareño slaveholder: in 1850, when there were only 389 enslaved African Americans in Bexar County, they owned two adult males and eight females; by 1860, when the number of slaves in the county had increased to 1,395, they owned two males and sixteen females. Most slaveholders in the county owned five or fewer slaves. The Maverick family’s ownership of nearly twenty slaves was one of the clearest indications that they represented the values—and vices—of the American South.
The first San Antonio house of Sam and Mary Maverick was rented from Don Jose Cassiano, who owned a house on the west side of the Main Plaza, with the Church of San Fernando to the north and Dolorosa Street to the south.
The house ran halfway back to the Military Plaza. Don Jose was renting the front room of this house to Mary’s brother William Adams, for use as a store, and he offered to let the Mavericks live in the back while getting settled. The Mavericks spent about two and a half months in the house, from their arrival on June 15, 1838, until the first of September. At that point they rented a house on Soledad Street from the Huizar family.
Mary noted in her memoirs that these Huizars were descended from Pedro Huizar, who had crafted the portals of the San José Mission. The house was just north of the Veramendi house, which had been the scene of Maverick’s service in the siege of Bexar. Though the Mavericks made no notable changes to either house, their choice of two dwellings either on or near the Main Plaza is evidence that they preferred their residence to be in the center of a bustling town rather than to be secluded in a suburb.
In January 1839 Sam Maverick was elected to a one-year term as mayor of San Antonio, beginning a political career that would also include service as an alderman and as a representative in the Texas legislature. In that same month he purchased the old Barrera place at Soledad and Commerce streets, at the northwest corner of Main Plaza.
This was the first house in San Antonio that the family owned, and here they began to make improvements.
Mary Maverick recalled that the main house was of stone and had three rooms, plus a shed attached on the east side of the northernmost room. The room at the corner of Houston and San Antonio, closest to the Main Plaza, had doors opening onto both streets. This Mary referred to as “the store-room,” but Sam probably used this as his land office, the home base for his far-flung real estate empire. North of this was a “long room,” in Mary’s phrase, a longer, rectangular space. North of this was what Mary called the north room, which was most likely a dining room. The shed was east of this room, toward the river. The house backed up to a bend in the San Antonio River, shaded by “a grand old cypress” growing at the De la Zerda place next door.
Sam and Mary made significant changes to their new old house. They reinforced the shed with new adobe walls and divided it into a kitchen and a servant’s room. They built an additional servant’s room fronting on Soledad Street, separated from the main house by a gateway, or “zaguan.” This echoed the zaguan of the Veramendi house just up the street, and like the Veramendi zaguan it probably had a smaller door for pedestrians set within the frame of the larger door for horses and wagons.
The presence of a long room marked the Barrera house as an elite residence. As Mary noted, “all considerable houses had a long-room for receptions.” Theodore Gentilz’s painting Fandango: Spanish Dance documents such a space. Though it has been claimed that the painting depicts the long room in the house of the presidio captain, now known as the Spanish Governor’s Palace, the scene could have been in any number of elite houses in town, including the nearby Veramendi house. (The long room in the “Governor’s Palace” is the only long room still extant.) The Mavericks divided their long room into two rooms, probably a parlor and a bedchamber. The partition was a brick wall with a fireplace, decorated with a mantelpiece.
In their remodeling, the Mavericks created an amalgam of Spanish and Anglo tendencies. Their use of adobe as a building material and their use of a zaguan gateway as the principal work entry showed considerable willingness to adapt to the local vernacular. Of course, their choice was the vernacular of the Mexican upper class: they did not purchase a rude jacal consisting of stakes driven into the ground, but a solid stone house with a long room. While the Mavericks could subdivide old rooms and add new ones, they could not change the linear nature of the rooms; there was no central passage to act as a receiving area, as had been the case in Anglo American houses for nearly a century. The rooms were invariably open to friends, family, and slaves.
The domain of the family’s enslaved servants stretched from the north end of the property on Soledad Street to the kitchen, the yard, and the river. The zaguan led from Soledad Street into the yard, near which the Mavericks built a stable. One servant’s room fronted Soledad Street on the north side of the zaguan, the other was deeper in the complex, beyond the kitchen. The two rooms housing enslaved servants may have reflected gender distinctions. The room off the kitchen was probably reserved for the female slaves: Jinny, the Maverick cook, her four children, and Rachel, the Maverick nursemaid. It seems most likely that Jinny asserted her authority over this room, the kitchen, and the adjacent yard. The room north of the zaguan was probably occupied by the male slaves Griffin and Granville. The arrangement seems unusual compared to arrangements in other urban slaveholding establishments in that the Mavericks did not block their slaves’ access to the street; indeed, the male slaves’ room may have served as something of a guard house.
The yard was entirely reserved for the slaves and their work: while such activities took place in the northern part of the yard, the southern part—with gardens and the bath house—was reserved for the family. These two parts of the yard were separated by “a strong but homely picket fence.” This separation must have broken down on a weekly basis, however, as the bath house was also the place where the laundry was done. As more businesses opened up on the north side of Commerce Street, however, privacy for bathing diminished, and the Mavericks and other Anglo families took to bathing in more secluded stretches of the river.
The perception of space in the Barrera-Maverick house is nowhere better appreciated than in Mary’s description of what she latter termed “A Day of Horrors.” This was March 19, 1840, when sixty-five Comanches were in San Antonio to negotiate the release of hostages, a parley that went terribly wrong. Mary watched the proceedings from the yard of her friend, Mrs. Thomas Higginbotham, who lived across Commerce Street from the Mavericks and just north of the courthouse. Suddenly a “deafening war-whoop sounded in the Court room,” and the Comanches drew their arrows and fired, killing both the county judge and the sheriff; San Antonians returned fire with their rifles. Mary and Mrs. Higginbotham ran into the latter’s house. Mary did not stop but headed straight through the house and across Commerce to her own door. “Two Indians ran past me on the street and one reached my door as I got in. He turned to raise his hand to push it just as I beat down the heavy bar; then he ran on.” Mary rushed on to the north room only to find Sam and her brother Andrew sitting at a table studying some survey plats. They had not heard a thing. She quickly informed them and dashed into the yard looking for her children, shouting, “Here are Indians! Here are Indians!” This was quite accurate, as three Comanches had entered through the zaguan and were making for the river. Jinny, the Maverick’s enslaved cook, “stood bravely in front of the children, mine and hers, and I heard her cry out to the Indian, ‘If you don’t go ‘way from here I’ll mash your head with this rock!'” Mary recalled that “the Indian seemed regretful that he hadn’t time to dispatch Jinny and her brood, but his time was short, and . . . he dash down the bank into the river.” With her children safely inside, Mary watched from the Soledad Street door, and even wandered out into the street, even though the fight was far from over, and five Comanches lay dead in Commerce Street. “I was just twenty-two then,” she recalled, “and was endowed with a fair share of curiosity.”
Away from San Antonio the family built in a very different manner. In 1842, the reinstated General Santa Anna once again invaded Texas, causing many Texans to flee San Antonio. In March, Sam, Mary, their three children, and their slaves removed to Fayette County, just across the Colorado River from the county seat, La Grange. Sam almost immediately returned to San Antonio. He was taken captive by Mexican troops and marched to Mexico, where he was imprisoned until April 1843. Two of the family’s enslaved servants, Granville and Wiley, built the Maverick’s new house with assistance from a local man, Griffith Jones. Mary Maverick remembered the dwelling as “a log cabin of one room sixteen by eighteen feet, one smaller for a kitchen, and a shed room for Jinny and the children.” The next year the Maverick’s enslaved craftsmen enlarged the house with help from Mary’s brother William, who was visiting from Alabama. This was “another log cabin, adjacent to the one previously built, leaving a passage or a hall between them. In this hall we usually sat when the weather was fair.” Such log houses were the predominant housing form for pioneering Texans in the 1830s and 1840s.
That enslaved African Americans Granville and Wiley built the Mavericks’ log cabin was not unusual for antebellum Texas, for enslaved artisans were employed on many building projects. In Austin the master builder, Abner Cook, used enslaved artisans to help construct the new State Capitol and the Governor’s Mansion. Indeed, Frederick Law Olmsted noted that some slaveholders in Austin rented out their servants to work on the Capitol building. The brick walls of Ashton Villa in Galveston were laid by Aleck, a trained mason who was owned by the merchant James Moreau Brown. And African American slave craftsmen were responsible for many log houses and cabins.
Mary’s recollection that the initial log house measured sixteen by eighteen feet corresponds exactly with what Terry Jordan characterized as a square or roughly square floor plan (as opposed to rectangular or elongated). The roughly square plan was the predominant type in that state. Mary’s use of the term log cabin rather than log house suggests that the logs were left round and that they were, in Jordan’s phrase, “crudely notched and projecting beyond the corners.” Such cabins were widely viewed as impermanent houses, to be replaced by hewn log houses. If such cabins survived, they were used to house slaves.
Mary Maverick clearly indicated that the construction of the house was incremental. Even though the main house was just one room, the kitchen and living quarters for servants were separate. In this the Mavericks and their enslaved craftsmen followed long-standing Southern tradition. She also made clear that the development of the double pen with a central passage was a response to the Texas heat. Such an open passage or dog trot, growing out of a standard eighteenth-century Georgian-era plan, could be found across the lower South from Georgia to East Texas. Mary did not use the term dog-trot, but she did emphasize its use as a space for living in warm weather.
Mary also noted that her brother built in the passage “a settee or lounge with curtain frame around it; and this was intended for gentleman visitors who should remain all night.” This may well reflect a desire to provide accommodation to travelers, though Mary seems to be saying that it would be occupied by those who were already visiting, and not simply strangers in need of a bed. The provision of a bed for gentlemen also speaks to the important issue of safety: Mary, her children, and the slaves lived most of the time there without Sam Maverick. A curtained settee for male visitors encouraged them to stay overnight, yet it was a space separate from the family’s own space. The settee thus neatly balanced the safety of the family with concerns for propriety.
In 1845, the year in which the Republic of Texas agreed to join the United States, the Maverick family moved to Decrow’s Point, near Matagorda, on the Gulf of Mexico. Maverick had made substantial investments in land there and apparently hoped to build a number of houses. While on a business trip to Charleston in December 1845 he bought four additional African Americans to use as slaves, including William, a twenty-four-year-old carpenter. Sam seems to have purchased William with the idea that he might provide much of the skilled labor needed to build houses at Decrow’s. William proved to be unruly and uncooperative, however, and he was sent to New Orleans to be sold.
In the first four months of 1847, as the United States Army fought Santa Anna in the Mexican-American War, the Mavericks built a new house on the Gulf of Mexico at Decrow’s Point. Mary noted that they built the kitchen and other outbuildings first and lived in those while the main house was under construction. Presumably William, the Maverick’s enslaved carpenter, did much of the work on this house before he was sold. Sam Maverick also worked on the house, to his detriment: on March 19 he tripped on a loose step, fell twelve feet, and landed on his shoulder. He was incapacitated for close to three weeks. Their house was built of wood, three stories tall, with eight rooms. Mary wrote that “it was very roomy and commanded a fine view of both the bay and the gulf . . . so we all enjoyed greatly the new, clean cool, roomy house.”
That the house was three stories tall suggested that it was a raised cottage with utility rooms below and the principal rooms above. It was most likely similar to the early houses of elites in Galveston, Texas, such as the Samuel May Williams House, which were adaptations of Creole house forms common along the Gulf Coast.
Originally the Williams House rested on ten-foot-high brick piers; the principal floor had a parlor, sitting room, and dining room, and five bedrooms were fitted under the steeply pitched hipped roof. Mary recalled that their house was “very substantially built, and calculated to resist a very considerable storm.” Indeed, the Texas coast had been struck by a hurricane in October 1837. Mary recalled that they “were aware great storms might come and destructive cyclones at equinoxal times, and we often talked of going back to San Antonio.” Though Mary loved the house on the coast, Sam’s land dealings tied him ever more closely to San Antonio and West Texas, and the family left for Bexar in October of 1847.
The Mavericks still owned their house at the northeast corner of the Main Plaza, but Mary noted that the town did not seem as healthy as it had in the early forties. She wrote that “I felt that I could not live any longer at the old place, and Mr. Maverick, too did not want to live there. We concluded that the high ground on the Alamo Plaza would be a more healthful location.” San Antonio had suffered through a cholera epidemic in 1849, which took the life of Sam and Mary’s six-year-old daughter Augusta. This came just a year after the death of seven-year-old Agatha, so the old house was not only in the most crowded part of town but also held painful memories of the deaths of two of their children.
The Mavericks may also have been motivated to move because of the run-down appearance of their old house, in spite of an ever-increasing fortune that would have allowed them to build a new one. Mary’s sister Lizzie teased her, “I understand that you are having a new house built. I am very glad to hear it for I am tired of being so often told of the old ruins in which you live.” She reminded her sister that people remarked, “I wonder why Mr. Maverick doesn’t live in a better house.” Sam had gained a reputation not only for great wealth but also for frugality to the point of eccentricity; a new house would be more appropriate for a family of their wealth and stature.
Perhaps another issue was that while Sam and Mary had cordial relations with the Mexican elite of San Antonio, they were not close friends. Mary noted that while they exchanged calls with leading families such as the Navarros, Seguins, Veramindis, and Yturris, she “never felt like being at all intimate.” She did not want the children to spend much time with the children of the Mexican elites “because they let theirs go almost naked.” Mary thus sketched out the gulf between the mores of Victorian-era Anglos and Mexicans. And given that these families all lived on or near the Main Plaza, the Mavericks were apparently not disturbed at the thought of moving farther away.
The family moved in July 1849 from the Main Plaza to the Alamo Plaza. Sam had acquired land near the old mission church and convento, at the northwestern edge of the plaza in 1841. Between 1844 and 1849 he bought four large parcels of land between the Alamo Plaza and the San Antonio River. At first the family occupied “an old Mexican house” on the west side of the plaza and on the south side of what would become Houston Street, across from the site where they would build their new house.
Indeed, this house probably incorporated a room (or rooms) from the west wall of the mission enclosure, which had served one hundred years before as apartments for Indian converts. It was bounded on the north and west by the Alamo acequia, which was by then abandoned. The Mavericks would spend nearly a year and a half in this house, as work did not begin on the new house until June 1850, and they did not move in until the first of December. Mary did not note any changes the family made to the house; perhaps all their energy went into planning the new structure. Indeed, her only comment about their latest temporary abode was made in connection with the new house, which they found “very nice, after the old Mexican quarters we had occupied for over a year.”
The neighborhood into which they moved was not only predominantly Mexican but also predominantly poor. When Frederick Law Olmsted visited town in 1854, he found the Alamo “a mere wreck of its former grandeur,” and in use as an arsenal by the U.S. Quartermaster. He described the Alamo Plaza as “all Mexican. Windowless cabins of stakes, plastered with mud and roofed with river-grass, or ‘tula’; or low, windowless, but better thatched, houses of adobes (gray, unburnt bricks), with groups of brown idlers lounging at their doors.” Interestingly, Olmsted chose not to mention the Maverick House, sitting prominently at the northwest corner of the plaza.
Sam and Mary Maverick moved with an awareness that things were changing on the Alamo Plaza, however. In 1849 the U.S. Department of War named San Antonio headquarters for all army operations in Texas, and on January 1, 1850, Jean Marie Odin, the Catholic Bishop of Texas, agreed to rent the entire Alamo compound to the army for $150 per month. Maj. Edwin Burr Babbitt, the chief quartermaster for San Antonio, recommended to Gen. Thomas S. Jessup that the Alamo buildings be demolished and new ones erected, but Jessup overruled this suggestion. In the spring of 1850 Babbitt reroofed the mission church, adding a second floor and a curvilinear parapet. Maverick also rented an adjacent lot to the army for $20 per month. The mission church was used for the rather mundane purpose of storing foodstuffs, but the army’s occupancy meant that the building would not deteriorate any further. Others also saw the eastern side of town as ripe for redevelopment: in 1859 John Fries and J.H. Kampmann began to build a large new hotel, to be known as the Menger Hotel, just south of the Alamo. In that same year, Sam Maverick acquired another large parcel of land northwest of Alamo Plaza; from this land the Mavericks would eventually donate Travis Park to the city, and, on the north side of the park, the site for St. Mark’s Episcopal Church.
Ultimately, though, the selection of Alamo Plaza as the site for the Maverick House was a very personal one for Sam Maverick. In an 1846 letter to Mary, Sam referred to the Alamo as “the old Golgotha.” This Aramaic word for skull denotes the hill where Jesus Christ was crucified, known in its Latin form as Calvary. In more modern times Golgotha had taken on the connotations of a graveyard or charnel house. Maverick thus remained intensely aware of the human sacrifice that had taken place on that spot little more than a decade earlier and may have been using the term not only in its generic sense, but also to draw an analogy between the sacrifice of the Alamo defenders and Christ himself. The next year he wrote to S.M. Howe, a U.S. Army officer in San Antonio, “I have a desire to reside on this particular spot, a foolish prejudice no doubt as I was almost a solitary escape[e] from the Alamo massacre having been sent by those unfortunate men [to the independence convention].” If Sam and Mary had their bedchamber in the south room upstairs, they may well have had a remarkable view of the old mission that had played such a memorable role in their own lives and in the history of their state.
An 1877 photograph shows that the Maverick House was a two-story block with the gables at the north and south end and a two-story gallery on the west side. The south wall had one window on each floor, and the longer west side had three per floor. The roof began several feet above the lintels of the second floor window, suggesting that the attic contained usable space. No dormers were visible, but the gable end has what appears to be a ventilator. The narrowness of the chimney suggests that it served cast-iron stoves rather than traditional fireplaces. Sanborn Fire Insurance Maps of 1885 and 1888, when the property had become a boardinghouse, make sense of the outbuildings visible in the photograph and document features not visible in the photograph.
The two-story gallery was actually L-shaped, attaching the main block of the house to a two-story kitchen. Connecting the main house and kitchen with a gallery was fairly typical in larger houses in Texas and, indeed, elsewhere in the South, but less typical was the fact that the kitchen was not situated behind the main house, but to the north and west of the main block. The longer south façade of the kitchen looked toward Houston Street, so that the main block and kitchen formed a courtyard.
The second floor of the kitchen may have housed some of the Maverick’s enslaved servants, but it could also have been separate living quarters for the older Maverick boys. Samuel was thirteen in 1850 and Lewis was eleven, though at five and three George and William were rather young to be apart from their parents. Whatever the function of the upper room of the kitchen block, the Sanborn Maps also indicate the presence of a one-story building north of the main house, with a south-facing front porch and a connector to the main house. This northernmost building may have housed the male slaves, just as room north of the zaguan had housed them in the old house on Main Plaza. Even in the 1880s, when the property was a boardinghouse, this building was labeled as a “servant’s room.” The Sanborn Maps cannot tell us whether either the kitchen or the servant’s room date to 1850, but both are visible in an 1873 bird’s-eye view of the city.
By this time, Sam had passed away but Mary was living there; clearly these outbuildings had been there for some time.
A final outbuilding is known through both the photograph and the Sanborn Maps: the Maverick Land Office. This was a low-roofed one-story building with front and back rooms, both lit by eastern windows. The door opened directly onto Houston Street, meaning that visitors to the land office did not have to enter the yard of the house. At the old house on the Main Plaza, the office was in the main block of the house nearest the plaza, but here the commercial aspects of the complex were strictly separated from the residential.
The Sanborn Maps also reveal that most of the buildings in the Maverick compound were made of stone: the main house, kitchen, servant’s room, and land office. The only frame structures were two small outbuildings, one west of the kitchen and another west of the servant’s room. The use of stone was traditional in important San Antonio buildings, such as the eighteenth-century missions and the residence of the presidio commander, though poorer folk lived in one-room jacales, with walls of wooden posts driven into the ground.
The form of the Maverick House was highly unusual for an Anglo family in San Antonio. The house of John James, a business partner of Maverick’s, was a far more typical Anglo Texan house. James’s main house was a squarish block set back from the street, with galleries on both the front and rear elevations; the kitchen, a separate building behind the main house, had only a front gallery. Both the first floor of the main house and the kitchen were built of stone; later Sanborn Maps show a frame second floor to the main house, which may have been a later addition. Both the way in which the James House related to the street and the relation between house and kitchen marked it as being more conventionally Anglo Texan.
An even more imposing Anglo Texan house was that of James Vance, a New York-born merchant and banker. This house, built south of the Main Plaza, was two stories high and had a partially submerged basement. Both the principal front, facing in the direction of the plaza, and the rear elevation had colonnades with Greek Revival box columns. A central passage with a staircase ran through the house on the ground floor and the upper two floors. The entire house was built of stone, and family tradition claims that the architect builder was John Fries, a German stonemason. Olmsted observed that “the American dwellings stand back, with galleries and jalousies and a garden picket fence against the walk,” which could describe the James, Vance, or Maverick houses.
The Maverick house in San Antonio was also different from that designed by relatives back in South Carolina. Montpelier, Sam’s father’s house in Pendleton, in the western part of the state, burned early in 1850. The senior Maverick had recently suffered a stroke, and so the task of rebuilding fell to his son-in-law William Van Wyck. The new house, built a short distance from the old one, featured a central passage and four rooms downstairs and up, a plan characteristic of many Greek Revival, Federal, and Georgian houses. Four square piers create a two-story central portico; more unusual was the cast-iron balcony to the right of the entrance portico, which opened into the drawing room. Although the Maverick-Van Wyck house was some 245 miles inland from Charleston, it featured a typical central passage plan and fashionable neoclassical ornament.
The Maverick house was unlike other Anglo Texan houses in San Antonio or the house of Sam’s brother-in-law in South Carolina; however, the house possessed a number of characteristics associated with the house form known as the Charleston single house.
This form developed in Charleston, South Carolina, in the mid-eighteenth century. The simplest definition is a house with only one room fronting the street. By the latter eighteenth century, single houses would have a two-story gallery, preferably facing south. Any garden would be in front of this gallery, and the main entrance would be on the center of this façade. In plan the house would have a central passage with a room on each side, and it would have two or three stories. Often the long wall opposite the gallery would have the fireplaces and no windows, almost as if it were expected that another house was to be built adjoining that wall. Usually the kitchen, laundry, and slave quarters would be placed to the rear of the property.
The Maverick house showed a single room to Houston Street, with a gallery on the side. A letter from Mary to her son Lewis in 1863 provides evidence that there were in fact three rooms downstairs, a fact supported by the three equal-sized windows in the surviving photograph. She specifies that these rooms were the north room, the dining room, and the sitting room. The absence of an entrance hall or stair hall is significant. Central passages were common in eighteenth-century houses in the eastern states; a design that scholars refer to as the Georgian plan. Even Charleston single houses had central passages, albeit opening onto the garden rather than the street. The Maverick family’s arrangement of three downstairs rooms is actually much closer to Creole floor plans of Louisiana. And indeed houses like the Major James Pitot House in New Orleans (built 1799-1805) feature a dining room as the central room on the ground floor. The lack of a stair hall suggests that the main access to the upstairs was from a stair on the gallery, as was the case in such major Louisiana houses of the 1830s as the David Weeks Home, now known as Shadows-on-the-Teche. The Weeks house, having six rooms on each floor is not a single house, but single houses in New Orleans have a gallery on the side and two or three rooms on each floor.
The Maverick house had gardens and a majestic pecan tree—under which Sam Maverick was said to have camped on his first night in San Antonio—just west of the gallery. The kitchen faced the gardens on the north; the slave house was less visible, being directly north of the big house. The house also relates more specifically to the antebellum-era single house, in that the roof was gabled rather than hipped, and two stories rather than three. The principal difference from the typical single house were that the house was set back from the street on the south and east sides, and the fireplaces were most likely not on the long wall opposite the gallery. The wall opposite the gallery had three windows per floor, but this could also be the case in Charleston single houses on corner lots. The Maverick’s lot was in fact a corner lot and would have no near neighbors. Indeed, it might be seen as a suburbanized single house.
The single house was a form with which Sam Maverick was familiar from his youth, and, indeed, he had spent a great deal of time in Charleston as recently as 1845. A few single houses could also be found in Alabama, but these were all in Mobile, on the Gulf Coast, rather than in Mary Maverick’s Tuscaloosa. She would have been far more familiar with houses with a central passage, either in their one- or two-story versions. Between Sam and Mary, Sam seems the more likely source for such a plan.
If the plan for a Charleston single house did not come from Sam Maverick, it may have come from Francois Pierre Giraud, who was born in Charleston of French parents. He attended St. Mary’s College prep school in Maryland then traveled to France to study at the Ecole Centrale des Arts et Manufactures. He was back in the United States by 1842 and came to the new state of Texas in 1847. He became the first city surveyor of San Antonio in 1848 and determined the boundaries of the city and of the mission properties. In fact, Sam Maverick conferred with Giraud about the precise bounds of the mission land at the northwest corner to make sure of his title to the property. During the Civil War, Giraud was chief engineer of defenses at Galveston and served as San Antonio’s mayor from 1872 to 1875. His architectural work included the Ursuline Academy, built in phases from 1849 to 1868, and the new San Fernando Cathedral, built between 1868 and 1873 in an austere Gothic style. Although no other houses by Giraud are known, he was certainly capable of obliging his fellow South Carolinian with such a design.
It is less likely that the form of the house was determined by the contractors who built it. The stonework was done by Joseph Schmidt, a German-born mason, and the woodwork by Otto Bombach, a German-born carpenter. Mary noted that Schmidt “pushed the work rapidly” on the Maverick house. Thus both the stonework and woodwork of the Maverick House were thus erected by a group of recent immigrants from Germany, who would have had little familiarity with the single house form.
The single house has been interpreted as an environmental response to heat and humidity and as a response to limited land on which to build in Charleston. Both of these interpretations leave much to be desired. Although the galleries shaded the house from the direct glare of the sun and provided a place where one could catch a cool breeze, the windowless walls abutting the next property were hardly conducive to the circulation of air. And though land may have been a scarce commodity in Charleston, many of the single houses were in fact showy in setting aside space for gardens and other amenities. More recently, Bernard Herman has argued that the single house form was essentially an urban plantation and a tool for social control. Genteel social functions were grouped at the front, while work functions and slave housing were grouped at the rear.
The galleries of the Maverick house can certainly be seen as providing cool and shady spaces in an attempt to cope with the Texas heat, but at the same time other Texas houses had galleries front and back; environment does not explain why the Mavericks chose this arrangement of galleries over more typical Texas arrangements. Nor was lack of land on which to build an issue for the Mavericks: they had sufficient space on their lot to set the house back from Houston Street and D Street. But the arrangement of the Maverick complex does suggest its effectiveness in defining types of space: they made a clear distinction between the rear yard and the front and side yard. The rear yard was defined by the north wall of the big house, the east wall of the kitchen, the south front of the slave house, and the fence separating the yard from D Street. At the same time the placement of the servant house at the north end of the property along D Street made it easy for Maverick slaves to have access to the outside world. Nearer the main house the continuation of the gallery along the front of the kitchen created a shady and more genteel space that also screened the view of the kitchen from the garden and from Houston Street. Although the complex was bounded by a picket fence, it is likely that the daily duties of the Maverick slaves made this a very porous barrier.
The Mavericks continued to live on the Alamo Plaza until Sam’s death in 1870. Over time the once-new house began to take on a ramshackle appearance. A somewhat acerbic newspaper article of 1868, reporting his purchase of some 1,650 acres of land, noted that “Maverick lives in the most simple style—fences decaying and buildings crumbling to pieces; yet he is eternally buying land.” The house was not yet twenty years old, but its maintenance did not seem to be a high priority for Sam.
Mary continued to live in the house for nearly a decade after Sam’s death, but the neighborhood was beginning to change. By the time Augustus Koch did his bird’s-eye view of San Antonio in 1873, a two-story grocery store had been built north of the Maverick house, although the block to the west of the Maverick complex was still vacant. In 1877 the U.S. Army moved out of the Alamo complex for the new quarters at Post San Antonio (now known as Fort Sam Houston). The Catholic Church then sold the convento to the merchants Hugo and Schmeltzer, who converted the building into a wholesale liquor and grocery store. The merchants added a false parapet and wooden cannons in an attempt to capitalize on the Alamo’s image.
By the time the 1879-1880 city directory appeared, Mary was living with her daughter Mary and her second husband, Edwin Terrell. Their house was on the south side of Travis Park, land that had been donated to the city by the Mavericks. The elder Mary would have found it convenient to stroll to the north side of the park to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, which she and Sam had helped fund. The church was designed by Richard Upjohn of New York in 1859, but it was not completed and consecrated until 1881. Mary noted that “a feeling of local pride has been aroused, even among those who are not of us, that Old San Antonio, in wilderness as she is and almost out of the world as she is thought to be, should possess such a fine church.”
She also served for many years as the president of the Alamo Monument Association, which advocated demolishing the liquor and grocery store next to the Alamo and constructing a large monument designed by the English-born Alfred Giles, the first professional architect in San Antonio. Mary’s sons Albert and William also had Giles design a commercial building for the west side of Alamo Plaza. This was the Italianate Crocket Block (1882-1883), named for the hero of the battle of the Alamo. After the death of her daughter, Mary lived with her son William in a limestone Romanesque house (1893) designed by Giles. There she lived until her death in 1898.
The 1879-1880 city directory also indicated that James Moore was running a boardinghouse at the northwest corner of Houston and Avenue D, that is, the old Maverick House. The neighborhood had never been particularly residential, in spite of the Mavericks’ example, but it was becoming less so all the time. In 1885 Sam and Mary’s oldest son, also named Sam, founded the Maverick Bank and built a five-story building across Houston Street from the old house, on the site of the old Mexican house where they had lived for a year and a half. Unfortunately for Sam, the bank did not do well and was out of business by 1892. Across the street to the east the building that housed the U.S. courthouse, customhouse, and post office was completed in 1890—a large Victorian structure that also would have dwarfed the Mavericks’ old house. The Maverick House was demolished sometime between 1890 and early 1892. It was replaced by a row of six offices on Houston Street—incorporating the old land office—and five on Avenue D. The Maverick House stood for less than fifty years, succumbing to the tremendous growth of late nineteenth-century San Antonio.
* * *
On the run from Santa Anna’s army, Mary and the children found themselves in a two-pen dog-trot log cabin, which replicated strategies for living in a sultry southern climate and for creating hierarchies between family, visitors, and slaves. This house also replicated a Germanic building technique that had proven useful in a variety of pioneering contexts but, in this case, was used in a collaboration of white and black hands. In her memoirs Mary acknowledged the contribution of both the free gentleman and the enslaved workers.
The three-story house on the Gulf of Mexico demonstrates that the family was willing to embrace yet another vernacular building tradition, Creole cottages of the Gulf Coast. The more general southern tradition of separate kitchens and other outbuildings was maintained, but the extensive use of galleries made the climate and the picturesque views of the gulf most appealing, especially to Mary. This seems to have been the house that was hardest for her to abandon.
Back in San Antonio Sam and Mary’s decision to build a Charleston single house on the Alamo Plaza resulted in a house that was quite unusual for Texas, but their house nevertheless maintained the order and symmetry characteristic of Georgian and neoclassical buildings. At the same time, the corner lot and the prominent siting of the kitchen would have made the everyday work of the Maverick’s enslaved servants all the more visible from the street.
Sam Maverick seems to have valued solid construction and ample land over elegant ornamentation, and the description of the Barrera-Maverick house and the one photograph of the house on the Alamo Plaza seem to confirm this preference. The stone walls of the Barrera place were not conducive to dramatic remodeling; the Mavericks contented themselves with subdividing one long room and adding other rooms and structures. The German stonemasons who constructed the single house on the Alamo Plaza also did so with limestone that might be expected to stand for the ages. In both cases, however, the domestic scale of these structures made them less adaptable to other purposes, and, ironically, encouraged their demolition.
The story of the Maverick family and their houses reveals the cultural complexities of life in Texas in the years after independence from Mexico. The Mavericks entered a Hispanic community as the vanguard of Anglo immigration, bringing with them enslaved African Americans and thus the Southern institution of slavery. Within a decade the Tejanos, Anglos, and African Americans were joined by German immigrants, who were to play an increasingly important role in later nineteenth-century San Antonio. The Mavericks almost certainly thought of themselves as part of an Anglo cultural elite, but their Texas homes reveal an open-minded, even experimental attitude that suggests that they valued the contributions of other cultures as well.
Kenneth Hafertepe, Southwestern Historical Quarterly, Vol. CIX, No. 1
To the Editor of The Republic.
Dallas, Tex., Nov. 19. — In a recent letter from your correspondent at this place, on political matters in Texas, a great wrong, doubtless unintentional, is done to the patriarch of the Maverick family in San Antonio. It is asserted in substance that he came at an early day to Texas, became a stock raiser, and from branding all the yearling calves found unbranded on the range, such animals became known as “Mavericks,” implying of course, that such branding was done regardless of rightful ownership. Allow me to correct this statement.
This branch of the Maverick family removed from Massachusetts to South Carolina, and in 1835 Samuel A. Maverick, a native to the latter State, came to Texas. He signed the Texas Declaration of Independence, and many times served in both branches of the Legislature, in which I was repeatedly his colleague. A more honorable man never sat in our councils. He was a noble man, and the head of a noble family.
He acquired much land and also many cattle, but paid no attention to the latter, or so little that they scattered over a large scope of country. In time this became so notorious that in their spring hunts or “round-ups,” the people on that frontier came to regard all yearlings found with Maverick’s cattle as legitimate prey, facetiously styling every unbranded yearling so found a “maverick,” and appropriating it as such. In this way his herd, in a few years, virtually became extinct. In all this time, indeed from 1837 till his death a few years ago, Mr. Maverick lived in San Antonio, while his cattle, as before stated, were at large on the frontier. Instead of grasping the stock of other people, by sheer neglect and indifference Mr. Maverick allowed other people to appropriate his own young cattle till his herd ceased to be.
I have not seen a member of the family since 1861, but know these statements to be true, and am unwilling to remain silent when the memory of so true and good a man is thus placed in a false light. Your correspondent was simply misinformed as to the origin of the term “maverick.” It may be added that Mr. M. left a handsome estate to his family, than which none in Texas has ever stood higher for integrity and moral worth.
Respectfully,
JOHN HENRY BROWN.
A Term Which All Stockmen Use and Understand.
Its Curious Though Natural Origin, Which
Has Given Rise to a Thousand Fables.
An Authentic Statement.
St. Louis, Nov. 16.–In response to your request I herewith submit an account of the origin of the term “Maverick” as applied to unbranded young cattle. I endeavor to give the authentic account, and at the same time make it as brief as possible.
To begin with definitions, the term is applied where cattle of various owners promiscuously mingle on the common range, that is to say, where fencing is not the rule. The cows bear the brand of their owner, and the calves are known by the brands of the cows. Calves are branded as soon as found, but invariably some are not found and branded in time. The calf becoming independent soon leaves the cow and sets up for itself. If unbranded who is the owner? Who can tell? It becomes impossible to decide the question of ownership, but right here one thing does happen — the unbranded beast adopts a name and is know as a “maverick” — meaning “nobody’s calf.” Now, how did, how could this term originate? Why, simply enough, through the inattention of a cattle owner by the name of Maverick, who was known in a wide region of Southwest Texas for not branding more than one-third of his calves and leaving the other two-thirds to become the common property of the range.
Now for the story of the facts as they actually occurred. Hon. Samuel A. Maverick, a citizen of San Antonio, Texas, was, during 1845, temporarily residing at Decrow’s Point, on Matagorda Bay. He was a lawyer with a strong propensity for speculation in real estate. In fact, all the enterprising men in Texas of that day went more or less wild over real estate at 5 and 10 cents per acre. An interesting volume could be written on the land craze of that period. During that year (1845) a neighbor being indebted to Mr. Maverick in the sum of $1,200 paid the debt in cattle, transferring 400 animals at $3 per head. Cattle were cheap in those days, the hides only being cashable in the foreign markets. Mr. Maverick did not want the cattle, but as it was a case of cattle or nothing, he passively received them and left them in charge of a colored family, nominally slave, but essentially free, while he and his family returned to San Antonio. In the year 1853 the cattle were removed from the Gulf coast to Conquista, on the east bank of the San Antonio river, 50 miles below San Antonio. Here, as before, under the distinguished management of the colored family, who really were not to blame, as they had no interest in the outcome, the cattle were left to graze, to fatten, to multiply and to wander away. Mr. Maverick was absorbed in real estate and no doubt enjoyed the reflection that he was not encumbered by either the cattle or their managers. Right here a cattleman would say, “You needn’t spin the balance of that yarn, I see the upshot,” but I shall continue to the end if it takes a dozen bronchos!
About one-third of the calves were branded, and the branding iron was kept so cold and rusty that in 1856 the entire plant or “brand” was estimated at only 400 head, the original number. To the ingenious minded the explanation will occur when it is stated that the branding of “mavericks” was perfectly “square” in those days, although the occupation had not been distinctly named. To restate it, the cows wore brand ornaments, the calves were unadorned – – becoming independent and straying off, the calves soon acquired the requisite ornamentation.
Now the neighbors shrewdly surmised these calves to be Maverick’s, and so they called them “mavericks” — but did they continue to recognize them as such? Ah, no; they hastened to burn into their tender hides their own brands, and the beasts were Maverick’s (“mavericks”) no longer. The reader should bear in mind that no owner could know his own cattle on the range except by the brand and so the first brand settled the question of ownership. Thus the unbranded stray calves in those days were dubbed “mavericks,” for they were most likely Maverick’s, at least in that neck of the woods. The humorous neighbors who profited by Mr. Maverick’s indirect liberality, thus jokingly gave him the credit of it and while they secured the profits he was permitted to acquire the experience. Indeed they hesitated not to bestow his name upon the unbranded yearlings, for, although a neighbor might have admitted, “a stray by any other name would be my meat,” still by applying the right name at the right moment he thereby erected a wide-spreading monument of gratitude to his benefactor.
The name took, and spread and filled an “aching void,” for today the cowboy would be lonesome if he couldn’t call a “maverick” a “maverick.”
About the year 1856, after 11 years of experience in the cattle business, Mr. Maverick sold the entire brand, 400 head, “as they ran,” to Mr. A. Toutant Beauregard, a brother of the distinguished general. Mr. Beauregard, however, paid him $6 per head, and Mr. Maverick retired from the venture, thoroughly experienced against similar investments, but with an apparent profit of 100 per cent and the unique distinction of having his name bestowed upon a very dear friend of the human race. Mr. Maverick, all statements to the contrary notwithstanding, was never a cattle king, for, with the exception of the herd mentioned and a few necessary cowponies, he never owned any cattle or horses.
To complete the account and satisfy the reader, I add a short sketch of Mr. Maverick. He was born in Charlestown, S. C., in the year 1803, was given a collegiate education at Yale, and secured his law diploma at Winchester, Va. In 1835 he visited Texas, then a province of Mexico, and was in San Antonio when the Texas revolution burst forth. He joined General Houston’s army and in December, 1835, under Ben Milam, he took part in the storming and capture of San Antonio by the Texan army. He adopted San Antonio as his home and, together with Don Jose Antonio Navarro, was elected a member from that town, of the first Congress of the Republic, the Congress which declared the independence of Texas from Mexico. In 1842, he and many other prominent citizens during a session of the District Court at San Antonio, were captured by the Mexican General, Woll, and marched under many hardships to the Castle of Perote, a fortified town on the road from Vera Cruz to the City of Mexico. There the prisoners were kept under ball and chain, save when they worked in the quarries. He was a member of the last Congress of the Republic, which effected the admission of Texas into the Union. He served many terms thereafter in each house of the Legislature, never seeking any of the positions mentioned, but patiently and often under protest, accepting the duties thrust upon him by his fellow-citizens. This is mentioned as a matter of fact merely — his old friends will bear me out when I say of him, he was not noted for egotism. He lived a life full of trusts, of business and adventures, and died in 1870 in the midst of his family.
Mr. Editor, I have been careful in this account to state only what I believe to be strictly true and capable of proof. I am one of the sons of Mr. Maverick, and it is natural that I should wish the true story to prevail. To the stockmen of the West I submit this account and would remind them that of the thousand and one versions of the story only one can be correct. Be assured this is the true account.
Mr. Maverick, although his name remained “in the business,” never owned any other stock of cattle or horses than the one mentioned.
The Mavericks, John and Samuel, were present at the founding of Charleston, S. C., 1680, and John was a member of the first parliament or legislature of Carolina.
GEO. M. MAVERICK.
* * *
b. 27 Sep 1497; Awliscombe, Devonshire
m. Judith Combe (b.c. 1500; Awliscombe) 1520; Awliscombe
16. Robert Maverick (Rev.)
b. 14 Feb 1523/4; Awliscombe
m. Willemotte Bull (b. 26 May 1526; Awliscombe) 1548; Awliscombe
d. 14 Nov 1573; Awliscombe
15. Peter Maverick (Rev.)
b. c1550; Awliscombe
m. Dorothy Tucke (b. 1559 d. 15 Dec 1607) 7 Nov 1577
d. shortly bef 3 Feb 1616/17
14. John Maverick (Rev.)
b. 28 Dec 1578; Awliscombe
m. Mary Gye (b. 28 Oct 1580; Sanford d. aft 9 Oct 1666) 28 Oct 1600; Alsington, now Islington
d. 3 Feb 1635/6; Dorchester
13. Samuel Maverick
b.c. 1602; Awliscombe; emigrated in 1623/4
m. Amias Cole (b.c. 1593; Plymouth, Devonshire d. aft 1672) aft 1627
d. aft 1670
12. Nathaniel Maverick
b. 1629; emigrated to Parish of St. Lucy’s, Barbadoes shortly bef 1656
d. 24 Feb 1673; Barbadoes
11. John Maverick
b. 1649-55; arrived in Carolina 8 Feb, 1670/1 from Barbadoes aboard the John & Thomas
d.c. 1700
10. Samuel Maverick
b. 1675-80; Charleston
9. Samuel Stone Maverick
b.c. 1715; Charleston
m. Catherine Coyer (b. 1720; London) 12 July 1741
d. 3 Oct 1799; Charleston
8. Capt. Samuel Maverick
b. 3 Jan 1742; Charleston
m. Lydia Turpin (b. 10 June 1780; Providence d. 19 Jan 1803; Pendleton) 5 Mar 1772; Charleston
d. 3 Jan 1784; Providence
7. Samuel Maverick
b. 30 Dec 1772; Charleston
m. Elizabeth Anderson (b. 27 Aug 1783 d. 27 Sep 1818; Pendleton) 5 Oct 1802; Pendleton
d. 28 Apr 1852; Pendleton
6. Samuel Augustus Maverick
b. 23 July 1803; Pendleton
m. Mary Adams (b. 16 Mar 1818; Tuscaloosa d. 24 Feb 1898; San Antonio) 4 Aug 1836
d. 2 Sep 1870; San Antonio
5. Albert Maverick
b. 14 Aug 1853; Charlottesville, Virginia
m. Jane Lewis Maury (b. 14 Dec 1858 d. 15 Feb 1954) 20 Mar 1877; Piedmont, Virginia
d. 24 Jan 1947; San Antonio
4. Albert Maverick, Jr.
b. 7 May 1884; San Antonio
m. Lillian Williams (b. 19 Jul 1890 d. 15 Sep 1973; San Antonio)
d. 19 Mar 1962; San Antonio
3. Lillian Williams Maverick
b. 1 Aug 1912; San Antonio
m. James Thomas Padgitt Jr (b. 8 Aug 1906; Dallas d. 1983; Laredo) 6 Dec 1932; San Antonio
d. 8 July 2007; San Antonio
2. Willie Day Padgitt
b. 24 Feb 1940; Port Arthur, Texas
m. Hal Goggan Kuntz (b. 29 Dec 1937; San Antonio) 8 Sep 1962; San Antonio
d. 24 Sep, 1993; San Antonio
1. Peter Maverick
b. 2 Oct 1964 [Peter Kuntz V]; Wichita, Kansas
m. Rebecca Kay Waters (b. 27 May 1969; Stratford, NJ) 22 Sept 1988; Northampton, MA
“Clouds of dust an’ ropes awhirl, snubbin’ broncs a-standing,
Bellerin’ mavericks holdin’ down, every outfit brandin’ ”
Jack Lee, “Powder River, Let ‘er Buck”
Joe’s pickup was exactly where he’d said I would find it. A maroon Chevy Silverado pickup with an aluminium gun rack. Joe climbed down from the truck. He was all Texan. Tall, barrel-chested. Cowboy hat, work shirt, denim jeans and boots. A crinkled, weather-beaten, kind smile. “Welcome,” he said. “Follow close behind me. We’re heading out to the boondocks.”
The boondock in question was Joe’s ranch, Rancho Riacho—“we called it after a funny little creek”—where he lived with his wife Marjorie. They married in 1940, when she was seventeen and Joe was twenty, and now in his late eighties Joe was still keeping cattle. And more importantly, he was still running cattle out on the Matagorda Peninsula where, in the 1840s, a sometime rancher named Samuel Maverick had run cattle too, the cattle that carried his name into the English language.
From the turnoff to Rancho Riacho we lumbered over a mile or more of rutted tracks, through muddy fords, over a timbered bridge crossing that funny little creek and past squat mesquite trees that looked as if their trunks were buried underground and only their highest branches had made it to the surface. Unfazed cattle watched us nonchalantly. As we drew up to Joe’s house, a posse of wild turkey pottered across the track. In a townie kind of way, I ventured that up until then the only wild turkey I had ever seen was inside a bottle of bourbon. Joe laughed kindly as he leaned up against the gate to the ranch house. On top of the gate discolored metal letters spelled out J. D. HAWES. “All rusted up, just like me,” said Joe sadly. He was getting ready for a hip replacement operation. “Been getting around on one leg for a while now. That’s old age, I guess.” But although his gait was a little stiff, he was still 100 percent prime rancher and, to my untrained eye, looked pretty damn healthy.
He and Marjorie had moved out here in the early 1970s, away from the coastline. A hurricane had wiped out one of their homes in Port O’Connor—“we never did found out where the house ended up”—and eventually they headed inland for a little more security. However, Joe knew the Gulf Coast, and the Matagorda area in particular, better than most. He was born on Matagorda Island, lived there until his twenties and was the locally acknowledged expert on the area.
First, a little geography. The Matagorda Peninsula, where Samuel Maverick kept his cattle, and the adjacent Matagorda Island are part of a ribbon of barrier lands that sweep along and protect nearly the entire arc of the Gulf Coast of Texas for more than 350 miles, from Galveston up near the border with Louisiana right down to the frontier with Mexico by Brownsville. The Matagordas form the central sector, the peninsula jutting out from the mainland near Sargent, some 40 miles south of Houston. The island lies immediately to the southwest and points the way down to Corpus Christi and onwards to the barrier’s southernmost landfall, the hedonistic playground of South Padre Island, America’s very own Cancún. (The particular padre in question, by the way, was a Mexican priest named Padre José Nicolás Balli.)
The coastline is in constant flux, and winds and storms have determined the shape not only of the coast but also of the area’s history. The weather is unpredictable, and hurricanes are an intermittent life-changing event. The impact that Katrina had on New Orleans in August 2005 has been acted out along the Gulf coast, but with less 24/7 news coverage, for centuries. In 1900, for example, Galveston, then the thriving port of east Texas, was shattered by a hurricane, and its role as a boomtown was picked up, but never handed back, by Houston. On Matagorda Bay itself the town of Indianola, a rival to Galveston in its own heyday, was wiped out in 1875.
Joe had lived through more than a few of these intense blasts and understood the realities of life on such a low-lying coast. “The island is quite high; our ranch house there always withstood the storms. But Matagorda Peninsula has a real low elevation. Figure on it. If you’re gonna build on the coast on a little low place you’re gonna git hit by those storms. It’s one of the penalties you pay for living out there.”
The worst experience in Joe’s life had been Carla in 1961, a Category 4 hurricane that smacked into the area with winds of 120 mph and took out most of the houses in Port O’Connor, the town on the mainland opposite the peninsula “and half the cattle we had there. We didn’t lose cattle on the island though. They were native, and went to the highest elevation they could find.” There was little insurance when Joe was younger, and even if you were covered it could take from six months to a year for the companies to pay out on a claim. Even now it’s hard to get insurance for any building on the barrier islands.
★
I had realized how vulnerable the Gulf Coast was to extreme weather conditions flying in, or trying to, the night before. The “Flight Delayed” messages were clicking up frantically by the time I landed at Houston for a connection to Corpus Christi. There was only a miniscule possibility of escape from Houston, and the airport corridors were full of frustrated businessmen downing beers, and overpepped-up college kids heading down to South Padre Island for spring break. On the TVs hanging in the full-to-bursting bar the chances of the Dallas Mavericks ball team were being discussed.
Somehow I managed to hustle myself onto the last seat available on an earlier, last-ditch flight south. Through the night sky, the plane rattled and bumped and juddered along the Texas coastline, hightailing it onto terra firma sometime after midnight in the middle of a spectacular storm. The weather in Corpus Christi was suitably biblical: viciously high winds, whipping rain, lightning jags strobe-lighting the sky for the next hour. Fortunately, things had calmed down by next morning, in time for me to find my way to Tivoli.
The Hawes ranch was full of Matagorda memorabilia. Faded photographs of Port O’Connor in its heyday. A wonderfully romantic shot of Marjorie and Joe around the time they got married in 1940 , beaming out from a ranch house verandah. A table made from a slice of a huge mahogany tree that had flotsamed up on the beach at Matagorda Island. Joe settled back and told me some of his family history, which would set Samuel Maverick’s experience into context.
Joe’s great-grandfather, Hugh Walker Hawes, a lawyer by profession and already a fairly wealthy man, had come down from Kentucky to the Texas coast in 1839. He foresaw the area as a potential alternative to New Orleans. On Saluria Bayou, on the northeast shore of Matagorda Island, he built up a wharf and warehousing as a location for unloading deep-draft ships that did not want to venture into the shallow bay waters and for transferring the goods they bore onward to the cities of Corpus Christi and Victoria. By the late 1850s he and Saluria were prospering. “He was doing real good,” said Joe, “but then the Civil War burned him out, and there was a storm in 1875 and that finished him off. It left him with only his ranching operation on the island.”
A tall white stone marks Hugh Hawes’s grave underneath the island’s lighthouse, near where the Haweses and two other families set up isolated ranch houses. Because Matagorda Bay on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the other provided two natural fences, the island was simply cross-fenced to demarcate areas where cattle could graze, alongside sheep, horses, geese and hens. The families grew crops and supplemented the produce with fishing and hunting.
It was a hard living, and even into the mid-20th century a pretty rough one, with primitive conditions: no running water or plumbing and no phones. But it was a wholesome existence: swimming on the beaches, riding the sand hills. “We worked hard with the cattle. Fresh air, and lots of it. It was real healthy. We ate a lot of fish, ducks and geese. I don’t think you had all them dang diseases back then. Those doctors been busy inventing them ever since.”
A coast guard station on the island and the lighthouse boat provided the principal link to the outside world, but a photo in Joe’s house showed flat-bottomed barges bringing some Model T Fords out to the islands, the same barges that could transport the Matagorda cattle back to the mainland for sale. When the cattle were ready to ship it was all hands on deck. Breakfast was prepared for twenty or thirty hired workers, each with an unendingly hearty appetite. And before the roundups, the calves had to be caught, flipped, castrated and branded, twice a year, in June and late November, long enough before the cattle sales for the wounds to heal. It was a tradition in the Hawes family that all the kids and grandkids, especially the ones who’d moved away from the islands, should come back and help, go in the pen one-on-one with the calves and try to flip them by hand the old way, something they’d never forget. This was real ranching and cowboy work. The heroic, stylized Hollywood version was an entertaining myth.
Samuel Augustus Maverick was a Texan by choice but a reluctant rancher. He was born in South Carolina, on 23 July 1803; his parents had moved out of Charleston to avoid yellow fever and settled in Pendleton, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, to farm orchards and grow vines and dabble in cotton. Samuel’s father had endured an education interrupted by the events of the Revolutionary War and did not want his son to miss out as well: Samuel went to Yale, after which he studied law at Winchester in Virginia, returning to South Carolina to practice in the late 1820s.
He departed a few years later, after getting involved in an argument at a public meeting called to discuss the Nullification Question, a bust-up between the state and the federal government of President Andrew Jackson that was one of the tremores presaging the earthquake of the American Civil War. The Mavericks were against the southern states seceding from the Union. When his father was speaking and being constantly interrupted, Samuel challenged the heckler to a duel, wounded him and promptly took the victim home to tend to his injuries.
However, to avoid inflaming the situation, Samuel clearly thought it was wise to leave South Carolina, heading first to Alabama to sample working on a plantation. That did not appeal so he moved on to Texas, which was attracting adventure-seekers like moths to a storm light. In the 1820s the land developer Stephen Austin had promised to reclaim Texas from its Mexican overlords through the “enterprise and intelligence” of North American folk, with strict rules that there should be “no drunkard, no gambler, no profane swearer, no idler.” Taking no notice of these criteria, they came anyway, in their droves from New York, Georgia, Kentucky, looking for a fortune (or fleeing bad debts). Samuel Maverick joined them and first arrived in San Antonio in 1835. The town, with its adobe and stone buildings, plazas and generally exotic Hispanic vibe, entranced him, and he decided to stay.
He found himself in the thick of Texas history after only a few weeks. The city, which was challenging Mexico’s rule, was captured by a Mexican force, and Maverick was placed under house arrest, but somehow he managed to persuade his captors that if they released him he would leave the state. Instead, once clear of the city, he hooked up with the rebel Texas army and helped guide them back into the city, using his knowledge of its layout. The Mexican generals surrendered.
In the following year, 1836, Texas declared its independence; it’s easy for a non-Texan to forget that for nine years the state was an independent republic, shrugging off the attentions of both Mexico and the United States. In that fateful year of 1836 Samuel was based at the Alamo but was chosen to be a delegate to the Independence Convention held in east Texas at Washington on the Brazos. Fate indeed—while he was away the siege of the Alamo took place, during which nearly all the Texan defenders were massacred. (Samuel later planted a garden nearby in memory of those who were killed.)
That year of 1836 was significant in Samuel’s personal life too. He visited Alabama, where he had spent time on his way from South Carolina to Texas and met his wife-to-be Mary Ann Adams—she, helpfully, kept a journal for much of their married life. “Gus,” as his family called him, was offered property in South Carolina by his father, but his heart remained set on Texas, and Mary, with the couple’s infant son, accompanied him back to San Antonio in October 1837. She recalled the trip as a particularly harsh journey and that during it they went close to Matagorda Bay, which Samuel wanted to visit “with a view of possibly locating there.” However, they continued on to San Antonio and took up residence on the Plaza Mayor. Their second son, born there in 1839, was, she believed, the first child of pure American stock born in the city, and she the first American woman to make her home there.
By the autumn of 1841 Mary was reporting rumors that Mexican forces were again preparing to invade San Antonio, which they did by surprise attack in the following September. Maverick was again captured. This time, perhaps because of his earlier duplicity, he was sent with fifty other prisoners—”poor luckless Texians,” as he described himself and his co-prisoners—on a long trek to Mexico, lasting two months. They finally arrived in Perote Prison in Vera Cruz, where Samuel was interned until his release in the spring of 1843. “Do not despond,” he wrote in one letter to Mary Ann, reassuring her by describing his daily routine in the castle as one of monotony, although Waddy Thompson, the American minister to Mexico, who helped negotiate his release, recalled him as “a man of fiery and impatient temper, and chafed, under his confinement, like a chained tiger.” Maverick had a particular reason for his anger. When the victorious General Woll had left San Antonio in triumph he commandeered Samuel Maverick’s finest buggy, while his sidekick Colonel Carrasco helped himself to Maverick’s best horse for the ride to Mexico. Apparently, Maverick never forgot this.
On the day he was released from captivity, his and Mary’s second daughter was born; she was named Augusta in her captive father’s honor. By May 1843 he was back in San Antonio, “in splendid health” his wife noted, “and happy as could be.”
★
It was shortly after his release that Maverick relocated his family to Decrows or Decros (either way, pronounce “Deck-rose”) Point on the very western tip of the Matagorda Peninsula.
Maverick had already bought some land at Cox’s Point on the bay opposite Port Lavaca, but now they moved across the water to the thin, low-lying strip of land, “a dreary sandy flat,” Mary called it, although she liked its proximity to the Gulf of Mexico and its “magnificent, calm, gently heaving water,” and enjoyed the fact that every evening her husband would take her down to bathe in the sea.
They started making it as homey as possible, putting a fence up around the place and cultivating a garden. “What delicious watermelons! Flowers, grapevines and orange trees flourished luxuriantly.” This was a period of relative stability on all fronts, and after its republican interlude, Texas voted to join the United States in 1845. There was a social life to enjoy in Matagorda City at the far end of the peninsula, which attracted the wealthy planters from the neighborhood, and the city even had an academy for young ladies.
But though their house was shipshape, the bay itself, treacherous for those unfamiliar with its tides and moods, was less manageable. On one occasion Samuel was in a small craft that capsized off Lavaca, but he managed to get rescued just before dusk fell. Another day fog fell in a blanket over a boat the Mavericks and some friends were traveling in; totally losing their bearings, they beached where they could and laid up overnight, huddling in the sailcloths for warmth. Mary’s journals frequently mention the bodies of less fortunate neighbors washing up along the shoreline.
While living on Matagorda Peninsula, Samuel Maverick became a rancher by default. Owning cattle never interested him. Land acquisition and real estate were his real passions. “Mr. Maverick,” wrote his wife, “was a most earnest and enthusiastic admirer of western Texas, and a firm believer in her future. What a grand home for the toilers of Europe, he would say. All men of strong imagination,” she observed, “speculated deeply in land in those days.” He carried on acquiring land for the next couple of decades and by the end of the 1860s had become one of the largest landowners in the west of the state. One of his wishes was to be able to travel from San Antonio to El Paso entirely on his own land, just as it used to be said that you could walk from Cambridge to Oxford on land owned by the Trinity Colleges of both universities.
Samuel Maverick was often away on business for weeks, even months. But on March 16, 1847 he was on Matagorda, and there is a significant entry in Mary’s journals. She reports that “Mr. Maverick went to Tilton’s place, 25 miles up the peninsula, and bought it and four hundred head of cattle at 3 dollars per head.” In fact this was not a straight purchase but settlement of a debt. Samuel Maverick was owed $1,200 by Charles Nathan Tilton, and the 400 cattle at $3 cancelled it out.
The property Samuel acquired back along the peninsula had an oyster bayou attached, as well as cattle pens. The family decided to move away from Decrows Point and up to the new house, an eight-room, three-storey frame house, built to resist the storms. “We lived well on the coast, had any quantity of fish, always fine, fruits fresh from New Orleans and splendid gardens. And still we were aware great storms might come and destructive cyclones at equinoxal times.”
When Samuel’s father heard that he was now a cattle owner, he reminded his son that one of his uncles had once taken a few hundred head of cattle in exchange for a debt and driven them to Pendleton. “Cattle, like an army of men, don’t thrive,” he warned gloomily.
I asked Joe Hawes what kind of cattle Samuel Maverick might have acquired in the deal. Joe reckoned that they would have been the common longhorn breed, the standard choice of the day, with a massive, distinctive handlebar of bone. The critical factor was that the cows could be turned loose on rough country and left to their own devices. Apart from sturdy cedar trees, the Matagorda Peninsula and island were covered in the thick scrub and brush that—from the Spanish mata gorda—gave the area its name; the peninsula was particularly rich in spartana grass, which grew along the water’s edge and was high in protein, and the cattle would instinctively find their way to it, before moving to other areas and other grasses as the seasons changed.
Joe had told me that looking after cattle was “not too much trouble,” and I’d thought he was being modest, but he insisted it was true. “We never did feed them cattle feed. They worked out where the best grass was; the cattle did the thinking for us.” And when the mosquitoes came, the cattle would go down to the Gulf Coast, because the breeze off the water meant there were no mosquitoes around. At certain times the mosquitoes away from the water’s edge were thick in the air. “I’ve seen it so bad, they even killed a deer; its windpipe got all choked up,” remembered Joe.
Out on the peninsula Joe now ran the Beefmaster, a three-way cross of Hereford and Shorthorn cattle with the Indian Brahman bull, developed in the 1930s by the Lasater Ranch in south Texas. It’s a good breeder and a hardy animal, “tough as a boot.” Joe is dismissive of some of the more pampered varieties of cattle raised for life on less rugged ranches: “Cows today, turn them out on Matagorda, they’d starve to death.” I had the feeling he identified with the old self-sufficient animals, especially when later on, he told me, “People today go through life so fast they don’t know where they’ve been. The young people have never been deprived of anything. The older generation knew where money came from: a different kind of breed.”
The style of ranching where cattle wandered free was the traditional way cattle were run in the mid-19th century. The huge Texan ranches (cue the theme tune of Dallas) were a later phenomenon, made possible only by the arrival of barbed wire, of which the most successful version was patented in the United States in 1874 by Joseph Glidden of Illinois. Barbed wire meant that huge tracts of land could be contained easily and quickly on plains where lumber and stone were in short supply and where fencing off vast acres would have been time-consuming and far from cost-effective. Landowners could swiftly divide up parcels of land huge enough to be measured in units known as RIs (Rhode Islands).
Before barbed wire, however, when cattle did run free, branding was an absolutely essential part of ranching, the only way to keep check on and track of the herds. Each brand was registered with the local cattlemen’s association. The Hawes family’s brand (a T overlaid on an L) was registered in 1873 and used long before that. But Samuel Maverick, although he had a brand mark of MK, failed to oversee its systematic use and gained a reputation for running unbranded cattle on the peninsula.
Shortly after acquiring the herd, he had in any case headed back to San Antonio. Both Samuel and Mary Ann had retained great affection for the place, where they had spent their early married life. They left behind both the cattle—in the care of Jinny and her son Jack, former slaves who worked for them—and the healthy lifestyle they had enjoyed out on the coast. The change of environment had immediate and fatal consequences for the family: within a year of returning to San Antonio one daughter, Agatha, died aged seven, the following year another daughter, Augusta, and an infant baby named John both fell victim to an epidemic of cholera.
While dealing with these personal tragedies—distraction enough—Samuel was receiving letters from acquaintances back in Matagorda reporting that Jack was finding it hard to manage the cattle on his own; others said that they were lost or stolen “from want of proper attention,” or that other ranchers were simply branding them as their own. At one point Maverick was summoned to a meeting to discuss these cattle that they had come to call “mavericks.”
One former resident of Matagorda was Charlie Siringo, born on the peninsula, where he grew up enjoying much the same a definition of the word as being after a “cattle thief named Maverick,” tried to set the record straight. In 1942 Dr. Lewis A. Maverick, writing in the California Forklore quarterly, confirmed that it was the cowboys who herded the cattle for Toutant Beauregard who had spread the term as they moved on to other jobs and thought the word was disseminated during the big cattle drives from Texas up to Montana and the northern states. What is not certain, however, is how and where it crossed over to gain the further meaning of anyone who is nonconformist, and headed out into general usage.
Samuel Maverick did have a certain profile within Texas. Not only was he a noted landowner and a signatory of the Republic of Texas’s Declaration of Independence, but he also held public office, as mayor of San Antonio and a member of the Congress of the Republic (an office he was voted into in absentia when he was imprisoned by the Mexican forces in 1842–3). And the Maverick name was sustained in the public eye in the next century by his grandson, Maury Maverick, a Democratic congressman who represented Texas in the 1930s and who is credited with coining the term “gobbledygook” and called his autobiography A Maverick American. His son, Maury Jr., having failed to get selected for the Senate seat vacated by Lyndon B. Johnson when he became vice president in 1961, became a well-known lawyer fighting civil rights cases.
Other branches of the Maverick family continued to do things differently and never followed the herd. I spoke to Robin Lloyd, who has plenty of Maverick blood in her veins: she is a peace and justice activist, a maker of documentary films about human rights. Robin’s grandmother, Lola Maverick Lloyd, was a granddaughter of Samuel’s, who also kicked against the traces. Lola was a pioneer suffragist who married William Bross Lloyd (one of the founders of the Communist Labor Party of America). She was a moving spirit behind the Peace Ship chartered by Henry Ford during the First World War and became a founder of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom. Many of Lola’s descendants have continued working for civil liberties and world peace; Robin herself had spent time in prison for civil disobedience, defending her beliefs.
Robin told me that even as we spoke three sisters, Maverick descendants, were trying to save the Maverick Ranch outside San Antonio from being flattened to make way for a new highway. “I feel lucky to have this heritage,” said Robin. “It means I don’t feel I’m the black sheep. We’re all black sheep.”
Although the Mavericks as a family matched the new meaning of their name, perhaps the reason the broader sense of the word caught on is that it so sweetly fits the Texan self-image of themselves as beings of independent thought and action and of rugged individuality, that “Lone Star State of Mind,” as Nanci Griffith sang. James Michener put it another way: “Texans want to believe they’re different, a reverberating quality that other places don’t have.”
And, of course, being a maverick is an image many of us like to convey. If you like to feel you’re not a run-of-the-mill person, you say you’re a maverick. It’s right up there with “mercurial,” a handy tag for anybody who zigs where others zag. When Robert Altman, the director of M*A*S*H, Short Cuts and Gosford Park, died in the autumn of 2006, damn near every obituary described him as a “maverick.” Madonna called her record label Maverick. The Brazilian business guru Ricardo Semler titled his bestselling book Maverick! The Success Story Behind the World’s Most Unusual Workplace. TV allowed James Garner to ensure that Bret Maverick was a household name. And of course, Tom Cruise, in Top Gun, had the call sign Maverick, because, hell, that’s the kind of guy he was.
★
I was about to take my leave of Joe and Marjorie Hawes, who had arranged for their son Robbie to take me over to Matagorda Peninsula. Joe has mixed feelings about Matagorda. He loves the island and the peninsula, but he and his family have been locked for decades in a legal wrangle with the U.S. government over the island, a Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce battle that has already clocked up sixty years and rising.
It revolves around an interpretation of the U.S. Constitution’s Fifth Amendment: that no public property can be taken for public use without due cause or compensation. In 1940 the Hawes and the other families had been happily ranching on Matagorda Island for a hundred years. During the Second World War the island was identified as a suitably remote training base for gunnery and bombing practice by the USAF. But there was a population. The government rushed through a condemnation order. Joe’s uncle was up a ladder putting shingles on the ranch house roof when a U.S. marshal arrived, serving papers that gave them, after a century on the island, ten days to clear out and get themselves and their cattle off.
The families didn’t mind giving up their land for the war effort, but they never got it back; after the war they were forced to accept $7 an acre for land (though they were allowed to lease it back) that later went for $1,200 an acre. And don’t mention the mineral rights. The island is now a wildlife reserve, a refuge for the giant whooping crane, which stops off in Matagorda for some R&R. The battle has taken its toll on Joe and his family. Behind the Texan hospitality, I could see from the scars of cold anger and sadness that the saga has tainted the land he grew up on.
Leaving Joe at the gate to the ranch (“Anything else, give me a holler,” he shouted), I drove on to Port O’Connor. Now, Port O’Connor is not somewhere you can swing by. It lies at the end of Highway 185, which heads on through the flatlands, past the occasional oil refinery and railway siding, on and on and on till you hit the sea. At the waterfront by 7th and Commerce, Robbie Hawes runs Boathouse Bait. He’s one of the few shrimpers still working the waters here. Great shrimp too: Majorie Hawes had whipped up a ginormous plate of them for lunch earlier. The day I arrived there was no bait in Robbie’s tanks, where he might store, along with those shrimps, croakers and ribbonfish, mullet, sardines and squid. He pointed out old shrimping sheds across the quay, now reinvented as tourist fishing outlets.
Without much to-do, we dropped ourselves onto his flat-bottomed, two-man fishing boat, and he gunned up the outboard, sending us chop-chopping across scudding waves under a lowering sky, straight out across the wide bay toward Matagorda Peninsula. It was extremely exposed out here, and there wasn’t much to hang on to. I remembered Mary Maverick’s litany of corpses washed up on the beaches and gripped a little tighter. After ten minutes we closed in on the land of the peninsula and followed it down to the tip. Decrows Point was separated from Matagorda Island by the narrow Pass Cavallo, and through the pass the waves of the Gulf of Mexico were churning.
Robbie nosed the boat as close to the beach as he dared without damaging the propeller, and I leapt off the bow onto dry land. (Joe later told me, “I spoke to Robbie. He told me you jumped onto Decrows Point. Said you looked like Columbus!”)
This was Decrows Point. A fishing shack was perched on stanchions a hundred meters or so away, but there was nothing much else to see. It was desolate, though not bleak, and reminded me of long empty stretches of shoreline in Suffolk or along the Atlantic coast of France. I found it very hard to imagine the Mavericks’ house here or their neat garden of watermelons and oranges. And it was certainly bracing. At Joe’s house I’d seen an 1851 ad for Huff’s Hotel at Decrows Point—“the healthiest place on the bay”—but you could see just how fragile this place was and how vulnerable anyone living here would be. Joe had mentioned that the Decrow family lost their home in the storm of 1875; “They thought their fine house was strong, but it was destroyed, and twenty or so of the family drowned that night.”
I paddled back out to the boat, and Robbie crossed the short channel to swing me around the edge of Matagorda Island—its landmark lighthouse proudly extant. The constant ebb and flow of the coastline was revealed by a bay that had been a channel to the ocean but was now closed in to form a sweeping beach where summer visitors set up their barbecues. On our way back to Port O’Connor, accompanied by a squadron of brown pelicans and, for a brief while, by a friendly dolphin, Robbie gestured to an empty shoreline—the ghost space of Saluria, where Hugh W. Hawes had built his wharves and warehouses and dreamed of fame and fortune. Matagorda felt like a landscape of ghosts. As I looked back at the peninsula, I almost convinced myself I could see one of Samuel Maverick’s longhorns looking back at me munching on some spartana grass.
A Texan footnote. Just before I said farewell to Joe, I had remembered to ask him if he owned a Stetson. Many hats have been named after fictional characters—George du Maurier’s Trilby, Robbie Burns’s Tam o’Shanter and Dickens’s Dolly Varden—and the bowler hat most probably took its name from the brothers Thomas and William Bowler, whose Southwark factory produced the prototype for Lock’s of St. James’s. But the Stetson is absolutely and undisputedly named after John B. Stetson, the son of a hatter, who set up his own business in Philadelphia in 1865. Although the design of the Stetson was not strictly his (he lost a lawsuit with Christy’s of Frampton Cotterell in the West Country, who had claimed he lifted it from the hats they made for sugarcane plantations in the West Indies), the quality of his hats, their durability and their adaptability made the Stetson the hat of choice.
In The Hell-Bound Train, an anthology of cowboy songs collected by Glenn Ohrlin, I had come across a song called “My Stetson Hat,” a tribute to a “walked-on, tromped-on old J.B.,” which listed its many uses: “coaxing a smoldering fire, panning dust for gold, carrying oats to a spooky bronc, stopping wind in an open crack.”
Joe had wandered off to look for his and returned with a hatbox, inside which was laid, as carefully as a Ladies’ Day hat in its Bond Street box, an old original Stetson. He showed me its gray felt brim, its flat crown and the J.B. Stetson brand on its leather headband. Then he leaned right back, popped it on his head, and a slow wide smile creased his face. “This is it,” he said. “This is the Stetson, the real McCoy.” But who, I asked, was the real McCoy?
Philip Dodd, What’s in a Name?: From Joseph P. Frisbie to Roy Jacuzzi, How Everyday Items Were Named for Extraordinary People
Samuel A. Maverick 