On Tuesday, 19th of March, 1840, “dia de San Jose’’ 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 powwow. 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 them. 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 others 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 firearms 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 boy’s markmanship for a moment could not comprehend its purport. The Indians how ever 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 Chavallier 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 from 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 Gertrudes Navarro, Mrs. Dr. Alls- bury’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 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 slight 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 agred 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. Weide- man 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 days 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 stipulations 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 Indians 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 Putman, 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 Jose 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.

- The Memoirs of Mary A. Maverick

interesting read...

I love period history. The true stories of our past.
For me, it’s the Ohio River, Shawnee, Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton stories. Even a little Lewis Wetzel and Samuel Brady.

The author Allan Eckert tells wonderful tales of what life was like back then. Back in the French and Indian War, and settling Ohio, Pa, Virginia, and Ky.
Thanks for posting.

Thanks for posting that historical document. Those were indeed tough times.

Great story from the past. Her wandering out into the street in all the excitement sounded like something my girlfriend would do.

It must of been an amazing time to be alive.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: braillediver,

May I recommend "Blood and Thunder" by Hampton Sides on the taking of New Mexico? It also covers the exploits of Kit Carson and Fremont and the taking of the American Southwest.

Mrs. Maverick's account was well written. Thanks for posting.

Mary Maverick came to Texas in January of 1838. The country was as wild as could be and you could lose your life in an instant over nothing. Maverick's party- about ten people- moved around quite a bit in the region before they finally settled. Six months after coming to Texas, she writes of an encounter with Tonkawa Indians. The Tonkawas scouted for the Texas Rangers in the years before the Civil War. The close association with Anglos was to the advantage of the Tonkawas, since they were shunned and despised by all other tribes of the region, because the Tonkawans were cannibals. This is not a matter of speculation or exaggeration. The Commanche and other tribes of North America did engage in cannibalism, but mainly as a form of ritual; they would eat the heart of a fallen enemy. For the Tonkawans, though, eating human flesh was not a manifestation of religious beliefs; it was supper.

They would cut off the legs at the knee and cut off the hands. Easy to accomplish on the field of battle, and easily transported, by tying these tasty bits to their saddle for all to see as they rode.

To call the danger palpable in this excerpt is quite the understatement:



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 wheel- right, agreed to mend the wheel if we would take it back to his place. Some of our people were sick, and Robert, Griffin and Jinnie 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 complaints. 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 grumbled 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. About 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.

That was rather interesting reading. Thank you for that.

btt

Definitely worth the read:

Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, the Most Powerful Indian Tribe in American History

quote:

Originally posted by sigfreund:
Definitely worth the read:

Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, the Most Powerful Indian Tribe in American History

The author of that was on Joe Rogan's podcast last year. Very interesting conversation about the Comanches.

It's my understanding that the author of that book tried to make the Commanches into a cohesive nation, which they most certainly were not.

quote:

Originally posted by parabellum:
It's my understanding that the author of that book tried to make the Commanches into a cohesive nation ....

Hmmm …. If so, it wasn’t something I noticed. I’m not familiar with any reviews that might have promoted that idea, but perhaps someone was attempting to accentuate what he thought was a possible positive about how the tribe was portrayed by the book and thereby eliminate—or at least minimize—the overwhelming negatives of how aggressive and brutal the Comanches were in general.

What I got from the book was its seemingly unexpurgated history of the people and times. As the friend who originally recommended it to me pointed out, it utterly dispelled any notion of the “peaceful, noble” native American (or at least one segment thereof). In fact, I’m somewhat surprised that the book hasn’t been vigorously attacked by the rainbow crowd. Or hasn’t it? I don’t pay much attention to such things unless they’re shoved in my face. In any event for me it confirmed many things that I was vaguely aware of or suspected, but had never seen stated so clearly in recent times.

quote:

Originally posted by sigfreund:
As the friend who originally recommended it to me pointed out, it utterly dispelled any notion of the “peaceful, noble” native American (or at least one segment thereof).

Yes, these two excerpts I posted from Maverick's memoirs illustrate that the Indians engaged in savage behavior, including the taboo of cannibalism.

I think it was in Evan Connell's Son of the Morning Star that I read of the accounts of plains Indians killing buffalo just to get the tongue, and leaving the rest of the animal to rot. How very noble.

The bleeding hearts also forget that the Indians took what is considered to be their traditional land away from other Indian tribes. They want to give the Black Hills of SD back to the Sioux. Will the Sioux then give the land back to the Indian tribe from which they took it? And will those Indians then give it back to the tribes they took the land from? Y'see, these simpletons have a simpleton's view of history- just the top layer, and get that wrong, too.

Indians- err Native Americans- are a defeated people who had their land taken from them, just as those Indians did to other tribes, and just as humans have done to each other from the beginning of our species. All this mystical nobility stuff is pure fantasy, concocted by the Indians themselves, playing the victim, and by leftist, gullible, self-loathing whites, who are the worst scourge humanity shall ever see.