Mary Ann Lawhon Chapter, DRT

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Memoirs of Mary Ann Lawhon

Mary Ann Lawhon Born 12 June 1827 in Leake County Mississippi Married William C. Weatherred 14 February 1843 in Milam, Sabine Co., Texas Died 2 March 1905 Hillsboro, Texas, wrote: My father Dr. John Creed, (J.C.) Lawhon and mother Rebecca Arnett, moved from Carthage, Leake Co., Mississippi, to Pine Bluff, Ark., in 1833. There were three children: myself, the eldest; my sister, Jane; and, my brother, William. It had taken us a month for this journey through swamps, lagoons, cypress knees and cane brakes – crossing large and dangerous streams on log rafts that were lashed together with grape vines. Two trips over each of these streams had to be made – the first to carry my mother, we three children and the nurse and the second to bring Father, the saddles, baggage and other things necessary for our overland journey. I often think of the patient, sad face of Mother, waiting in those lonely swamps while they were fixing the logs to ferry us over some muddy, swollen stream. I have never forgotten the long, deep signs and the tears trickling down her pale cheeks as she agonized over each of these adventures. I realize now that she was praying for our safe crossing. She did not like the looks of our pilot. As little as I was, she talked to me about him – said he was a stranger and she doubted him. Of course, I shared her uneasiness to some extent. I would watch her countenance and be so glad to see her look cheerful for then I would think the danger was over. One instance in particular was deeply impressed on my mind. We were traveling through a dismal swamp, the cane was ten to twelve feet high and as large as your wrist and thick as it could possibly stand, interspersed with large trees of different kinds – cypress in the low places. The road was very narrow and muddy. We came to a lake or lagoon full of cypress knees. My father put the man, our guide, on the pack horse which was very large and put me in his lap. When we were about midway of the stream, the horse stumbled and fell over a cypress knee. I went under. The man was so excited he did not think of me! Father was riding by Mother and he had to leave her and rush to me with my little sister in his arms, to save me from drowning. We got out after considerable scrambling. Papa spoke pretty short to the man as I remember, who looked humble, standing there dripping wet, and I felt sorry for him. I had to be wrapped in Mother’s cloak. Fortunately, there was a house near where we were kindly received. This was the end of the swamp. The man and woman of the house were very kind to us. The man took me in his arms, held me to the fire and said so many nice, kind things to me that I felt I had had quite an adventure and was rather proud that it was I who had such a narrow escape. I didn’t remember anything more of our trip until we reached Pine Bluff. We arrived there in early spring (I don’t know what month) and found the best people I ever saw, I thought. Father bought property and was delighted with the prospects. He had shipped his household effects, expecting them to be there when we arrived but they had been misspent. The neighbors would not let Papa buy anything, each one sending in things for us to use until ours came. Father, Dr. J.C. Lawhon, went into the practice of medicine at once and soon built up a fine practice; but Mother was taken sick in a few months – she lay sick for some time and died. We were left without a Mother in a strange country with not a relative nearer than Leake Co., Mississippi. Mother had requested Papa to carry us children to her Mother. Our friends did not forsake us- one dear old lady, whom Father had been treating, sent one of her sons to tell him to bring my Mother there and lay her away in their family buying ground, about 12 miles in the country; also to bring his children away from the river, since we were all sick. And, he did so. I was taken with fever and lay for several weeks at the point of death, but took a change for the better and recovered. I had never seen an alligator, though they were numerous in that country. I imagined they could trot around like a deer or a dog. I had gone to a little lake near the house to carry the Negro woman some little article to wash. While there, a man came riding by and told the woman there was an alligator “just out there”. I began screaming “GLORY, GLORY” (which I invariably did when in distress) and begged the man to take me home. He laughed and tried to explain that the alligator would not come where I was but even so he had to take me up before him and carry me home. They went after the alligator, roped it and brought it alive to the house. How disappointed I was! It looked more like a monster lizard than a deer or dog. I was not prepared for my Mother’s death. I was too young to know she was dangerously sick. She called me to her bed and told me she was going to die. I began to argue with her, telling her what she had so often told me- that we all have to die, but not now Mama. Yes, she said, NOW, my child – I will soon be with Jesus. At a little over six years of age I was left without that sweet Christian Mother. We then had to stay several months with the dear old lady, Mrs. Hudgens, until Papa could wind up his business. My sickness had hindered him for he had to stay by my bedside day and night for some time. Our household goods came eventually, but too late. We left Pine Bluff in October, I think. My Mother died in July. We left aboard a boat called the Arkansas. Friends whom Mother had endeared herself to came to bid the husband and children a cheerful farewell. We left in the night, going to Helena where we might change boats, taking the Neapolitan for Vicksburg, Miss. The Neapolitan was running a race with the Black Hawk. River travel was a dangerous thing in those days because so many accidents happened. That was why Papa made the trip to Arkansas over land – Mother was a very timid woman and Father could not get her consent to go on the steamboat. The Neapolitan was heavily laden and trembled from stem to stern during the race. Father was very uneasy but I was too young to know the danger. When we arrived at Vicksburg, the bank was lined with people cheering. We had beat the Black Hawk by a mile or two and, of course, there was much money bet on the race. The next thing was to get means of conveyance to where my Father’s brother lived in Hinds Co. We were on the road several days; Father was taken sick before we reached my uncles; home. One of my mother’s brothers, Uncle Cullen Arnett, met us there. He had started to Arkansas for us. We remained there a few days before leaving for my grandmother’s house in Leake Co. Father, not being able to travel, sent a young man with my uncle to assist us on our journey. I don’t remember anything of our trip, but distinctly remember our dear old grandmother- how happy I felt that I could have a grandma, if no mama; but in four short years I was left without grandma. In the meantime, Father had come to Texas and married Miss Eliza McFarland, a daughter of Gen. Thomas Stuart McFarland. Gen. McFarland came to Texas in 1828 and settled in San Augustine. In 1834, my father, settled near him. As soon as he heard of Grandmother Arnett’s death, he went to Miss. For his children but found us scattered – each relative wanted one of us. That was the first real heartfelt trouble for me, then 10 years of age, being separated from my little brother and sister. I thought it was more than I could bear and rebelled at first but soon had to submit and just grieved over what I could not help. My Father was in Texas and I didn’t know if I would ever see him again but I was made happy by his unexpected arrival for us. We had not seen him for four long years and my sister and brother did not know him. He came in October after my grandmother died in July – he left home immediately after hearing of her death. That may sound strange now, with every part of the world connected by telegraph and railroads, but at that time a telegraph wire was unknown and railroads not used in the United States. The steamboat was a wonderful invention but it was thought that man’s ingenuity was exhausted when that great piece of machinery was completed and proudly steamed up and down the river. With that exception for conveyance, the mail coach was next. It was slow, over swamps and high water, together with bad roads. News was slowly reaching friends who were nearer than we were from our father in Texas. When he came we were delighted to know we would leave for our Texas home as soon as our traveling outfit could be prepared. Father intended to take us in a hack as far as Rodney, then go by steamboat to Alexandria in Louisiana, where he had left his horse on his way to Miss. He bought another horse at the end of the stage line which was represented as a fine carriage horse. Father gave a big price for the horse but when we were ready to start, it would not work at all – it reared and plunged desperately. Since it was a very large and strong horse, there was no use in trying to make him work. Papa’s time was out – he had to go home for his practice was waiting and my step-mother was sick when he left. She had urged him to go on for his children but he felt compelled to return soon. Now comes the pretty part for Sister and me! Papa bought us a beautiful pony and saddle to ride as far as the river. I mounted the pretty pony with my little sister behind me. The pony was a beauty as was my new saddle and bridle and my long black polonaise trimmed so nicely with velvet and shining buttons. I was in ecstasy and thought the road to Texas would be too short to satisfy me. We never tired and never complained. Papa would stop at noon at nice places for dinner and the very best houses at night. After 3 or 4 days travel, we came to Rodney which would end our horseback riding. My sister and I talked the matter over and concluded to beg Papa to let us go the rest of the way on horseback. He wouldn’t promise, but said: “You will be willing to give it up by the time we get to the river.” We had been travelling all day in a badly watered country and our pony refused to drink the water on the road. Late in the evening we came to a creek with very steep banks. There was a bridge over the stream; also, a ford. Our pony, being thirsty, rushed down the steep slope. My sister, riding in front, jumped off but her foot hung in the stirrup and she was dragged to the water’s edge. The poor thirsty animal did not notice her dragging until it had drunk. Papa reached there in time to save her – the pony was just starting when Papa caught the bridle. It would have dashed for the other side and with no one to catch her, no telling what the result might have been. When she was safe and the excitement over, Papa said: “I’ll be glad when this riding business comes to an end.” We thought our fun was all over as we neared Rodney, so we again besought Papa not to go on the boat. There had been some accidents from collision, fire and explosion so we pled that as our reason and objection to going on the boat. We were honest in that, as we remembered our Mother’s objections- or, at least I did and had told my sister. Papa would laugh and say wait until we saw the beautiful large boat, then we would rather travel on it than this tiresome way. However, we didn’t see it that way. If I felt a little tired, I would swing myself on the stirrup, hold to the horn of the saddle and swing back on her lap and slip behind her. That was the way we would exchange places every few hours. It was all play to us! We finally reached Rodney about noon and heard there would be no boat to New Orleans until that night. I guess that helped us to gain our point, so we crossed the river to our delight that time and heard nothing more of the water voyage. After leaving Rodney, we entered the great Mississippi swamp. I do not recollect how many miles it was through but there were several rivers to cross and it was very nearly all swamp from one end to the other. One circumstance at the Tensas River is evident of how we were indulged by Papa. We met an old friend of his who was in charge of the ferry and they were happy to meet after so many years. After crossing the river, we were told to walk on up to the house- that Papa and his friend would come directly. We ran on, delighted with everything but when we came in sight of the house, we stopped and wondered if it was the right place. However, we went on. A little old woman came out and asked us to come in in as kind as could be and she gave us some cornbread mixed with pumpkin. Sister and brother ate the bread, but I could not. I was older and noticed things more. I had taken a general survey of the little old house and its contents, which were little except for a pile of bear skins. The sight of them made me shudder. I told sister what I had seen and we began to be very uneasy and impatient for Papa to come. When he did and began to unsaddle the horses, we knew that he meant to stay all night. We ran to him, saying “Oh, Papa, we can’t stay in this place. Let us go away from here – please do.” He replied: “Look, the sun is nearly setting and it nearly 10 miles to Sicily Island Louisiana, (a name for the first highland after leaving the swamp) and I would like to spend the night with my friend.” He was a nice looking man. We told Papa that we saw nothing but bear skins, nothing like a bed in the house. I know now it was very embarrassing to the man and to the Father, too, but we didn’t think of it then. Father patiently saddled the horses and we started through the dismal swamp at sunset – just to please us. He only said to us: “Now you must not complain. We have a long, dreary road before us but the moon shines.” We could not get the full benefit of the light for the tall cane and the big trees. We were so tired, Oh, so tired, and sleepy but we never complained. Papa would whistle sometimes and sing a few stanzas (I think now) to dispel the gloom of that lonely road. There was not a house to be soon. I suppose we had been three hours on the way when we struck the hill and just on the rise was a house – a large, fine one – a hotel kept by a widow. We were glad to stop and never regretted not sleeping on the bear skins. We next crossed the Ouachita River, then the Red River and last of all the Sabine River. Now we rejoiced to know that we were almost home. We crossed the Sabine in the evening of November 1838. Papa stayed with an old friend 4 miles from the river on the Texas side. I had heard of so many desperate things being done in Texas, I scarcely felt safe to go to sleep, though we were with a nice family – Major Smith was the name and all the early settlers knew him to be “the soul of honor”. We crossed the Sabine at Gaines Ferry, then called, but it was now known as Pendleton. I think those first names should not be changed but I am digressing from my subject and must hurry to my Texas home. We left Major Smith’s in the morning and reached home – San Augustine – the same evening. We met our stepmother and a nine months old little sister. I was delighted with everything, even the red land, but soon become tired of that for I could never think in time to prevent coming in contact with it and there was no such thing as brushing it off. When it got dry, it left a stain, therefore, I could not hide my carelessness, so had to take oft-repeated scolding’s from my very particular mother. Father had large farms for that day, although they would not be considered so in these first times. He had a good many slaves, but they did not work like the white folks now; and, we had lots of stock, made good crops, bought a negro occasionally, lived in plenty and were content. I would like to say something of the hospitality of old Texas. When a settler came to the country, everyone strove to make the newcomer feel at home. They would send him beef and pork, give him cows to milk, potatoes and turnips and other vegetables from the garden and help him in various ways. They considered them neighbors though 10 miles away and took the time to visit. The town of San Augustine was settled with intelligent people. My stepmother’s father, Gen. McFarland, helped to lay out the town and he organized the first Masonic Lodge in that country. It was called McFarland’s Lodge for many years. Texas, when under Mexican Government, was Catholic. Once in a great while a Protestant minister would come over and preach. Old Brother Stevenson, a good old Methodist, came to the neighborhood before Father married, and preached at George Teels. My step-mother, Miss Eliza McFarland, then joined the Methodist church. She was the first lady to join a Protestant church in this Mexican Texas. That was in 1832. There are but few, if any, of the old pioneers left in San Augustine County. There were Stephen Blount, James Johnston, Matthew Cartwright, the Thomas’s, the Brooks and others who spent their days there. Some of their children or grandchildren may be there yet. Many of their descendants are scattered over this great State were their forefathers endured so many hardships, privations and depredations from the Mexicans and Indians, and so many perils in every way – all to bring happy, peaceful homes for their children. The liberty and prosperity we now enjoy we owe to them. De we feel the gratitude to those brave, self-denying father we should? Then why not erect monuments to all – not only the officers or leading me but to our “FOREFATHERS IN TEXAS”? My father owned land in East and South Texas. After that memorable battle at San Jacinto, gained by that grand old father of our Republic, General Sam Houston, people began to spread out to other parts of the Republic. My father moved to what was then Nacogdoches, now Angeline, on the Angeline River. We had a farm there, laid out a town and called it Calhoun. It was a wild, rough place with no church, or school. He employed a teacher for his children’ at home but my Mother was dissatisfied so he moved back to San Augustine. My sister and I went to school to Mr. Chas. Williamson, a brother of the “three legend Willie” as he was called. He was quite a conspicuous character in Texas’ early struggles. My Mother was in bad health and Father decided to go nearer the coast, thinking she might be benefitted by the sea air. In the year 1839 Papa moved to Jefferson County, settling on what is known as Lawhon’s Woods, 12 miles from Beaumont. He owned a large body of land there. Sister and I were sent to boarding school. Mother’s health improved very much, but I lost my little brother who was then 9 years old. He was a very bright and promising boy, the only boy in the family. That was the year 1840. That same year, Rev. J. C. Woolam was sent to that circuit. He was the first preacher who had ever preached to those people. There were grown men and women who had never heard a sermon. Bro. Woolam came to our house but he preached at Mr. Burwell’s house, his being the best house near the center of the community. We all went 10 miles to hear him, in fact the people turned out well. There were not many living in that country but they all came out to hear what new thing he had to tell. They did not know to rise to sing; or to kneel to pray; but sat still and looked on with astonishment. He did not preach long until they became interested. The Rev. Sam Williams was the Presiding Elder. They were both old friends of ours and lived in San Augustine Country. They sowed the seed that year that the Rev. John Collard and his estimable wife reaped the next year. Before this, their big “branding day” was on Sunday – they had no regard for anything sacred or moral. My father put up some pretty comfortable cabins out of such material as could be found in the forest. He had pine trees to build the walls and split board for roofing. But how could the floors and doors be made? It is well known that necessity is the mother of invention so Papa put the Negro man to splitting logs and hewing them off for the floors. You can’t imagine how neat it was! And, of course, the doors were to be made the same way, only split thinner and smoothed off with a drawing knife. The hanging of the doors was still a puzzle but as with every other necessity, there was a way. We had a negro man who had good mechanical ideas so he made some wooden hinges. I can’t exactly describe them but they worked fine except for the squeaking when being opened or shut, which was very annoying to poor, nervous Mother. Papa and Mother remedied this however by rubbing a little soap on the hinges. Everything was now comfortably quartered. Papa wished to build an office but he had to make another trip to our old home in San Augustine. Gen. McFarland, my step-mother’s father was visiting her to see if the change had been beneficial to her health and he decided to stay with her until Papa returned. A few days after Papa left, in the evening, there came an Indian riding up to the door. He had a very pleasant countenance and spoke his “Howdy” nicely. As grandpa had been dealing with the red men since he came to Texas, he talked with him and asked him many questions. The Indian told him he was the Alabama tribe and wanted permission to hunt near there. Grandpa showed him a point of timber a mile away and told him they could camp there. The Indian rode back to the gang, I suppose. We had only seen the one who came for permission but suddenly other came back – the ugliest, most savage looking creatures- both men and women – we thought we ever saw. The one who came first was the only pleasant looking one in the crowd. We thought there were at least one hundred but perhaps there were not so many. Ma, we children, and the negro women were almost frightened out of our wits, with not a white man nearer than six miles, except Grandpa. They did not go to the point of the timber but camped a scant three or four hundred yards from the house. We were very polite to them from fear which made them bolder and more troublesome. We milked a number of cows and often gave them all the milk. They would come, one after another, with their unclean buckets, wrapped in their dirty blankets and hold out their vessels and say “Mila-supeta”. Ma was afraid to refused them, although Grandpa would tell her not to give so much. But she felt so unprotected for Grandpa was very old and the negro men were as timid as we were. We were as yet unbolested. Grandpa thought he would have a pleasant surprise for Papa when he came home, so he put the man to work to build an office for Papa as his books and medicines were still packed in boxes. He compelted it in a few weeks after our Indian neighbors came. After the shelves and all were completed, a negro boy dusted the books and washed the bottles. Among the office mixtures were three or four life sized busts made of Plaster of Paris and a skull or two. Grandpa arranged them on a shelf, not thinking of the effect it would have on the superstitions of the red man. Just as he finished, two half-grown boys came as usual to beg. They spied the ghastly heads and grinning skulls, looked at each other and blabbered to each other, then started off to report the unearthly sight. Grandpa understood it and arranged them, if possible, more hideously. Sure enough, in a short time, came three or four great, rusty, half-clad fellows to the office door and stood with wide eyes and open mouths, jabbering to one another. Grandpa feigned to be very busy, not noticing them and they did not tarry long. He said to himself: “They won’t come to the house begging anymore”. Soon after, to our surprise and delight, we looked to where their camp had been and there was not a sign of lie, not even the smoke of their camp fire. In a few days Papa and one of his brothers, D. H. Lawhon, came home. My Uncle was Captain of a ranger company – he had been wounded by one of his sentinels at Waco. It was an Indian village and for some time after-wards was called “Waco Village”. Capt. Lawhon came very near to dying under a large live oak tree that still stands in the beautiful city of Waco. That was in the summer of 1840. He lay there, wounded, expecting hourly to be attacked by the Indians. A few weeks ago, I was in the flourishing city of Waco and my mind wandered back to that time as I surveyed the present outlook with its four mile square incorporation, two of the finest universities of the state conducted by native Texas – Rufus Burleson, President of the Baylor University, one of the old veterans who fought for Texas’ Independence and Addison Clark, President of the Addran University. He was too young to participate in our struggle for liberty. His father bore the brunt of the war and labored to civilize, educate, and Christianize the new and sparsely settled Republic. The same can be said of Rufus Burleson. After peace was restored the continued to serve his country, his life and means spent for education and Christianizing the young people of Texas. He looks feeble and cheerful. I attended the closing exercises of Baylor and the convention at Addran. I was delighted with the magnificent buildings and with the flattering prospects for the future. An old Texas who has seen all the privations and difficulties connected with education, can appreciate this fully – this wonderful growth. Proudly I looked on those veterans whose heads are grey from laboring under so many disadvantages in a new country; and with scarcity of means. They had fought the second battle and have come off more than conquerors. All over Texas we meet cultivated men and women who were educated by Burleson and Clark. I will now return to my Jefferson home. The second year after my father moved there, there was considerable excitement in the county. The people had been suspicious of a man and his click for some time. I will relate the circumstances. A young man hunting a suitable place to set up a business in Texas and having a lot of money with him stopped to stay overnight with this suspicious character. Being a stranger, he knew nothing of him and since his was the only house on the road where he could get accommodations, he asked for lodging. The old man was rich and very clever with strangers. After supper, before retiring, the young man handed his saddle bags to the lady of the house, telling her his money was in it. That night he was taken sick and was not able to travel for several days. The family was very kind to him and inspired by their kindness he told them his plans, how much money he had, about his father’s wealth and his desire to find a good location for business. When he was able to travel, they were so very interested in him they offered to send a guide with him, since his way led through a wild, unsettled region between Jefferson and Jasper. He offered to pay them for their care of him during his sickness, also for his guide but no, they would have no remuneration. He expressed his gratitude to them, then took the guide in his buggy and went on his way, saying to the guide that his father and mother could not have treated him better, and spoke in high praise for all the family. The guide was not so hardened in crime and after hearing so many expressions of gratitude from the unsuspecting young man, his heart failed him and he disclosed to the young man the treachery. He told him those very men were waiting for him on a bypath; that he had been sent with him to a certain place where the men had met to murder him for his money. At first the young man could not believe it, but the guide said he could not conduct him further – he must flee for his life; for they would kill him if they ever met. They both turned their course and went to Beaumont and told the whole story which aroused the citizens to frenzy and they were ready for any desperate move. The young man had had enough of Texas and left immediately for his home. But the people organized bands of armed men all over the country and went about clearing the country of all suspicious characters. They burned that man’s house, drove the family off and finally killed the old man, hung his son and did other desperate acts. That clan had made some desperate threats against the citizens, or the regulators as they were called. After the committee, or bands, were disbanded, the women were uneasy for their husbands, brothers, and sons, fearing they would be waylaid and murdered. It was some time before everything was quiet. My sister and I were sent to Beaumont to school, boarding with our teacher who had pupils from every direction- boys and girls – and had a flourishing school. The new flourishing city of Beaumont was, at that time, a small village at the head of the Neches River, which had two dry goods stores, one drug store, two whisky shops and one hotel. There were some nice, refined people and families in the town. Col. Henry Millard and two brothers lived there. Col. Millard’s name is conspicuous in Texas History. He was with Houston in the early struggle for liberty and, I think, one of the signers of the Declaration of Texas Independence. I was in school in Beaumont in 1841-2. In 1842, father moved to Milam, Sabine Co., 120 miles from Beaumont. He had left us there in the spring, boarding, had furnished our room and left a negro woman with us. When he came for us, he brought a wagon and driver to carry our baggage. Now here was another horseback ride for sister and me- 120 miles. We were delighted for by this time we were proficient in the business. When at our home in Jefferson Co., Papa had a boy who rode every day after cattle. Sometimes he had a gentle horse, again a wild one, either was all right with us. We would tell the boy to stop and tie the pony at a stump and stood alone on the prairie. We would be watching and ready to mount by the time he got there and would gallop around the cattle, running them every way to get to run them back to the herd. We never had but one fall which was caused by the girth breaking. We were riding a saddle with two stirrups (as we always did when we rode the cow-boy horses), the saddle fell with us and the stirrup on the opposite side struck me on the head and made a large gash. It bled profusely but we managed to keep Papa from finding it out, fearing our riding would be stopped at once. The prairie was a sea of grass with herds of cattle and deer. I have seen, I guess, more deer in one herd than can now be found in the State. That may sound extravagant but they would play around so near the house that one morning Papa killed three, resting his gun on a corner of the kitchen. Spring mornings would resound the gobbling of turkeys and the peculiar note of the prairie hen. Don’t say: “I know you were scarcely half-civilized”! But papa had a good library of useful books, especially for us, and we were required to read so many hours each day. To make it a pleasure rather than a task, he allowed us to select our book and, after reading it, we would talk with him about it. If we took an interest in it and could talk intelligently about it, he would make us a present of the book. When we were not at school, we were reading, riding or milking to the annoyance of the negro women whose business that was. We were healthy, strong and active, not as ignorant as the young Texas was generally supposed to be. Imagine with what pride I can look on the wonderful improvement which has taken place in this vast state. Sixty years back, white people did not venture from the Trinity River – a few would go on to the Brazos and Colorado but many lives were lost in the venture, being surprised and killed by the Indians. Father never lived on the frontier, so we never had any experiences with the hostile Indians and know nothing of narrow escapes and sleepless nights. We did not go armed to church, or keep out a guard as others father out did. We often heard of depredations and hard times among the settlers on the frontier living on the venison, different kinds of game, fish and milk without bread. Corn, when obtainable cost $5.00 per bushel and flour was quite a luxury. I saw Father pay $25.00 for a barrel of flour. Beef was our main dependence for meat. When there was a good “mast” we would have bacon, but as the country settled up more, the people saw what Texas could furnish at home. For years there was but little farming, small patches of corn, other grains, potatoes and turnips. I have lived to see the rich and beautiful prairies that used to be the hunting ground of the red man now in a high state of cultivation; where the buffalo grazed in great herds, now lovely homes; farms and flourishing towns with fine school buildings and magnificent churches. The great state now is checkered over with railroads exporting and importing from almost every country on the globe. Telegraph wires are sending messages from place to place with lightning speed. Such is Texas now—with all these facilities she is making rapid strides and will ere long be recognized as one of the most enterprising of the United States. The 14th of February 1843 in Milam, Sabine Co., I was married to William C. Weatherred, third son of Col. Marcus Weatherred. His mother was Nancy Dowell. They emigrated to Texas in 1835, settling at old Nashville on the Brazos River, going there late in the Fall of 1835. In the spring of 1836 they had to leave their home, their crops and make their way back to the Sabine as Santa Anna was invading Texas with a powerful army. The settlers with their families fled to the east, carrying what they could and leaving the rest of the corn, meal and house hold effects to the mercy of the pillagers. Col. Weatherred and two of his sons were in the Texas army. My husband, William Weatherred, 21 years of age, and a younger brother, Frank, were not together in the army. William was with a ranging company in North Texas. They were ordered in to help strengthen Houston’s little army of brave men to fight the decisive Houston’s little army of brave men to fight the decisive battle of San Jacinto. This company set out to go down the Brazos in a flat boat; they got to old Nashville just above the Falls of the Brazos. They had the boat loaded heavily with their guns and knapsacks at old Nashville. They got a saddle box, corked it, and four men got in to lighten the flat boat. The boys went safely over the Falls but the boat sank drowning the 4 men and losing some of the guns, ammunition and blankets, so the remainder had to make their way as best they could to the army on foot between two Mexican armies, Philosolos commanding one and Santa Anna, the other. They reached Houston’s army the day before the battle was fought, but the men were so weak and footsore, they were not thought fit for service; consequently, they were detailed with the baggage wagons when the battle of the 21st was fought. This little episode in army life in Texas was accompanies with many other weary marches in cold rains, high water and poor fare; but they never murmured. They were not working for pay or honor, but to free their country from Mexican tyranny. After Santa Anna’s defeat and Texas declared her Independence, Col. Francis Marcus Weatherred, my husband’s father, settled in the little town of Milam, Sabine Co., and remained there, never returning to his home on the Brazos with his family who were so dissatisfied in the wild, rough country. They would have started back to Tennessee the next day if he had yielded to their pleadings. That was the case with hundreds of women and children who had left their homes in the States where they had peaceful and pleasant surroundings and drifted down to this rough, wild country. It certainly must have been a trial. Heretofore, they had never known want in any way. At first they pined at their situation, but when the time came that their fortitude was called into action, they could brave any danger to defend their homes in the absence of their husbands, fathers and brothers who were trying to drive the enemy from the country.