Life Of F. M. Buckelew: The Indian Captive

By F. M. Buckelew

The Reverend F. M. Buckelew started his life as one of a family of nine, born in 1852 in Union Parish, Louisiana. His father saw the opportunities out West and made travelled out into the wilds of Texas with his family to Cherokee County, Texas. As the author recounts, life there was hard, and before long his mother was dead along with one of his sisters; worse was to follow as he was captured by Lipan Indians at the age of fourteen. In his extraordinary tale he tells of his captivity among the Native Americans, recording their customs, way of life and eventual escape from their clutches.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Normanby Press
• Release date: Nov 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781786255983

F. M. Buckelew

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BUCKELEW

INTRODUCTORY

In introducing this narrative of the life of our pioneer father, F.M. Buckelew, we must say to his honor and to the honor of all the frontier pioneers, that the lives of no set of men, living or dead, are filled with more thrilling adventures, and daring achievements than those of the Texas pioneers.

History fails to express their thrilling adventures, daring achievements, unswerving devotion and patient sufferings. No danger was too great, no war-path too bloody no savage ambush too dangerous, no call to duty so hazardous, and no task so insurmountable as to check their magnificent strides of national development.

The rising generation ought to know something of the blessings we today enjoy, and it is the purpose of this little volume to place on record a correct narrative of the life of one of these pioneers, and to tell of some of his hardships while a captive of the Lipan Indians and life on the frontier.

The father seldom left his cabin without entertaining fears for the safety of his loved ones, while they were equally aware of his danger. Many were the cruel massacres of that day.

Should we not pause, and with bared head pay homage to these dear old pioneers who are still with us? For only too soon they will pass on the Silent City from which no traveler returns. Many of this brave band have already answered to the last roll-call and may we never fail to honor to their sacred memory.

It is for this reason we gladly take up the work of presenting this story to the reading public. That we today may ever keep in mind the struggles and sufferings of our heroes, and all the frontier pioneers, as they labored on the frontier of an uncivilized and undeveloped country.

It is my desire, as well as the desire of Mr. Buckelew, to present only a true story of his adventures and life while a captive of the Indians. No effort will be made to blend fiction with facts. Only facts as they really occurred and as nearly as possible in the order of their occurrence will be used. We present only a simple and absolutely true story of the life of Mr. Buckelew, as it was patiently and carefully related by himself.

He has long hesitated in presenting to the reading public his story as an Indian captive, lest it be condemned and cast aside as worthless. It is upon the earnest solicitation of his many friends and relatives that he now consents to its publication, and upon the consideration that only the true facts be given.

The poems found in this little volume were composed by the writer. The reader will find each subject clearly set forth in poetic thought.

This treatise was first written for Mr. Buckelew by S. E. Banta of Mason, Texas, to whom we are indebted for many quotations which we use almost verbatim; we acknowledge his superiority to us in writing. However, Mr. Buckelew has earnestly solicited our help in enlarging the old copy. I unite with him in invoking the wisdom of God in this undertaking, and faithfully submit.

Yours very truly,

T. S. DENNIS.

Bandera, Texas, December, 1924.

THE INDIAN CAPTIVE

"The subject of this little book,

A Texas pioneer,

Here strives to give the world a look

On things of which he there partook

While on the wild frontier."

"Held by the strength of savage then

A prisoner to be,

Removed from every earthly friend,

Abused by heinous, hellish men,

No hope of life could see."

"On memory’s everlasting screen

We would this sketch portray,

And bring to light in vivid scenes,

The perils and the Lipan schemes

Which drove his peace away."

"A lad of only fourteen years

Must undergo this pain,

Could men to day abide such fears?

The thoughts of it now start our tears

As we this truth proclaim."

"The half has never yet been told

Nor will it ever be,

Would we could here these scenes unfold

And bring them out as hidden gold

That all the world might see."

—T. S. DENNIS.

CHAPTER I

Birth—Moves to Texas—Death of Mother—Death of Sister—Re-Marriage of Father—Death of Father—Moves to Uvalde County—Indians Kill Uncle—Indians Kill Miller and Capture Weinert.

I was born in Union Parish, Louisiana, October 3, 1852, the youngest child in a family of nine children. There in happy union we lived until I was two years old, when my father decided to move to Texas, as many of the old settlers of the eastern states had done, in hopes of getting more land, better locations and as he often expressed, more elbow room.

After considerable preparations for a long and tedious journey, through the wilds of unsettled territory, we started with our old ox wagon and oxen, over the rough roads which were to extend many miles toward the setting sun. Being so young at the time of our move, the impressions made upon my mind have almost faded, and I cannot give many incidents connected with our trip, but the Unseen Hand guided us safely to our new home in Cherokee County, Texas.

The first place we called home was near a post office named Hellencamp. There was also a place nearby called Shook’s Bluff, which place took its name from a Mr. Shook who had lived there for some time. Here we began the work of erecting a temporary home or camp, to live in until we could put some of the land in cultivation when we intended to build a more comfortable home. In this humble home I received some lasting, but sad impressions, caused by the Death Angel, who saw fit to take three of my loved ones, my dear mother, one sister and my father. I often, till yet lament over this and wonder why it should be this way but I place it in the hands of God who doeth all things well.

Memory brings back scenes of the old home and mother, kind, patient and loving, under whose care and influence I began life. Although I was a child of only four, it seems only yesterday, when my aunt tenderly lifted me up to the casket for my last look at her sweet face, and the sad thought of never seeing mother again overwhelmed me. .Mother was a devoted Christian, and was loved by all who knew her. She was perfectly resigned to go at the call of her Lord and Savior, August 1856. Her death was caused by flux.

A few days after mother’s death, my sister, Sousanna, was summoned to meet her God, and I am glad to be able to say that she lived a Christian life, and to know her was to love her.

In my life’s career after this awful separation from my loved ones, the old saying, the life of an orphan is hard has been amply demonstrated, and no others command more of my pity and sympathy than those who are deprived of parental care. Many times during my life, while contemplating my own condition and that of others, equally unfortunate, I have been made to exclaim, God pity the orphan child! However, my condition was more happy than many orphans’, owing to the fact that I fell directly under the sweet influence of a loving sister, who was much older than me, and whose kindly disposition, loving deeds and many words of counsel, had made a lasting impression on my mind, and in a great measure have been instrumental in shaping my destiny.

After mother died father married again. No doubt he felt that it would be better for his children, but it seemed to cause more trouble than before. Shortly after his second marriage, father died, leaving us robbed of parental care. Father’s death was caused by an abscess on his hip. He had yellow jaundice, which the doctor said was virtually the cause of the abscess. After undergoing an operation and suffering many days he passed to his reward, leaving many friends who mourned his departure. Father was devoted to his church (Methodist Episcopal South), always holding some office and advocating righteousness. Before his death he requested a Methodist preacher named Box to conduct his funeral. This request was granted. Father was a very close friend with the Shook family mentioned before, and was a companion of Early Shook, afterwards a preacher of some renown.

Unpleasant relations existed between our step-mother and us, and after father’s death we were soon forced to leave our home and seek more genial surroundings. The question of where to go confronted us. What could we children do without father, mother or any relatives near? So, living in a wild and thinly settled country, we were left to battle our way through life as best we could. Imagine our joy on receiving a letter from father’s brother, (Berry Buckelew, who came to Texas shortly after we did, and was living on the Rio Sabinal in Uvalde County,) urging us to come live with him. After due reflection we decided to accept his kind offer, and as soon as possible plans were made to meet him on the Colorado River. New hopes dawned at the thought of being with relatives again. Hasty preparations were made for the trip, and soon we were ready to start with our ox-wagon and five yoke of oxen and provisions for the journey. Although a small boy, the old ox-wagon with its huge wheels and cumbrous appearance, the oxen with their heavy yokes and bows, were a delight to me.

The journey, though likely to be beset with many dangers and difficulties, was welcomed with great boyish ambition and pride, though little did I dream of the fate that awaited me. It was no little undertaking in that early day to make a trip of such a distance across a country infested with wild beasts and savage Indians. A constant vigilance and wariness, learned only in the stern school of frontier life, was necessary to make such move, without danger of becoming the victim of the pitiless tomahawk or the mid-night ambush, but by the guiding hand of Providence we reached the appointed place on the Colorado River in safety.

Words fail me in expressing our joy of seeing dear Uncle Berry again. Oh, the comforting thought, of having someone to look to in time of trouble, and one that would treat us as his own children. Eagerly we looked forward to our new home, and with Uncle Berry to lead the way, it was only a small task compared with the first of our journey. Soon we reached our uncle’s home, known as the Old Cedar Brake Ranch, a hearty welcome was given by Aunt Mary and all the children. This home was unique indeed. Just where the beautiful little mountain stream, the Rio Sabinal, issues from its picturesque canyons of almost perpendicular walls of rock, to meander through the rolling hills and grass-covered prairies, nestled this cozy little frontier cottage. A large enclosure or yard, was built around two houses, made of cedar pickets, one of which was used for a kitchen, each having chimneys made of split timbers notched together and daubed on both sides with clay.

It is perhaps known to the reader that at this time, the frontier of Texas lay to the east of this little river, and for many years after our arrival there, it was almost continually in the path of the many roving bands of Indians on their way to the settlements in the east, and the settlers in that region were always in fear that they might become victims of these bands, and in many cases they did. The father could never leave his home without feeling a constant dread that his family would be attacked in his absence and murdered. But in spite of these fears it often became necessary for him to be away for a short time.

Uncle Berry never seemed to fear his own safety, and seldom wore his pistol on his body, but carried it on his saddle or in his wagon. This no doubt was why he met his death at the hands of the cruel Indians, as you will learn later. He was very careful about his family, and always saw that they were well protected, always leaving plenty of arms and, if possible, some man with them while he was away.

The first thing I did after reaching my new home was to help Uncle Berry ride the range and brand up some calves. It was quite a thrilling experience for me, and I enjoyed it as only boys of my age could. Uncle Berry often talked of Indians and cautioned me repeatedly of their cunning devices to capture white boys.

We then went to Bandera to mill. In this early day we seldom saw a biscuit or a piece of light bread. Corn bread was our daily ration, the corn being ground by water power. The Bandera mill stood on the bank of the Medina river about even with where the ice plant now stands. This mill was built by Mr. Munroe, most of the laborers being Polish colonists, who were induced to settle there in the year 1855. Mr. Chas. de Montel, Sr. gave the colonists one lot each and the privilege of buying all the land they wanted.

In going to this mill we passed where Indians had killed a white man a few months before and Uncle Berry took this opportunity to again warn me of the skill and treachery of the Indians. We were crossing the Middle Verde Creek when we met Uncle Tom Bandy, a friend of my uncle. Both liked to talk, so Uncle Berry told me to drive on and he would overtake me in a little while. I drove for miles, it seemed to me, when I decided Indians had got Uncle Berry, and hearing a small racket in the brush I jumped off the wagon and hid in a thicket. Pretty soon Uncle Berry came up and called, for he was sure I was near. He laughed at my fright, but told me to always be careful.

It was customary among the settlers in these remote frontier settlements to take turn about, in going to market for supplies. It had now come my uncle’s turn to go to market for supplies, and be began quickly to make the necessary preparations. Oxen were driven up