FORWARD

This work is intended as an introduction to shadowy and enigmatic Jacob Snively. I chose the background setting of the Texan Santa Fe Expedition of 1841 because in so many ways the venture resembles Snively. Both are larger than life in the modern sense. Both are deep background, almost forgotten in the history; mostly untouched by historians.

In 1841, The Republic of Texas declared the Pacific Ocean as the western boundary for the Republic. President Mirabeau Lamar sent these 300 men across unmapped plains of west Texas to enforce the boundary and establish trade with Santa Fe.

This narrative follows the saga of the expedition as closely as a fiction work is able, based on the cumulative documents of the Santa Fe Expedition papers in the Texas State Archives, the diaries and narratives of the men involved in the events, documents in the Texas State Historical Library, and other sources.

In 1981, I mounted a Ford Pinto Wagon and headed north from Kenney’s Fort. Armed with copies the marching orders for the expedition from the State Archives, the Kendall and Falconer books, the Grover and Gallagher diaries, and a metal detector I followed the trail. I tried to find their camps and the locations of the events described for several weeks along the entire route until I reached the points of the surrenders at Laguna Colorado, Anton Chico, Cuesta (now Villenueva), and San Miguel. The places described in the book are real places.

The only character in the book not with the expedition was Jack Swilling. His long and strange involvements in Snively’s adventures didn’t begin until several years later. Those are stories for some future work.

The Epilogue section follows the later lives of many of the members of the expedition and characters in this book.

The illustrations in the book are mostly my own creations from photo manipulations, drawings and photographs from the Texas Worker’s Project Administration, State of Texas, 1940, and from the Arizona State Archives.

Jack Purcell - 2003

CHAPTER 10 DAY 1

MILITARY ORDERS

Texas Santa Fe Pioneers

June 20, 1841

The command will prepare to march at daybreak, June 21, 1841. Permanent Company Commanders are appointed as follows:

A Company -Captain John S. Sutton

B Company -Captain J. Houghton

C Company -Captain Ratcliff Hudson

D Company -Captain Matthew Caldwell

E Company -Captain Strain

Artillery Company -Captain William P. Lewis

John Doran, Sergeant Major.

Command will march northward double file to the crossing at the San Gabriel River. Order of March will be alphabetical with A Company in the Advance guard and E Company in fatigue.

Hugh McLeod, Brigadier General

Commanding

The morning of June twenty-one, 1841, we finally broke free of the harnesses of Kenney’s Fort. The animals sensed the excitement and raised all manner of ruckus. The band played and visitors cheered as the lead companies rode out double file two hours after dawn. A hundred yards later three broncs were rider less, kicking one another, and nipping hindquarters.

Captain Sutton commanded the lead company that morning; he was furious. He ordered the company to ride on. Flint was one of the men on the ground. I mounted and rode over to him. "Somebody put a burr under your saddle, Flint?"

"Looks like I got a taste of my own medicine, Jake." He gave me a sheepish grin.

"Hop on. We'll catch those broncs."

By the time Flint and his two companions rode off to join their company the wagons rolled single file. The bullwhackers had a terrible time keeping it that way. The oxen were green and the teams couldn't get together to pull. Just when it got important for the span to pull together, off one would head for California, and the other for New York.

The first mile one wagon turned over and several others threatened. Captain Strain's company rode fatigue. They had to right overturned wagons, clear brush, shave creek banks, and drive the cattle. The companies would alternate on this daily, but Strain's men naturally figured the first day was toughest. Like everyone else, they had a lot to learn.

Jack, Tom Hancock, and I broke out of the double file to watch the men struggle with the wagons. North from Brushy the country was rolling hills for the first few miles. The gentle terrain was a blessing for the teamsters because they'd never get those green animals into shape in rough country.

One particular wagon caught our eye. It was heavily overloaded and the beasts could barely move it on level ground.

After a while a slight rise in the terrain ground the wheels to a halt. As we walked the horses up behind the wagon young Frank Combs and Paint Caldwell's son, Curtis, levered posts behind the wheels while Mr. Rosenberry cracked a blacksnake whip at the ox critters.

Tom Hancock poked at Curtis with the toe of his boot. "What you got in that wagon, Curtis, lead?" He laughed and slapped his knee.

Jack laughed too. "Yar!"

Rosenberry lowered the blacksnake. "What's so funny about it? It's terrible. We'll never get it to Santa Fe."

"Why not take a little of the heavier stuff out of here and put in some of the other wagons?" I measured the load with my eyes. "Whatever you have in there sure is compact to weigh so much."

Rosenberry snorted. "Of course it's compact! Lead is the heaviest thing there is, besides gold." Disgusted, he picked up the blacksnake. "Lean into those poles, boys."

Hancock and I stared at one another, thunderstruck. "Rosenberry! Are you saying this wagon is loaded completely with lead?"

He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve. "The same."

Hancock swore. "Of all the crazy, wrong-headed, jackass foolishness I ever heard of, that has to take the prize! Does someone think we're going to shoot up a wagon load of lead, or did you just haul it for ballast?"

Rosenberry put the whip down again. "We're carrying it for trade, Tom. The military lead is in another wagon."

"Trade!" Hancock shouted at the rear guard company which was passing nearby. "Trade, the man says! We'll wear out every span of oxen and half the men in the expedition to drag this load to the place we camp on the San Gabriel River tonight."

Rosenberry cracked his whip and the two youngsters heaved on their poles. The wagon rolled forward a few feet and stopped again.

"Heave," yelled Rosenberry, and gained another twenty feet. "Heave!" He shouted again, getting fifty feet before it stopped. "Heave!" And the wagon went nowhere.

We walked the horses alongside, watching Rosenberry and the two boys sweat and curse. Hancock couldn't leave it alone. "Rosenberry, how far do you think that wagon will get in rough country? The frame will come to pieces the first time it drops into a creek bed. You'll break more wheels and axles than all the other wagons here.

"Look there!" He gestured behind us at the dust cloud settling on the empty prairie. "Everyone has already passed you and we aren't even started yet."

Rosenberry rolled back his eyes, trying to hold his temper. "Lookee here, Tom. I just drive these here critters. This isn't my load. "If you've got carping to do, why go talk to the man who owns the goods. That'll be Mr. Navarro. Could be he won't be busy and will have time for your claptrap." He cracked the whip. "Heave!"

Tom bristled, spurred his horse, and shouted: "Wagonload of lead! Horse feathers!"

After Tom rode away Jack and I tried to help by hitching ropes around the wagon tongue and our saddle horns. That took the load off Curtis and Frank Combs, and rolled the wagon onto a down-hill grade without anymore stops. This didn't make anyone feel better, once we could see to the bottom of the decline. Most of the expedition was at the bottom. The fatigue company was breaking the sides off a shallow ravine which ran through the valley. Anyone could see we wouldn't get this wagon up the bank on the other side without more oxen and some fancy figuring. On the downhill grade we unhooked our lariats and trotted ahead. I saw Tom Hancock and Navarro ride to meet us.

Jose Antonio Navarro was one of the commissioners of the expedition, and generally a well-thought of gentleman. He was a signer of the Texas Declaration of Independence, and a member of congress. He was a man to go to the well with. Even though Navarro was injured and could barely walk, here he was astride a horse. He and Hancock reined in abreast of Jack and me.

"Tom tells me there is a problem with the lead wagon." He fixed me in a steady gaze.

"Not so much as there's going to be at the bottom of this ravine, Commissioner. If that rig stays in one piece getting to the bottom, I reckon you'll need a couple or three teams to pull it up the other side.

"There will be a lot worse country than this between here and Santa Fe." I shrugged and glanced at the wagon as it gained speed on the grade and rolled alongside us. Rosenberry braked and whoahed to catch our drift.

"And what about you, Mr. Rosenberry? Can that wagon make the journey?"

The teamster looked at his boots for a moment and kicked a stone with his toe. "I won't say we can't make it, Commissioner. But I expect we'll arrive a mite behind the rest of the expedition. Several months, I calculate."

Navarro shook his head, thinking. "If I can get you more animals, would you be able to keep up with the march until we reach the night camp?"

Rosenberry squinted watching the oxen struggle their loads up the opposite grade. "I reckon with two more teams we could make the hill yonder, if the wheels and axles hold. If the country beyond is no worse, we can keep up with the extra critters. So long as nothing comes unstuck." He grinned at Curtis Caldwell and Frank Combs sitting at the back of the wagon. "I reckon those youngsters would be right brokenhearted to get extra help on this rig."

Navarro turned his nag toward the bottom of the ravine. "I'll see to it," and spurred. Rosenberry popped the blacksnake.

Captain Lewis, the commander of the Artillery Company, had extra draft animals, and in this country he didn't need them. The single, six-pound field piece wasn't heavy enough, or the terrain rough enough to justify it. Lewis listened to the explanations while the rest of the wagons bounced to the bottom and slithered up the other side of the gully. "I'll get you through this creek, but then I've got to have them back." He searched with his eyes and caught two idlers from his company.

"John Howard! You and McAllister hitch two of the teams from the six-pounder to Mister Navarro's wagon. Get him up that bank. Lively now!"

Tom Hancock cut in. "What do you need those teams back for today, Lewis? Country's good from here to the San Gabriel."

The captain's eyes moved from Hancock to Navarro and Rosenberry. "If that wagon needs extra' animals today, it will need them worse, tomorrow. And the further we go, the harder the country will be.

"The stores for the Artillery Company and the field piece are more important to me than trade goods. It's the reason we have more oxen than we need today."

"We aren't asking for tomorrow, or the next day, Captain Lewis." Navarro watched them lead the teams to his wagon.

"Tonight we will make a decision to either redistribute the load, or abandon it."

Lewis reddened. Everyone could see he didn't want to give in. But, if Navarro went to the General, or even to Major Howard, the Artillery Company might lose the teams for the duration of the journey.

"All right. But just until tonight."

Even with the additional animals there was doubt whether the wagon would make it up the slope. Finally, men worked on the ground and blacksnakes cracked over the teams until the cart creaked and groaned out of the steepest section.

Jack and I rode on, once the dray was up the hillside. The country between Brushy Creek and the San Gabriel would make good farmland. The rich, rolling grassland should grow good crops if the Injuns wouldn't run families off or kill them any time they settled up this far.

We rode out ahead of the vans and joined the advance guard. The dust didn't rise so badly there. Once clear of the ravine, the column which had bunched up at the bottom, spread out again. Before the first wagons reached the night encampment I calculated the column would string out for miles again if there were no more bad gullies.

Commissioner Navarro rode to the leading rig and climbed painfully aboard. It was an old Jersey wagon without much of a load. The only other passenger was a newspaperman from New Orleans who hurt his leg in a fall and couldn't sit a horse.

This was George Kendall.

We all gave Kendall a certain amount of respect before he had a chance to earn it because of a relative of his who settled near Gonzales a few years back. When the Alamo was under siege and the rest of us were busy with other things; after Fannin refused for the last time to move his troops from Goliad to the Alamo, Kendall took thirty volunteers from Gonzales to reinforce Travis. They all died, like you'd expect, but most of us who could have been there and weren't tended to fret about it. So when George Kendall joined the Santa Fe expedition, we all treated him fairly well, even though he was a bit green.

The Advance guard was less interesting than watching the oxen do tricks with the cargo vans and eating the dust cloud with the column.

The youngsters cavorted, clowned, and had a real big time. Most of us knew the country for the first day's march, so there was no need even for flankers to scout the trail except to look for fresh Injun sign.

After Jack and I galloped forward several other of the non-military members joined us to avoid the trail dust. In a while I found myself riding alongside Mr. Lockridge, the young attorney from New Orleans.

"You picked a nice day for a ride in the country, Lockridge." He glanced around before he answered.

"Hello, Jacob." He spat on the ground and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "It's the kind of ride to make a man happy he's not with the military..." His gaze followed Flint and another kid from the Advance guard skylarking. "At least not the companies in the rear, or on fatigue duty."

"Aw, they'll switch it around every day. In a few days the Advance Company will be the most dangerous job. Unless the wagons string out from hell to breakfast. If that happens no one will be safe." I watched Lockridge carefully, but tried not to show it.

My curiosity sneaked around and sniffed the bushes all around him. I wondered if he'd found anything about the men he thought were spies. The rest of me swatted it down and swore there was a sure-fire cinch he hadn't.

"'Course, in a couple of days one of the companies will pull spy company all the time if this trail runs like most. There'll be some hard rides. They'll stay a day ahead of the rest to scout for water and plan the next day's route."

Lockridge looked at me grimly. "Which company?"

"I don't reckon it's settled yet. And the detail might change, time to time. But if I was guessing I'd say Paint Caldwell will have the job when he wants it."

The young attorney relaxed when I said that, and naturally I tried to figure out what it meant. Then he gave me another one of those piercing looks. "Have you thought about how many small things could happen to make this party fail?"

"I reckon I've touched on it a time or two."

"And what did you think about what I told you before?"

I could see it made him nervous to bring it up. "I figured if you found anything you'd have gone to the General by now. The prairie would be on fire for somebody."

We rode on in silence. Lockridge's horse half-stumbled and distracted him for a time.

"I guess it just isn't that simple. Only hard evidence can condemn a man. Things can look one way and be another. You can trap yourself when you look at a thing so hard everything points in one direction, even when it doesn't." He absent-mindedly lifted his water gourd and shook it a little to check the fullness.

"Are you saying you've found some fresh sign on top of what you told me before?" The thought chilled me.

"Nothing you could send a man to the gallows for." He sighed. "Short meetings in unlikely places, at strange times. Hurried conversations while both men look around instead of at each other. As though they're afraid someone might hear.

"At least it seems that way when I watch for it."

My ears pricked up. "Sounds bad, Lockridge."

"I don't know. I still could be wrong. Both men are respected by those who know them. One is in a responsible position." He shook his head. "The worst part is they are suspicious of me. Whether they are innocent, or guilty, they both know they've seen a lot of my face."

I chuckled at the thought. "If those two hombres are innocent, just old friends, they ought to be right skittish with you skulking around their back trail all the time."

Lockridge gave me a hurt look. "That's one thing that rankles. I feel like a sneaking coyote!" He spurred his horse out ahead of me and rode on alone.

In a while the advance guard and those riding with it came up on the first night's campsite on the San Gabriel River. It was a pretty place with trees on both sides of the river and it would have made a picture to hang on the wall. The water wasn't generally deep, though there were holes where a man couldn't touch bottom.

The youngsters in the advance didn't strain themselves. They were excited and full of mischief. They pushed one another into the water and raised no end of ruckus. Then they settled down and a few tried to fish while others shot at alligators in the river. The twenty-four wagons took a long time coming in. A lot of powder and ball got burned up on scaly critters that don't amount to anything.

Finally Captain Sutton had enough of their foolishness. Firewood and latrines were supposed to be the job of the fatigue company, and the youngsters knew it. But Sutton singled out the ones who caused most of the commotion and put them to work. As usual, Flint made himself hard to see when the names were called, though his had been among the first shots' fired at an alligator critter.

I ambled over to him when the others started to work. The boy was busy poking his nose into bushes and pulling purple berries. "You're going to get a handful of water moccasin if you keep that up, Flint."

"Hidee, Jake." He barely glanced up. "What are these things, anyway? They good to eat?" He sniffed a berry and tested it with the tip of his tongue. Then he wrinkled his face, spitting.

"Looks like you answered your own question." Flint kneeled by the water and sloshed some around in his mouth while I watched. "You'd better be careful. You put things in that hole in your face without knowing. Plenty of pretty berries in these parts will give you the blind staggers if you swallow them."

Flint shook his head and spat out the water. "Nah. They tell you that, but I do it all the time. Never got sick yet." He wiped his tongue on his sleeve.

After a while the lighter wagons began to straggle in with long spaces in between. The cow-critters were supposed to be behind the wagons in the column to help keep the dust behind us, but since they weren't pulling anything the drovers pushed them on ahead. As soon as they had them bunched with a little graze, Grush, the Commissioner for Subsistence, yelled for men to kill one of the beeves for camp meat.

The young hellions from the fatigue company were just getting into the spirit of the camp when Grush snatched up three of them. "Stump! You, Ernest, and Glass! Cut one of the weaker beeves out of the herd and run her over underneath a strong tree. "Grush and John Holliday, his assistant, had her throat cut and the critter skinned before the next wagon rolled into camp.

The plan was for every man to have his three pounds of beef and little else every day of the march. There were no vegetables or corn along to help make up the diet.

As the column moved in a couple of things became clear. First, although this would be the easiest day's march throughout the ride to Santa Fe, the wagons were too overloaded to make the trip. The column was spread out too far, and the wagons were already damaged because of their heavy loads. When the staff section of the column arrived, the second important fact hit me harder than the first.

General McLeod was a heavy drinker, as everyone in the expedition knew already, and I could see the commander had drunk hard during the first day of the march. He was red-faced and blustering when he rode in. The men near him did their best to ignore him, but they didn't have much luck. Sergeant Major Doran followed close and tried to keep him cooled down, but McLeod was a hot, angry drunk.

"Howard! Send someone back along the trail to find out what's holding up the rest of those wagons! I'm sick of doing everything myself!"

I could see George Howard smarted from the tone in the general's voice, but he grabbed a man from the fatigue company and sent him out.

Meanwhile, the commander rode on into camp and tried to dismount. Doran jumped off his horse to help, but McLeod waved him off. "Get away, man! I can get off a horse by myself." He scowled and lifted a leg over the saddle. The bronc shied, and McLeod sat hard on the ground. I turned away to hide a snicker and noticed a lot of others doing the same thing.

"Damn and blast!" I heard him roar behind me.

George Howard led his nag up next to me and muttered, "Serves the bastard right."

"He been doing that all day?"

The major dismounted, still facing away from McLeod. "As far as I could tell he was like that when we left this morning. Just nerves for the first day, I hope."

The general shouted for Colonel Cooke, while Howard and I faded into the trees.

As evening closed on the camp the final wagons straggled in. The last was Antonio Navarro's wagon loaded with lead, and anyone could see the rig was suffering.

The general worked himself up into a regular fit when he saw Rosenberry come in. He hadn't slacked off on the whiskey, and there wasn't anything to brighten the outlook. McLeod was fit to be tied.

"Find the wagon master for me, Doran." He paced in front of his tent while the folks who didn't have to worry about the anger of a general hung around and tried to stay within earshot.

Cook fires blazed allover camp and the heavy smoke gave the place a smell of an Injun village. The birds got used to us and kicked up a ruckus, too.

Sergeant-Major Doran came through the twilight with the wagon master, Joseph Rodgers, in tow. Joe had been helping Major Grush with the butchering.

"Rodgers! If we don't do something about the loads on those wagons, half of them will break down on the trail tomorrow."

The wagon master stared at him and wiped bloody hands on the front of his butcher’s apron. Then he spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground.

"Don't just stand there, man!" The commander glanced around at the rest of us. "What are you going to do about those wagons?"

Rodgers stared a moment longer, spat again, and spoke. "Hell, general. Ain't much I can do. Every wagon in the bunch is overloaded. Any fool can see that. Except for the Jersey wagon carrying Mr. Navarro and Mr. Kendall. "No place empty to spread the goods out to."

"So what do you suggest, Rodgers? I'm looking for ideas. I can't leave half these wagons behind on the trail."

"That still wouldn't do you no good, General. The rest of the rigs would still be overloaded." Rodgers spat again and gazed at the crowd.

Colonel Cooke and Paint Caldwell drifted in from the trees under the glare of McLeod. "We were just figuring how to get these wagons to Santa Fe.

Maybe you two could be some help."

Paint Caldwell was one of the oldest men in the expedition as well as one of the most respected. He'd fought too many Injuns and toughs to be buffaloed by a twenty-seven year old drunken general from West Point.

"General, there's two things you're going to have to do, and neither one is going to be a church picnic." Paint closed one eye and squinted at McLeod.

"You'll have to send back to Austin to get more teams and wagons, and you'll have to empty out some of these heavier rigs here and leave the goods. Then you can take some of the freight off the others and spread it around." Paint sat on his haunches and built himself a smoke.

"Austin! Austin? We can't expect to sit here eight miles along the trail while we wait for wagons to catch up. Half these men would be gone ahead in two days. Sutton's company is already demanding to elect their own officers. If we don't stay on the trail there won't be any command left to escort the wagons."

Darkness came quickly in the trees and firelight flickered on the general's red features. Everyone near was silent while the four firelit faces pondered the problem.

Finally Colonel Cooke spoke. "There's Bryant's settlement, off to the east. Man might pick up some animals and a wagon or two there. Catch up to us at Little River." He paused to see if McLeod had anything to say before he went on.

"We could cache the lead off that wagon of Mr. Navarro's, then, and put some of the freight from the heavier wagons on it. That might get us up the trail a ways."

While McLeod chewed on it our crowd drifted off toward the cook fires. The smell of roasting meat got to be too much for me, too. I'd decided to see if I could find Jack when a shot echoed through the trees at the east end of the camp. I heard some shouting and checked my Colt repeating pistols before I started off that way.

The youngster who fired the shots was almost in tears. It was Private Davis, of "C" Company. He squatted beside a naked body which, at first, I took to be a Comanche. When I looked closer at the face I could see the dead man was Private John Snow, one of the mischief makers. The sentinel was a good shot, anyway. The hole was just under the left nipple.

A crowd gathered and the sentry sobbed while he described what happened. "I thought he was an Injun. He ran out of the trees naked, shrieking. Waving that stick in the air.

"I shot him before I had time to think."

Sgt. Major Doran took the kid by the shoulder and pulled him away from the crowd. "Easy boy. Come with me, now. The general will want to know how it happened."

I shook my head in the dark and moseyed back into camp.

It was a long night. The troopers were sullen about Snow's death. Sutton's company was full of vinegar because McLeod wouldn't allow them to elect their own officers. The merchants were worried about which of their goods they'd have to leave behind. The Commissary, Mr. Grush, was worried because the general was sending him off to Bryant's station.

And the commander was drunk.

But, amidst all, this, there was still a lot of excitement among the men about the trail for Santa Fe. Jack and I walked around the camp and listened to the talk, chewed the fat with friends, and picked the seed ticks off ourselves. Then we settled down to counting stars, munching a little beef, and getting used to the sounds of the camp before we curled up in our blankets.

Hell Bent for Santa Fe