Quanah Parker.
Quanah Parker.
Quanah Parker.
From May 19th, 1836, to December 18th, 1860, was twenty-four years and seven months. Add to this nine years, her age when captured, and at the later date Cynthia Ann Parker was in her thirty-fourth year. During the last ten years of this quarter of a century, which she spent as a captive among the Comanches, no tidings had been received of her. She had long been given up as dead or irretrievably lost to civilization.
Notwithstanding the long lapse of time which had intervened since the Capture of Cynthia Ann Parker, Ross, as he interrogated his “blue eyed” but bronzed captive, more than suspected that she was the veritable “Cynthia Ann Parker,” of which he had heard so much from his boyhood. She was dressed in female attire, of course, according to the custom of the Comanches, which being very similar to that of the males, doubtless, gave rise to theeroneousstatement that she was dressed in male costume. So sure was Ross of her identity that, as before stated, he at once dispatched a messenger to her uncle, the venerable Isaac Parker; in the meantime placing Cynthia Ann in charge of Mrs.Evans, wife of Capt. N. G. Evans, the commandant at Fort Cooper, who at once, with commendable benevolence, administered to her necessities.
Upon the arrival of Col. Parker at Fort Cooper, interrogations were made her through the Mexican interpreter, for she remembered not one word of English, respecting her identity; but she had forgotten absolutely everything, apparently, at all connected with her family or past history.
Indispairof being able to reach a conclusion, Col. Parker was about to leave, when he said, “The name of my niece was Cynthia Ann.” The sound of the once familiar name, doubtless the last lingering memento of the old home at the fort, seemed to touch a responsive chord in her nature, when a sign of intelligence lighted up her countenance, as memory by some mystic inspiration resumed its cunning as she looked up, and patting her breast, said, “Cynthia Ann! Cynthia Ann!” At the awakening of this single spark of reminiscence, the sole gleam in the mental gloom of many years, her countenance brightened with a pleasant smile in place of the sullen expression which habitually characterizes the looks of an Indian restrained of freedom. There was now no longer any doubt as to her identity with the little girl lost and mourned so long. It was in reality Cynthia Ann Parker,—but, O, so changed!
But as savage-like and dark of complexion as she was, Cynthia Ann was still dear to her overjoyed uncle, and was welcomed home by relatives with all the joyous transports with which the prodigal son was hailed upon his miserable return to the parental roof.
As thorough an Indian in manner and looks as if she had been so born, she sought every opportunity to escape, and had to be closely watched for some time. Her uncle carried herself and child to his home, then took them to Austin, where the secession convention was in session. Mrs. John Henry Brown and Mrs. N. C. Raymond interested themselves in her, dressed her neatly, and on one occasion took her into the gallery of the hall while the convention was in session. They soon realized that she was greatly alarmed by the belief that the assemblage was a council of chiefs, sitting in judgment on her life. Mrs. Brown beckoned to her husband, Hon. John Henry Brown, who was a member of the convention, who appeared and succeeded in reassuring her that she was among friends.
Gradually her mother tongue came back, and with it occasional incidents of her childhood, including a recognition of the venerable Mr. Anglin, and perhaps one or two others.
The civil war coming on soon after, which necessitated the resumption of such primitive arts, she learned to spin, weave and to perform the domestic duties.She proved quite an adept in such work, and became a very useful member of the household.
The ruling passion of her bosom seemed to be the maternal instinct, and she cherished the hope that when the war was concluded she would at last succeed in reclaiming her two children who were still with the Indians. But it was written otherwise, and Cynthia Ann and her little “barbarian” were called hence ere “the cruel war was over.” She died at her brother’s in Anderson county, Texas, in 1864, preceded a short time by her sprightly little daughter, “Prairie Flower.”
Thus ended the sad story of a woman far famed along the border.
* * * * * * * *
How fared it with the two young orphans we may only imagine. The lot of these helpless ones is too often one of trials, heart-pangs, and want, even among our enlightened people; and it would require a painful recital to follow the children of Peta Nocona and Cynthia Ann Parker from the terrible fight on Pease river, across trackless prairies, and rugged mountain-ways, in the inhospitable month of December, tired, hungry, and carrying a load upon their hearts far heavier than the physical evils which so harshly beset them. Their father was slain, and their mother a captive. Doubtless they were as intent upon her future recovery, during the many years in which they shared the vicissitudesof their people, until the announcement of her death reached them, as her own family had been for her rescue during her quarter of a century of captivity. One of the little sons of Cynthia Ann died some years after her recapture. The other, now known as Capt. Quanah Parker, born as he says in 1854, is the chief of Comanches, on their reservation in the Indian Territory.
Finally, in 1874, the Comanches were forced upon a “reservation,” near Fort Sill, to lead the beggarly life of “hooded harlots and blanketed thieves,” and it was at this place that the “war-chief” Quanah, learned that it was possible he might secure a photograph of his mother.9
9—Mr. A. F. Corning was at Fort Worth in 1862, when Cynthia Ann Parker passed through there. He (Mr. C.) prevailed on her to go with him to a daguerreotype gallery (there were no photographs then) and have her picture taken. Mr. Corning still has this daguerreotype, and says it is an excellent likeness of the woman as she looked then. It is now at the Academy of Art, Waco, and several photographs have been taken from it, one of which was sent to Quanah Parker, and another to the writer, from which the frontispiece to this work was engraved.
9—Mr. A. F. Corning was at Fort Worth in 1862, when Cynthia Ann Parker passed through there. He (Mr. C.) prevailed on her to go with him to a daguerreotype gallery (there were no photographs then) and have her picture taken. Mr. Corning still has this daguerreotype, and says it is an excellent likeness of the woman as she looked then. It is now at the Academy of Art, Waco, and several photographs have been taken from it, one of which was sent to Quanah Parker, and another to the writer, from which the frontispiece to this work was engraved.
9—Mr. A. F. Corning was at Fort Worth in 1862, when Cynthia Ann Parker passed through there. He (Mr. C.) prevailed on her to go with him to a daguerreotype gallery (there were no photographs then) and have her picture taken. Mr. Corning still has this daguerreotype, and says it is an excellent likeness of the woman as she looked then. It is now at the Academy of Art, Waco, and several photographs have been taken from it, one of which was sent to Quanah Parker, and another to the writer, from which the frontispiece to this work was engraved.
An advertisement to that effect was inserted in the Fort WorthGazette, when General Ross at once forwarded him a copy. To his untutored mind it seemed that a miracle had been wrought in response to his “paper prayer;” and his exclamations, as he gazed intently and long upon the faithful representation of “Preloch,” or Cynthia Ann, were highly suggestive of Cowper’s lines on his mother’s picture; and we takethe liberty of briefly presenting a portion of the same in verse:
My mother! and do my weeping eyes once more—Half doubting—scan thy cherished features o’er?Yes, ’tis the pictured likeness of my dead mother,How true to life! It seems to breathe and move;Fire, love, and sweetness o’er each feature melt;The face expresses all the spirit felt;Here, while I gaze within those large, dark eyes,I almost see the living spirit rise;While lights and shadows, all harmonious, glow,And heavenly radiance settles on that brow.What is the “medicine” I must not know,Which thus can give to death life’s bloom and glow.O, could the white man’s magic art but giveAs well the happy power, and bid her live!My name, me thinks, would be the first to breakThe seal of silence, on those lips, and wakeOnce more the smile that charmed her gentle face,As she was wont to fold me in her warm embrace.Yes, it is she, “Preloch,” Nocona’s pale-faced bride,Who rode, a matchless princess, at his side,’Neath many a bloody moon afar,O’er tortuous paths devoted alone to war.Long since she’s joined him on that blissful shore,—Where parting and heart-breakings are no more,—And since our star withhimwent down in gloom,No more to shine above the blighting doom,’Neath which my people’s hopes, alas, are fled,I, too, but long that silent path to tread,—A child, to be with her and him again,Healed every wound an orphan’s heart can pain!
My mother! and do my weeping eyes once more—Half doubting—scan thy cherished features o’er?Yes, ’tis the pictured likeness of my dead mother,How true to life! It seems to breathe and move;Fire, love, and sweetness o’er each feature melt;The face expresses all the spirit felt;Here, while I gaze within those large, dark eyes,I almost see the living spirit rise;While lights and shadows, all harmonious, glow,And heavenly radiance settles on that brow.What is the “medicine” I must not know,Which thus can give to death life’s bloom and glow.O, could the white man’s magic art but giveAs well the happy power, and bid her live!My name, me thinks, would be the first to breakThe seal of silence, on those lips, and wakeOnce more the smile that charmed her gentle face,As she was wont to fold me in her warm embrace.Yes, it is she, “Preloch,” Nocona’s pale-faced bride,Who rode, a matchless princess, at his side,’Neath many a bloody moon afar,O’er tortuous paths devoted alone to war.Long since she’s joined him on that blissful shore,—Where parting and heart-breakings are no more,—And since our star withhimwent down in gloom,No more to shine above the blighting doom,’Neath which my people’s hopes, alas, are fled,I, too, but long that silent path to tread,—A child, to be with her and him again,Healed every wound an orphan’s heart can pain!
My mother! and do my weeping eyes once more—Half doubting—scan thy cherished features o’er?Yes, ’tis the pictured likeness of my dead mother,How true to life! It seems to breathe and move;Fire, love, and sweetness o’er each feature melt;The face expresses all the spirit felt;Here, while I gaze within those large, dark eyes,I almost see the living spirit rise;While lights and shadows, all harmonious, glow,And heavenly radiance settles on that brow.What is the “medicine” I must not know,Which thus can give to death life’s bloom and glow.O, could the white man’s magic art but giveAs well the happy power, and bid her live!My name, me thinks, would be the first to breakThe seal of silence, on those lips, and wakeOnce more the smile that charmed her gentle face,As she was wont to fold me in her warm embrace.Yes, it is she, “Preloch,” Nocona’s pale-faced bride,Who rode, a matchless princess, at his side,’Neath many a bloody moon afar,O’er tortuous paths devoted alone to war.Long since she’s joined him on that blissful shore,—Where parting and heart-breakings are no more,—And since our star withhimwent down in gloom,No more to shine above the blighting doom,’Neath which my people’s hopes, alas, are fled,I, too, but long that silent path to tread,—A child, to be with her and him again,Healed every wound an orphan’s heart can pain!
My mother! and do my weeping eyes once more—
Half doubting—scan thy cherished features o’er?
Yes, ’tis the pictured likeness of my dead mother,
How true to life! It seems to breathe and move;
Fire, love, and sweetness o’er each feature melt;
The face expresses all the spirit felt;
Here, while I gaze within those large, dark eyes,
I almost see the living spirit rise;
While lights and shadows, all harmonious, glow,
And heavenly radiance settles on that brow.
What is the “medicine” I must not know,
Which thus can give to death life’s bloom and glow.
O, could the white man’s magic art but give
As well the happy power, and bid her live!
My name, me thinks, would be the first to break
The seal of silence, on those lips, and wake
Once more the smile that charmed her gentle face,
As she was wont to fold me in her warm embrace.
Yes, it is she, “Preloch,” Nocona’s pale-faced bride,
Who rode, a matchless princess, at his side,
’Neath many a bloody moon afar,
O’er tortuous paths devoted alone to war.
Long since she’s joined him on that blissful shore,—
Where parting and heart-breakings are no more,—
And since our star withhimwent down in gloom,
No more to shine above the blighting doom,
’Neath which my people’s hopes, alas, are fled,
I, too, but long that silent path to tread,—
A child, to be with her and him again,
Healed every wound an orphan’s heart can pain!
Quanah Parker is a Nocone, which means wanderer, but on the capture of his mother, Preloch, and death of his father, Quanah was adopted and cared for by the Cohoites, and when just arrived at manhood, was made chief by his benefactors on account of his bravery. His name before he became a chief was Cepe. He has lived among several tribes of the Comanches. He was at one time with the Cochetaker, or Buffalo Eaters, and was the most influential chief of the Penatakers. Quanah is at present one of the four chiefs of the Cohoites, who each have as many people as he has. The Cohoite Comanches were never on a reservation until 1874, but are to-day further advanced in civilization than any Indians on the “Comanche reservation.” Quanah speaks English, is considerably advanced in civilization, and owns aranchewith considerable live stock and a small farm; wears a citizen’s suit, and conforms to the customs of civilization—withal afine-lookingand dignified son of the plains. In 1884, Quanah, in company with two other prominent Comanche chiefs, visited Mexico. In reporting their passage through that city, the San AntonioLightthus speaks of them:
“They bear relationship to each other of chief and two subordinates. Quanah Parker is the chief, and as he speaks very good English, they will visit the City of Mexico before they return. They came from Kiowa, Comanche and Wichita Indian Agency,and Parker bears a paper from Indian Agent Hunt that he, Parker, is a son of Cynthia Ann Parker, and is one of the most prominent chiefs of the half-breed Comanche tribe. He is also a successful stock man and farmer. He wears a citizen’s suit of black, neatly fitting, regular “tooth-pick” dude shoes, a watch and gold chain and black felt hat. The only peculiar item in his appearance is his long hair, which he wears in two plaits down his back. His two braves also wear civilization’s garb. But wear heavy boots, into which their trousers are thrust in true western fashion. They speak nothing but their native language.”
“They bear relationship to each other of chief and two subordinates. Quanah Parker is the chief, and as he speaks very good English, they will visit the City of Mexico before they return. They came from Kiowa, Comanche and Wichita Indian Agency,and Parker bears a paper from Indian Agent Hunt that he, Parker, is a son of Cynthia Ann Parker, and is one of the most prominent chiefs of the half-breed Comanche tribe. He is also a successful stock man and farmer. He wears a citizen’s suit of black, neatly fitting, regular “tooth-pick” dude shoes, a watch and gold chain and black felt hat. The only peculiar item in his appearance is his long hair, which he wears in two plaits down his back. His two braves also wear civilization’s garb. But wear heavy boots, into which their trousers are thrust in true western fashion. They speak nothing but their native language.”
In 1885 Quanah Parker visited the World’s Fair at New Orleans.
The following extract from the Fort WorthGazette, is a recent incident in his career:
“HE BLEW OUT THE GAS”And on That Breath the Soul of Yellow Bear Flew to its Happy Hunting Grounds.Another Instance in Which the Noble Red Man Succumbs to the Influence of Civilization!“A sensation was created on the streets yesterday by the news of a tragedy from asphyxiation at the Pickwick hotel, of which two noted Indians, Quanah Parker and Yellow Bear, were thevictims. * * *“The circumstances of the unfortunate affair were very difficult to obtain because of the inability of theonly two men who were possessed of definite information on the subject to reveal it—one on account of death, and the other from unconsciousness. The Indians arrived here yesterday from the Territory, on the Fort Worth & Denver incoming train. They registered at the Pickwick and wereasignedan apartment together in the second story of thebuilding. * * Verylittle is known of their subsequent movements, but from the best evidence that can be collected it appears that Yellow Bear retired alone about 10 o’clock, and that in his utter ignorance of modern appliances, he blew out the gas. Parker, it is believed, did not seek his room until 2 or 3 o’clock in the morning, when, not detecting from some cause the presence of gas in the atmosphere, or not locating its origin in the room, he shut the door and scrambled into bed, unmindful of the deadly forces which were even then operating sodisastrously. * * * *“The failure of the two Indians to appear at breakfast or dinner caused the hotel clerk to send a man around to awake them. He found the door locked and was unable to get a response from the inmates. The room was then forceably entered, and as the door swung back the rush of the deathly perfume through the aperture told the story. Agastlyspectacle met the eyes of the hotel employes. By the bedside in a crouched position, with his face pressed to the floor, was YellowBear, in the half-nude condition which Indian fashion in night clothes admits. In the opposite corner near the window, which was closed, Parker was stretched at full length upon his back. Yellow Bear was stone dead, while the quick gasps of his companion indicated that he was in but a stone’s throw of eternity. The chief was removed to the bed, and through the untiring efforts of Drs. Beall and Moore his life has been saved.“Finding Quanah sufficiently able to converse, the reporter of theGazettequestioned him as to the cause of the unhappy occurrence, and elicited the following facts:“‘I came,’ said the chief, ‘into the room about midnight, and found Yellow Bear in bed. I lit the gas myself. I smelt no gas when I came into the room. When I went to bed I turned the gas off. I did not blow it out. After a while I smelt the gas, but went to sleep. I woke up and shook Yellow Bear and told him ‘I’m mighty sick and hurting all over.’ Yellow Bear says, ‘I’m mighty sick, too.’ I got up, and fell down and all around the room, and that’s all I know about it.’“‘Why didn’t you open the door?’ asked the reporter.“‘I was too crazy to know anything,’ replied thechief. * * * * *“It is indeed, a source of congratulation that the chief will recover, as otherwise his tribe could not be made to understand the occurrence, and results detrimental to those having interests in the Territory would inevitably follow.”
“HE BLEW OUT THE GAS”
And on That Breath the Soul of Yellow Bear Flew to its Happy Hunting Grounds.
Another Instance in Which the Noble Red Man Succumbs to the Influence of Civilization!
“A sensation was created on the streets yesterday by the news of a tragedy from asphyxiation at the Pickwick hotel, of which two noted Indians, Quanah Parker and Yellow Bear, were thevictims. * * *
“The circumstances of the unfortunate affair were very difficult to obtain because of the inability of theonly two men who were possessed of definite information on the subject to reveal it—one on account of death, and the other from unconsciousness. The Indians arrived here yesterday from the Territory, on the Fort Worth & Denver incoming train. They registered at the Pickwick and wereasignedan apartment together in the second story of thebuilding. * * Verylittle is known of their subsequent movements, but from the best evidence that can be collected it appears that Yellow Bear retired alone about 10 o’clock, and that in his utter ignorance of modern appliances, he blew out the gas. Parker, it is believed, did not seek his room until 2 or 3 o’clock in the morning, when, not detecting from some cause the presence of gas in the atmosphere, or not locating its origin in the room, he shut the door and scrambled into bed, unmindful of the deadly forces which were even then operating sodisastrously. * * * *
“The failure of the two Indians to appear at breakfast or dinner caused the hotel clerk to send a man around to awake them. He found the door locked and was unable to get a response from the inmates. The room was then forceably entered, and as the door swung back the rush of the deathly perfume through the aperture told the story. Agastlyspectacle met the eyes of the hotel employes. By the bedside in a crouched position, with his face pressed to the floor, was YellowBear, in the half-nude condition which Indian fashion in night clothes admits. In the opposite corner near the window, which was closed, Parker was stretched at full length upon his back. Yellow Bear was stone dead, while the quick gasps of his companion indicated that he was in but a stone’s throw of eternity. The chief was removed to the bed, and through the untiring efforts of Drs. Beall and Moore his life has been saved.
“Finding Quanah sufficiently able to converse, the reporter of theGazettequestioned him as to the cause of the unhappy occurrence, and elicited the following facts:
“‘I came,’ said the chief, ‘into the room about midnight, and found Yellow Bear in bed. I lit the gas myself. I smelt no gas when I came into the room. When I went to bed I turned the gas off. I did not blow it out. After a while I smelt the gas, but went to sleep. I woke up and shook Yellow Bear and told him ‘I’m mighty sick and hurting all over.’ Yellow Bear says, ‘I’m mighty sick, too.’ I got up, and fell down and all around the room, and that’s all I know about it.’
“‘Why didn’t you open the door?’ asked the reporter.
“‘I was too crazy to know anything,’ replied thechief. * * * * *
“It is indeed, a source of congratulation that the chief will recover, as otherwise his tribe could not be made to understand the occurrence, and results detrimental to those having interests in the Territory would inevitably follow.”
The new town of Quanah, in Hardeman county, Texas, was named in honor of chief Quanah Parker.
We will now conclude our little work by appending the following letter, which gives a true pen portrait of the celebrated chief as he appears at his home on the “reservation:”
“Anadarko, I. T., Feb. 4, 1886.“* * * *“* * * *“We visited Quanah in histeepe. He is a fine specimen of physical manhood, tall, muscular—as straight as an arrow; gray, look-you-straight-through-the-eyes, very dark skin, perfect teeth, and a heavy, raven-black hair—the envy of feminine hearts—he wears hanging in two rolls wrapped around with red cloth. His hair is parted in the middle; the scalp-lock is a portion of hair the size of a dollar, plaited and tangled, signifying: ‘If you want fight you can have it.’“Quanah isnowcamped with a thousand of his subjects at the foot of some hills near Anadarko. Their whiteteepes, and the inmates dressed in their bright blankets and feathers, cattle grazing, children playing,lent awierdcharm to the lonely, desolate hills, lately devastated by prairiefire. * * * *“He has three squaws, his favorite being the daughter of Yellow Bear, who met his death by asphyxiation at Fort Worth in December last. He said he gave seventeen horses for her. His daughter Cynthia, named for her grandmother, Cynthia Parker, is an inmate of the Indian Agent’s house. Quanah was attired in a full suit of buck-skin tunic, leggins and moccasins elaborately trimmed in beads—a red breech-cloth, with ornamental ends hanging down. A very handsome and expensive Mexican blanket was thrown around his body; in his ears were little stuffed birds. His hair done with the feathers of bright plumaged birds. He was handsomer by far than any Ingomar the writer has ever seen—but there was no squaw fair enough to personate his Parthenia. His general aspect, manners, bearing, education, natural intelligence, show plainly that white blood trickles through his veins. When traveling he assumes a complete civilian’s outfit—dude collar, watch and chain—takes out his ear-rings—he of course cannot cut off his long hair, saying that he could no longer be ‘big chief.’ He has a handsome carriage; drives a pair of matched grays, always traveling with one of his squaws (to do the chores). Minna-a-ton-ccha is with him now. She knows no English, but while her lord is conversing, gazes, dumb with admiration, at ‘my lord’—ready to obey his slightest wish or command.”
“Anadarko, I. T., Feb. 4, 1886.
“* * * *
“* * * *
“We visited Quanah in histeepe. He is a fine specimen of physical manhood, tall, muscular—as straight as an arrow; gray, look-you-straight-through-the-eyes, very dark skin, perfect teeth, and a heavy, raven-black hair—the envy of feminine hearts—he wears hanging in two rolls wrapped around with red cloth. His hair is parted in the middle; the scalp-lock is a portion of hair the size of a dollar, plaited and tangled, signifying: ‘If you want fight you can have it.’
“Quanah isnowcamped with a thousand of his subjects at the foot of some hills near Anadarko. Their whiteteepes, and the inmates dressed in their bright blankets and feathers, cattle grazing, children playing,lent awierdcharm to the lonely, desolate hills, lately devastated by prairiefire. * * * *
“He has three squaws, his favorite being the daughter of Yellow Bear, who met his death by asphyxiation at Fort Worth in December last. He said he gave seventeen horses for her. His daughter Cynthia, named for her grandmother, Cynthia Parker, is an inmate of the Indian Agent’s house. Quanah was attired in a full suit of buck-skin tunic, leggins and moccasins elaborately trimmed in beads—a red breech-cloth, with ornamental ends hanging down. A very handsome and expensive Mexican blanket was thrown around his body; in his ears were little stuffed birds. His hair done with the feathers of bright plumaged birds. He was handsomer by far than any Ingomar the writer has ever seen—but there was no squaw fair enough to personate his Parthenia. His general aspect, manners, bearing, education, natural intelligence, show plainly that white blood trickles through his veins. When traveling he assumes a complete civilian’s outfit—dude collar, watch and chain—takes out his ear-rings—he of course cannot cut off his long hair, saying that he could no longer be ‘big chief.’ He has a handsome carriage; drives a pair of matched grays, always traveling with one of his squaws (to do the chores). Minna-a-ton-ccha is with him now. She knows no English, but while her lord is conversing, gazes, dumb with admiration, at ‘my lord’—ready to obey his slightest wish or command.”