Elisabeth O’Leary, Texian Dare to see the light by Catherine Elisabeth Klein A Preview

Author’s Note

This book is a mixture of fact and fiction based on an account of the life of my Grandma Hart, Elisabeth Leary Hart, written by her daughter Rosalie Hart Priour, grandmother to Ada Elisabeth Priour Klein, my father’s mother whom I knew well and loved and whose homeplace has become mine. My name is Catherine Elisabeth Klein Keblinger, carrying on the Elisabeth from Grandma Hart and my Grandma Klein.

Grandma Hart’s name and her brand are as well known to family members of my generation as they were during her lifetime. That Irish lady’s character and determination and heroism have made her a legend in our family. She has been discussed and admired by all of us from her lifetime through the current descendants.

I intend my efforts as a tribute to her memory. The personality of Elisabeth O’Leary Hart in my story is derived from clues about her mother’s characteristics contained in Rosalie’s writing and family stories I have heard all my life. My father was old enough and interested enough to listen to stories about Grandma Hart from the generation who knew her personally. In addition I have attributed to her and other family members in my imaginary version of her adventures values and facets of behavior and appearance observed in her descendants whom I have known. But –in the final analysis- this Elisabeth O’Leary is what I imagined her to be and may bear no more than a superficial resemblance to the real person.

The personalities, the dialogue, and many of the secondary characters are the product of my imagination, but the main line of action is historically accurate and follows almost exactly the story of national events and personal adventures told by my Grandmother Rosalie. I have chosen, however, to alter elements of the personal story, and this tale comes to an end years earlier than the entire panoply of historical events and family experiences preserved for us by Rosalie Hart Priour.

I am grateful for the delicate and ladylike Rosalie Bridget Hart who was tough enough to live through all the life-threatening adventures of her family, and who was considerate enough of her descendants to leave us such a detailed record of those events.
 

From Ireland’s rocky shores we came to this bit of sandy beach that marked the edge of Texas, the part of Mexico where we planned to make our new home. We started the trip as a strong and happy family of five. Now I was alone in a strange, wild land with only two young daughters beside me.

Night fell. Rosalie and Lizzie Ann slept on a feather mattress under the makeshift tent, covered with a quilt against the chill of the night sea breeze. I stood on the lonely beach beside my trunks and plows and rakes and shovels and harnesses and lifted my eyes to the stars in the night sky. They looked cold and far away. Never in all my life had I felt so alone and heart-broken. My Tom, the love of my life, my wonderful, strong, laughing husband was gone. Never to be with me again. How empty my life, how impossible to go on. How could I make a living in this strange new land. Raise my girls. Meet life’s problems without him beside me. I was too numb and miserable with the shock of my loss even to pray. I just stood there. A tiny dot in an empty world.
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Suddenly my scalp began to tingle, and I was furious. I put my hand under my apron and grasped the handle of the gun. “If you come one step closer I’ll shoot you!”

“Do you really think you can get that pistol out of its holster on that saddle before I grab you?” he sneered.

As he came closer I simply tilted my apron gun up and pointed it at him and shot through the cloth. The bullet hit him in the stomach and startled his horse so it jumped and he fell to the ground.
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Martha showed up to claim a private recounting of our adventures. She set me down, handed me a cup of tea, and said, “Now, tell me every single thing that happened, Elisabeth Hart! You are a crazy, fool woman and are alive only by the grace of God!”

I said, “It seems to me I have heard that before.”

“And you’ll be hearing it time and again the way you go flouncing about the countryside attacking bandits and thieves with a stick!”
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Rosalie and Lizzie liked to feed the chickens and hunt for eggs. Johnny and Dan helped them hunt. It was a contest between the imaginative frontier hens and the children.
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Ten days after the Texas flag went up Santa Ana issued a decree that all armed foreigners in rebellion would be put to death without mercy. We realized this meant that any of the men from our settlement captured by the Mexicans would be executed, not held as prisoners.
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Finally it tipped over. From the sound of the creaks and cracking noises and the crash with which it settled to the dirt I felt sure we really had broken something. It occurred to me that I had probably ruined a valuable wagon in an attempt to save it from marauders that might never come our way.
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When morning came our protectors took as many small children as they could up on their horses and led the way through twelve miles of swamp to Cox’s Point at the head of the river. The dead weeds and coarse grass were so tall we were hidden from any observers as we waded through the mud and water.
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Almost immediately four men came up to me and told me that the Texian army at Labardee had been massacred. Mr. Hunter was one of those, and he told me that he had seen John James shot down with the others. These four men had escaped by falling to the ground as though they had been shot and lying motionless even when prodded with bayonets so that they were left for dead.
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Trying to ensure the safety of women in the war-torn areas was too much of a burden for the undermanned Texas army. The last ship was making ready to leave, so we had no choice but to board it and head away from Texas.
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When I finally got my strength back I was in demand as a professional nurse. …..

After the doctor had gone Mr. Woods pulled himself up in bed and turned to me. “Is that true, Mrs. Hart? Am I going to die?”

“Keep calm, Mr. Woods. With God’s help I can save you because that is not black vomit. That is only the burned bread and meat grease they fed you. A well man couldn't have kept that down much less a man in your condition!"
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Suddenly a vagrant thought came to me. “Martha, had we but known the Mexicans were going to drive us away, we wouldn’t have had to plow that dratted field!”

We both burst out laughing.

We were going to manage to pick our lives up and find little bits of humor again. Like my mother I would find the bright moments and funny things. Tragedy would not dominate my life.
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With tears in my eyes I stepped once more onto the soil of my homeland. Texas. I was surprised by the emotion that welled up in my heart because I was home. Since I was entering the Republic of Texas from another country, the United States, I had to fill out a form which asked for my nationality. “TEXIAN” I wrote proudly.
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I stepped through the gap in the grape vines and got a terrible shock. There on the ground lay a dead man, an Indian.
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We lined out for Aransas one morning when the Indian paintbrush and the bluebonnets and the black-eyed Susans covered the prairie with a royal carpet. Thirty people, three hundred cows, two wagons and one oxcart. We rode tall and proud with the knowledge that we were making history. The first trail drive in the new Republic of Texas. Our long legged cattle walked on toward their future following the three old cows that led them. Across the sea of grass and wild flowers to the ocean.

No novelty to them morning clouds from the Gulf or long winds that came from exotic lands far away. They had grown up with the odor of salt water in their nostrils.