Texas Tales: The Capture of Rachel Parker Plummer
Oh! how vain were my feeble efforts to try to run to save myself and little James Pratt.
Rachel Plummer
“Texas is paradise for men and dogs, and hell for women and horses.” So it’s been said. For women this was never more true than when Comanches or Kiowas raided a homestead. To be captured was considered a fate worse than death. Treated as slaves, their heart’s desire was to escape, rescued, or ransomed back to their families. Captured children fared better than adult women. Raised in native traditions, children took on the identity of the tribe—even if recaptured by Texas Rangers or the United States Army. The best example of a captured child who grew up Comanche, was recaptured as an adult, but retained her Comanche character was Cynthia Ann Parker, who was taken as a nine-year-old on May 19, 1836. She became thoroughly Comanche. (Her seven-year-old brother John Richard was also taken.)
On that same May raid on Fort Parker, located on the Navasota River in Limestone Country (near present-day Groesbeck), were two other captives: John and Cynthia Ann’s seventeen-year-old cousin Rachel Parker Plummer and her fourteen-month-old son James Pratt. Rachel and James Pratt were separated. She never saw him again. Rachel spent more than a year with the Comanches before being ransomed.
Rachel chronicled her ordeal as a Comanche slave in 1839, shortly after being reunited with her family. This is a portion of her story in her own words.
[. . .]
I tried to make my escape, but alas, alas, it was too late, as a party of the Indians had got ahead of me. Oh! how vain were my feeble efforts to try to run to save myself and little James Pratt. A large sulky looking Indian picked up a hoe and knocked me down. I well recollect of their taking my child out of my arms, but whether they hit me any more I do not know, for I swooned away. The first I recollect, they were dragging me along by the hair. I made several unsuccessful attempts to rise to my feet before I could do it. As they took me past the fort, I heard an awful screaming near the place where they had first seized me. . . .
I was soon dragged to the main body of the Indians, where they had killed uncle Benjamin. His face was much mutilated, and many arrows were sticking in his body. As the savages passed by, they thrust their spears through him. I was covered with blood, for my wound was bleeding freely. I looked for my child but could not see him, and was convinced they had killed him, and every moment expected to share the same fate myself. At length I saw him. An Indian had him on his horse; he was calling mother, oh, mother! He was just able to lisp the name of mother, being only about 18 months old. There were two Comanche women with him . . . one of whom came to me and struck me several times with a whip. I suppose it was to make me quit crying.
[. . .]
About midnight they stopped [beating me]. They now tied a plaited thong around my arms, and drew my hands behind me. They tied them so tight that the scars can be easily seen to this day. They then tied a similar thong around my ankles, and drew my feet and hands together. They now turned me on my face and I was unable to turn over, when they commenced beating me over the head with their bows, and it was with great difficulty I could keep from smothering in my blood; for the wounds they gave me with the hoe, and many others, were bleeding freely.
[. . .]
Next morning, they started in a northern direction. They tied me every night, as before stated, for five nights. During the first five days, I never ate one mouthful of food, and had but a very scanty allowance of water. . . .
My child kept crying, and almost continually calling for “Mother.” . . . At the time they took off my fetters, they brought my child to me, supposing that I gave suck. As soon as it saw me, it, trembling with weakness, hastened to my embraces. Oh, with what feelings of love and sorrow did I embrace the mutilated body of my darling little James Pratt. I now felt that my case was much bettered, as I thought they would let me have my child; but oh, mistaken, indeed, was I; for as soon as they found that I had weaned him, they, in spite of all my efforts, tore him from my embrace. He reached out his hands towards me, which were covered with blood, and cried, “Mother, Mother, oh, Mother!” I looked after him as he was borne from me, and I sobbed aloud. This was the last I ever heard of my little Pratt. Where he is, I know not.
[. . .]
In July, and in part of August, we were on the Snow Mountains. There it is perpetual snow; and I suffered more from cold than I ever suffered in my life before. It was very seldom I had any thing to put on my feet, but very little covered for my body. I had to mind the horses every night, and had a certain number of buffalo skins to dress every moon. This kept me employed all the time in day-light; and often would I have to take my buffalo skin with me, to finish it whilst I was minding the horses. My feet would be often frozen, even while I would be dressing skins, and I dare not complain; for my situation still grew more and more difficult.
In October, I gave birth to my second son. As to the months, &c., it was guess work with me, for I had no means of keeping the time. It was an interesting and beautiful babe. I had, as you may suppose, but a very poor chance to comfort myself with any thing suitable to my situation, or that of my little infant. The Indians were not as hostile now as I had feared they would be. I was still fearful they would kill my child; and having now been with them some six months, I had learned their language. I would often expostulate with my mistress to advise me what to do to save my child; but all in vain. My child was some six or seven weeks old, when I suppose my master thought it too much trouble, as I was not able to go through as much labor as before. One cold morning, five or six large Indians came where I was suckling my infant. As soon as they came in I felt my heart sick; my fears agitated my whole frame to a complete state of convulsion; my body shook with fear indeed. Nor were my fears vain or ill-grounded. One of them caught hold of the child by the throat; and with his whole strength, and like an enraged lion actuated by its devouring nature, held on like the hungry vulture, until my child was to all appearance entirely dead. I exerted my whole feeble strength to relieve it; but the other Indians held me. They, by force, took it from me, and threw it up in the air, and let it fall on the frozen ground, until it was apparently dead.
They gave it back to me. The fountain of tears that had hitherto given vent to my grief, was now dried up. While I gazed upon the bruised cheeks of my darling infant, I discovered some symptoms of returning to life. Oh, how vain was my hope that they would let me have it if I could revive it. I washed the blood from its face; and after some time, it began to breathe again; but a more heart-rending scene ensued. As soon as they found it had recovered a little, they again tore it from my embrace and knocked me down. They tied a platted rope round the child’s neck and threw its naked body into the large hedges of prickly pears, which were from eight to twelve feet high. They would then pull it down though the pears. This they repeated several times. One of them then got on a horse, and tying the rope to his saddle, rode round a circuit of a few hundred yards, until my little innocent one was not only dead, but literally torn to pieces. I stood horror struck. One of them then took it up by the leg, brought it to me, and threw it into my lap.
[. . .]
One evening as I was at my work (being north of the Rocky Mountains), I discovered some Mexican traders. Hope instantly mounted the throne from whence it had long been banished. My tottering frame received fresh life and courage, as I saw them approaching the habitation of sorrow and grief where I dwelt. They asked for my master, and we were directly with him. They asked if he would sell me. No music, no sounds that ever reached my anxious ear, was half so sweet as “ce senure” (yes sir). The trader made an offer for me. My owner refused. He offered more, but my owner still refused. . . . I can only ask my reader, if he can, to fancy himself in my situation; for language will fail to describe the anxious thoughts that revolved in my throbbing breast when I heard the trader say he could give no more. Oh! had I the treasures of the universe, how freely I would have given it; yea, and then consented to have been a servant to my countrymen. Would hath my father could speak to him, but my father is no more. Or one of my dear uncles; yes, they would say “stop not for price.” Oh! my good Lord, intercede for me. My eyes, despite my efforts, are swimming in tears at the very thought. I only have to appeal to the treasure of your hearts, my readers, to conceive the state of my desponding mind at this crisis. At length, however, the trader made another offer for me, which my owner agreed to take. My whole feeble frame was now convulsed in an ecstasy of joy, as he delivered the first article as an earnest of the trade. MEMORABLE DAY!
[. . .]
In the morning quite early, all things being ready, we started. We traveled very hard for seventeen days, when we reached Santa Fe. Then, my reader, I beheld some of my countrymen, and I leave you to conjecture the contrast in my feelings when I found myself surrounded by sympathizing Americans, clad in decent attire. I was soon conducted to Col. William Donoho’s residence. I found that it was him who had heard of the situation of myself and others, and bring an American indeed, his manly and magnanimous bosom, heaved with sympathy characteristic of a Christian, had devised the plan for our release. . . .
The people of Santa Fe, by subscription, made up $150 to assist me to my friends. This was put into the hand of Rev. C—, who kept it and never let me have it; and but for the kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Donoho, I could not have got along. Soon after I arrived in Santa Fe, a disturbance took place among the Mexicans. They killed several of their leading men. Mr. Donoho considered it unsafe for his family, and started with them to Missouri, and made me welcome as one of his family. The road led through a vast region of prairie, which is nearly one thousand miles across [the Llano Estacado]. This, to many, would have been a considerable undertaking, as it was all the way through an Indian country. But we arrived safely at Independence, in Missouri, where I received many signal favors from many of the inhabitants, for which I shall ever feel grateful. I stayed at Mr. Donoho’s but I was impatient to learn something of my relatives.
My anxiety grew so great that I was often tempted to start on foot. I tried to pray, mingling my tears and prayers to Almighty God to intercede for me, and in his providence to devise some means by which I might get home to my friends. Despite of all the kind entreaties of that benevolent woman, Mrs. Donoho, I refused to be comforted; and who, I ask, under these circumstances, could have been reconciled?
One evening I had been in my room trying to pray, and on stepping to the door, I saw my brother-in-law, Mr. Nixon. I tried to run to him, but was not able. I was so much overjoyed I scarcely knew what to say or how to act. I asked, “are my father and husband alive?” He answered affirmatively. “Are mother and the children alive?” He said they were. Every moment seemed an hour. It was very cold weather, being now in dead of winter.
Mr. Donoho furnished me a horse, and in a few days we started, Mr. Donoho accompanying us. We had a long and cold journey of more than one thousand miles, the way we were compelled to travel, and that principally though a frontier country. But having been accustomed to hardships, together with my great anxiety, I thought I could stand any thing, and the nearer I approached my people, the greater my anxiety grew. Finally on the evening of the 19th day of February, 1838, I arrived at my father’s house in Montgomery Country, Texas.
Reunited with her family, Rachel’s father, James, wrote, “She presented a most pitiable appearance; her ematiated [sic] body was covered with scars, the evidences of savage barbarity to which she had been subject during her captivity.” Thomas Martin, her husband, overcame what many husbands could not—that she had been violated by Comanche men—since she became pregnant immediately after returning home. She gave birth to another son, Wilson P. Plummer, on January 4, 1839.
New life didn’t fill the void of a lost life. James wrote, “Her whole soul appeared continually engaged in prayer to God for the preservation and deliverance of her dear . . . child, James Pratt, from the inhuman bondage he was suffering. She often said that this life had no charms for her, and that her only wish was that she might live to see her son restored to his friends.”
On March 19, 1839, “In about a year from the time she returned to her paternal home, she calmly breathed out her spirit to Him who gave it, and her friends committed her body to the silent grave.” She was three days shy of her twentieth birthday.
James Pratt and his cousin John had been found and taken to Fort Gibson in late 1842. They were reunited with the Parker and Plummer clans in January 1843. James was seven. John was thirteen. Neither could speak English.
Sources:
James Parker, The Rachel Plummer Narrative (n.p., 1926), 27, 28.
Rachel Plummer, Narrative of the Capture and Subsequent Sufferings of Mrs. Rachel Plummer During a Captivity of Twenty-one Months Among the Comanche Indians: With a sketch of Their Manners, Customs, Laws, &c, & with a Short Description of the Country Over Which She Traveled Whilst with the Indians, in The Rachel Plummer Narrative (n.p., 1926), 93–94, 95, 96, 97–98, 114–115, 116–117.
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Vaya con Dios, mi amigos. Dios y Tejas, y’all.
Derrick
Quannah Parker used to dicker with some distant kin of mine over how much homemade soap was worth a nickel. Strange the stories that pass down generations, eh?
Wow, what a tragic story. Poor girl. All that and before she was 20. Thank you for presenting it.