The Story of Big Foot Wallace

This story appears in an unbelievably dense book of genealogy about the Miller family of central Kentucky where I was born. We have a copy of "The Miller Book" which I used long ago when compiling our family tree, and I later discovered the book is available online, having been digitized by someone I never identified. It is not searchable and was obviously done with zero editing, but it is a rich repository of names and stories for anyone patient enough to drill around to discover them. This is one such story. Incidentally, there is a Wikipedia article about this character.

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William Wallace, born in 1816, emigrated to Texas, and the same person known in Texas as Big Foot Wallace. (See Chap. 1, Sec. 37.) A sketch of whose life dictated by Captain David McFadden, a veteran of three wars, and a personal friend, chum, and comrade of Wallace, now living at Waco, Texas, is here given, towit:

"Sketch of William Wallace."

"I became acquainted with Big Foot Wallace in 1849. I think his real name was William, but am not certain as to that. He was from Virginia to Texas, in the year about 1835. He had a brother and cousin who were in Fannin's massacre at Goliad* and he came to Texas to avenge their death. He spent his life understanding their mode of fighting best.

Maier [?] prisoners of Mexico, while in prison he drew a white bean. Mexican's shot their prisoners in those days, except those drawing white beans. Every tenth bean was white (black) and every one who drew a white one was spared. He being one of the lucky ones. He served through the Mexican War, belonging to Ben McCulloch's Company and Jack Hay's Regiment of Texas Rangers. I understand he was a descendant of the Wallaces of Scotland. He was about six feet, two inches tall, weighed about 200 lbs., raw bone, and a powerful man. 

My first association with him was at Austin, Texas, our Capital where he was camped under a big Live Oak Tree. He was fond of hunting and there being plenty of game he kept himself in amunition in this way, and was always ready to go for the Indians. While in camp at Austin, he fell in love with a girl, he made up his mind the next time he called on her, he would propose to her, but he was called out, and before he got back he took fever and all his hair came out, so he decided not to go back until his hair grew out again, as he was a hard looking customer anyway. He went up on the Colorado river to a cave in which he had stayed often, this cave being on an Indian trail. Then he greased his head with bear's oil, thinking that would grow hair, but it failed to do the work, and while he was in this cave, they made up a scout in Austin and he went with them upon the Llano river about 150 miles above Austin, Texas. They wanted him with them because he was a good scout and Indian trailer. When they reached the Llano river the Indians began to shoot up smokes, which could be seen for miles around, these smokes were signals used by the Indians as their knowledge of the enemy being in the country. So Wallace and his men struck camps for the night. Wallace told the Captain of the scout that he wanted to get up the following morning about two hours before day, prospecting and looking for signs of Indians, as he knew there were plenty of them in the surroundings.

The Llano river is a tributary of the Colorado river, which is surrounded by a very rough and mountainous country and exceedingly deep gulches. On the morning he was awakened and started for a trail and while he was rounding the bend in one of these gulches which made a very short and narrow bend, he found himself face to face with a very large Indian, being too close to each other to use their fire arms, and also, being somewhat surprised, they each stood eyeing the other for a minute and then they made a dash at each other and clinched. 

Wallace stated that he could throw his enemy very easily, but on account of the Indian being naked and greased with bear's oil, which made him so very slick that he could not hold him on the ground. After throwang him several times repeatedly and finding that he was not accomplishing much, he decided he must try some other means of conquering his enemy, or else he would never peruse the smiling countenance of his lovely maiden in Austin, Texas, again: after clinching once more his breath coming short, he made a desperate effort to throw the Indian as hard as possible, and in this he succeeded, throwing him very hard with his head upon a rock, which rendered him unconscious, this affording Wallace an opportunity to get his knife, he did so, and stabbed the Indian a death blow, but the Indian revived for a little, and stood throwing himself upon Wallace once more, he drew his knife, but being too weak by this time, he fell dead with the knife in hand which planted

its point in the earth.

Wallace stated that he buried him to the best of his ability with chunks and rocks, and then returned to camp with a report of his mornings adventures. The scouting party remained in this camp for about one week, but accomplished very little, as the Indians had discovered them and fled. Wallace said afterwards that on account of his hair being so slow in growing out that he lost the pride of his heart, as some other man had captured her during his absence. He afterwards was captured by the Indians who were very much afraid of him. and at their Chief's command he was tied to a stake to be burned alive.

The Indians then begun to bring their wood and fuel, piling it around him when an old Indian squaw interferred by begging for his life, pleading with the chief not to kill him, but turn him over to her. She succeeded in her pleadings and Wallace remained with her and chumned with one of her sons who was near his own age for about six months, but all the time he was watching his chances of escape, so finding an opportunity he left them and returned to his own Texas settlements.

Wallace died in Freeo County, Texas, south west of San Antonio, Texas, on his ranch last February two years ago, 1904, having reached the age of eighty years and never was married, but lived the lonesome life of a bachelor. Wallace was a fearless, but kind hearted man, spending the earliest and best days of his life on the frontiers of Texas, protecting the many helpless settlers therein.

I have given you the history of Wallace to the best of my remembrance from first acquaintance with him, but I am sorry to say that most of the dates I have forgotten. The other parties you refer to I have either forgotten, or else was never associated with them. I forgot to state that on one of his scouting trips with a company he killed a very large Indian who had an enormous foot, hence his name Big Foot Wallace.

Yours Truly,

January 11, 1907. D. McFadden.

Captain McFadden, the veteran of three wars, was a comrade, associate, and chum of Wallace, and he himself had had many thrilling experiences on the Texas frontiers, and had many engagements with the Comanches and Mexicans, and was no mean scout. He is now resting at his home in McLennon County, enjoying the comforts of home, peace and happiness, the reward of the services of such men as himself and Wallace.

Additional sketch, furnished by Mrs. Rebecca J. Fisher, President of the William B. Travis Chapter, Daughters of the Republic of Texas, Austin, Texas, Capital "State Librarian."

"William A.. "Big Foot" Wallace."

William A. Wallace was born in Lexington, Rockbridge County, Va., in the year 1S16. He went to Texas in 1836, a few months after the battle of San Jacinto, for the purpose, he says, of taking pay out of the Mexicans for the murder of his brother, and his cousin. Major Wallace, both of whom fell at "Fannin's Massacre." He landed first at Galveston, from Galveston. Wallace went to La Grange, then a frontier village, where he resided until the spring of 1839, when he moved to Austin, just before the seat of Government was established at that place. 

He remained at Austin until the spring of 18-10, when finding that the country was settling up around him too fast to suit his notions, he went over to San Antonio, where he resided until he entered the serivce. He was in the battle of Salado, in the fall of 1842. In the fall of 1842, he volunteered In the "Mier Expedition." After his return from Mexico, he joined Colonel .Jack Hays's Ranging Company, and was with it in many of those desperate encounters with the Comanches and other Indians, in which Hays, Walker, McCulloch and Chevalier gained their reputation as successful Indian fighters. 

When the Mexican War broke out in 1846, Wallace joined Colonel Hay's regiment of mounted volunteers, and was with it at the storming of Monterey, where he says he took full toll out of the Mexicans for killing his brother and cousin at Goliad in 1836.

After the Mexican War ended, he had command of a ranging company for some time, and did good service in protecting the frontiers of the state from the incursions of the savages. Subsequently he had charge of the mail from San Antonio to El Paso, and though often waylaid and attacked by Indians, he always brought it through in safety. He is now (1870) living upon his little ranch, thirty miles west of San Antonio.

Sketch of Wallace's life in "The Adventures of Big Foot Wallace, The Texas Ranger and Hunter, by John C. Duval."

Wallace paid a visit to his old stamping ground, Austin, in 1889. For a longer sketch see "Early settlers and Indian Fighters of South west Texas. By A. J. Sowell" pp. .53-88.

One Room School, Richmond, Kentucky

This post is a work in progress and backup copy as I find out more about this school. 

As one of the few people still around who went to a one-room school, I wanted to find a document validating that part of my childhood. After contacting Eastern KY University where this school was located they sent me links where I can now drill around to learn more about the history of that school. 

To my happy surprise I discovered this image of the school I attended in most of third and fourth grades. I just found it this morning and there is much to say about it, but for the moment this is as much as I care to put on social media.

EKU sent me a couple of links I am now exploring, one of which led to this image. My thanks to them included these remarks:

These links will give me lots to do now. My school was called, in fact, the Rural Training School, specifically identified as separate from the Model School (which I never learned about until much later). 

It was not exactly "one room", though all the desks were in one big room. After two or three steps to the entrance there was a short entry to the classroom, but there was what we called the cloakroom to the right and a tiny room to the left with enough room for a student teacher and about four or five students. At the front of the room a door to the right went to a kind of utility space where tempera paint powders, hectographs, paper and other supplies were kept. A back door and a few steps led to the yard, playground and outdoor boys and girls privies.

My memory was wrong about it's being a brick bulding. I found this image of the school, correctly identified as a Rural Training School on what we called Lancaster Pike. The main room had those big windows on one side and the other side had the cloakroom, entry hall and little  satellite room. 

This is an exciting discovery.

Remembrances of Naomi Wolf

 

I first learned of Naomi Wolf about fourteen years ago in my early blogging days. Back then she was a darling for those of us on the left who saw her analysis of how right-wing dictatorships develop as a warning. Since then she has apparently moved diametrically opposite, with her Ten Steps shifting from warnings to a punch list for people like Steve Bannon. 

Many old friends and admirers of Naomi Wolf are horrified. The great figurehead of 1990s "third wave" feminism, who bestrode the highest pinnacles of literature and politics to become an inspiration to a generation of young women, has morphed into something other than the Naomi they thought they knew.

Mostly for my own satisfaction this post is a backup copy of my own comments and reflections years ago posted at Hootsbuddy's Place, my old blog.

The link by the image above doesn't mention Bannon, but I made the connection from another link during my morning surfing. I can't explain their discussions because I don't spend a lot of time slogging around places like that. It makes me feel dirty.

On Saturday, Steve Bannon had two leading and highly credible Covid skeptics on the show, from the Left and the Right, Naomi Wolf and Peter Navarro. They basically said something very similar. They argued that the fact that these Covid tactics to destroy civil liberties are being rolled out in country after country in such similar ways, with such similar earmarks, make it obvious that it is a coordinated attack - they speculate that it is a global cabal of elites.

The discussion goes on for about 90 minutes, and it is excellent, covering the key failures of the covid narrative. The first two videos are the full discussion, the videos below them are interesting excerpts in case you don't have time for the whole thing. Their reporting on the massive demonstrations in Europe is fascinating - and completely covered up by the mainstream media.

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Naomi Wolf and the defeat of the Dream Act

Last night Amanda Baggs posted a 45-minute video of Naomi Wolf giving a talk about her book, The End of America: Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot. I watched a bit of it and continued reading while the audio continued to run, expecting to catch the gist of the thing and file it away for future reference. But the more she spoke, the more curious I became. A search tossed up Sunday night's Book-TV interview which I had watched for a few minutes. Watching that video, I recalled my initial reaction, basically the same as I was having to the other video: Here is a smart, passionate young woman peddling a powerful and timely idea that is sure to sell books and articles. She's from way out in left field, feels the market potential, and is selling cotton candy at the fair. I was in general agreement but since she speaks in generalities it is hard for me to send "non-believers" in her direction. Besides, she has a sharp edge ...not as odious as a Coulter or Malkin, but something like that... which can turn people off when they hear it. Pushy. That's what she is. Pushy with a smile.

This morning I am changing my mind about Naomi Wolf. After the last hour of reading I have come to the conclusion that her thesis is solid as a rock and if something is not done to curb a dangerous social and political drift our children and grandchildren will pay a penalty that none of us, conservatives as well as those of us left of center, really wants.

• Amanda Baggs link. (video, 45 minutes) [Much has changed since then. The former Amanda became the non-binary Mel who died 39 years old last year -- another interesting story for another time.]
• Book TV link. (program takes an hour or more)
• Ten points listed from The Independent. (Long reading. My summary of the Guardian link. Save for later.)

Yesterday's post from David Neiwert does not make any connection with Naomi Wolf. Once again he talks about sundown towns and how the phenomenon is spreading . For those who don't know what is meant by the term, sundown town refers to a community that makes it clear, one way or another, that the good people of that place do not want anyone there who is not like them in every fundamental way. (Gives meaning to the word fundamental, by the way.)

I am familiar with the term from childhood. I never saw an actual sign, but my dad said there were places in Georgia, Kentucky and Tennessee where signs were posted at the city limits that said "Nigger, don't let the sun go down on you in [town or county name]." The meaning was clear. If you were black you are not only unwelcome but likely to be at risk for injury or death if you were still there at sundown. It's one thing to visit, spend your money or work in a place. It's very different if you expect to live and be accepted there socially.

I was spoon-fed racial prejudice from an early age. I know what it feels like, tastes like and how it penetrates to the core of your very being. Thanks to an epiphany sometime in my youth, I left that part of my heritage behind. Unfortunately, like a reformed alcoholic or abuser, I was left with a higher awareness of the problem than normal, and so the rest of my adult life it has been my portion to point and inform every chance I get. This is the purpose of my post this morning.

Flashback: as I wrote that last paragraph, I remember a story about my maternal grandmother. About 1959 I was listening to a record of someone reading short-stories by Somerset Maugham. There was a passing reference to "Blind Tom, a Negro half-wit who played the piano." We were living in Columbus, GA at the time which is where Blind Tom, a slave, also had lived. I noticed a historic marker about that which piqued my curiosity.

My grandmother, who was in failing health, was living with us at the time, and I mentioned Blind Tom to her in conversation. She said that her father got a chance to see Blind Tom once while traveling on a train. He didn't hear him play the piano, but he met Blind Tom's master, or as she said, "the man who owned him." He asked permission to feel the man's head, which he did, because it was thought at the time that the shape and growth patterns of the skull had something to do with mental development. It was nothing more than a layman's interest in phrenology, but this great-grandfather of mine didn't want to miss the chance to feel for himself this remarkable man's head to see if he noticed it to be any different from anyone else's head.

My grandmother told the story as dispassionately as if she were remembering a dress her mother had made. There was no hint that there was anything out of the ordinary, other than what we now call a savant's gifted ability to play the piano. No hint of racism, note. It was not necessary to mention that. The Brown decision was not yet five years past and a national movement was not to reach where we lived for a couple more years. 

 Getting back to Naomi Wolf and Dave Neiwert...

At the end of Neiwert's post he referred to yesterday's defeat of the DREAM Act, a test vote in the Senate that once again reveals that the country is not yet ready to come to terms with what to do with illegal immigrants. That piece of legislation would have opened the doors of opportunity to the children of undocumented immigrants to start the slow, tedious process of becoming Americans the old-fashioned way: facing an uphill struggle like that which faced the progenitors of nearly everyone who lives here now. I remembered a great story from two years ago of some kids in Arizona who make the realization of the "dream" a possibility.

A blog search for DREAM Act is my wake-up call. [Since 2007 Wikipedia has become far more reliable and better organized than random web searches.]

Scanning down the list of hits, I realize that the opposition to that piece of legislation is widespread and tight-knit. The angry rhetoric of shock-jocks, Fox News and journalists who claim to speak for the "conservative" side of American society is gripping the body politic in a way that makes Naomi Wolf's arguments sound a lot less shrill. Her credibility shoots way up when I come across one blog's commentary. Documenting statistics from Investor's Business Daily about widespread opposition to the DREAM Act, the blogmaster feels the need to add:

Please consider this: no matter how large or small the turd is and, no matter what color one paints said turd, the fact remains as follows; a turd is still a turd and no, you cannot pick up a turd by the clean end.

That language is not remarkable. It is an idiom not only understood but appreciated by a growing number of otherwise decent Americans. Lots of folks will think it's cute.

Nor is the Congress to blame. They know, both in the Senate and the House, that their jobs depend on not pissing off their constituencies too much. They can lean this way or that and call it leadership... but in the end, if they don't do pretty much what they were sent there to do, they will not be re-elected. Simple as that. Why else do earmarks outweigh common sense? The old-fashioned dilemma was "guns or butter" We now face "guns or bacon." Why else would a multi-billion-dollar war keep sucking up money when the price of S-CHIP is trivial by comparison? And yet, the bacon (earmarks) keeps coming home.

•  Link to Dave Neiwert's post.

End of rant. The day ahead beckons and I have other things to do. When I was young, I got radicalized by events around me. Now that I'm older, the same disease is returning. I don't know which is easier to take, a young person who doesn't know his head from a hole in the ground, or an old person getting ready to go into one.

Time permitting, here's another first-person contemporary account relative to this subject.

If anyone is still with mere, I urge you to give an ear to Naomi Wolf. She's on to something and I wish her Godspeed.