Return to the Hill Country
Part 5—Enchanted Rock
Enchanted Rock is a noted landmark between Llano and Fredericksburg, Texas. If a foreign visitor were to ask me the one place that is quintessentially “Texas,” this would be the spot. Although a huge granite outcropping, to call it a mountain would invite ridicule from those who live where there are real mountains. Yet, it is certainly something more than just a large hill. I have climbed it 5 or 6 times—so far. After spending most of this fall on crutches, scaling the peak was something of a personal vindication as well. My healing foot made it just fine, and gasping for breath as I approached the summit was not as embarrassing as expected. I enjoy the view, and watching the sunset from here is a special treat, though this day was noticeably chilly and overcast.
Captain Jack Hays was the hero of a famous Indian skirmish here in 1845. He was working on a survey party, became separated from his group, and soon found himself confronted by about 20 Comanche. He sought refuge on the peak, as the war party followed. Hays was able to keep them at bay, without ever firing a shot. As they would approach up the bald, unprotected face of the mountain, he would rise to fire off a shot, and they would retreat back. This standoff allowed his survey party time to discover what had happened and come to his rescue. Hays went on the have a distinguished career, which included becoming mayor of Oakland, California.
Conditions remained dicey here, even 20 years later. The Civil War wiped away whatever defenses that the U. S. Army and/or Texas Rangers had afforded. My great- grandmother’s brother, Charles, was a young man of 20 years, just home from the war in July of 1865. He volunteered to help his uncle and family move from Honey Creek down to Mountain Home, a two-three day journey. On the return, Charlie stopped off in Fredericksburg, refreshed himself in a local saloon and then pushed on. About four miles out of town, he stopped at a creek to water the team and camp out for the night. He was ambushed by a party of Comanche, tied to a wagon wheel, tortured and then scalped. Neighbors overheard his screams. When word reached his family's ranch on Sandy Creek, his father, brother and brother-in-law set off to retrieve his body. Before leaving, they dug a hasty grave for him next to his mother. The heat and the time delay, however, dictated that they bury him where found, south of Enchanted Rock. In 1923, my granddad and his uncles sought to relocate the grave, but to no avail. Soon after the tragedy, my family abandoned their home of 13 years and moved 75 miles northeast to a safer area. They would remain away for 12 years. The murder (and the subsequent murder of another uncle nearby some 4 years later) has always made me take a somewhat jaundiced view of the “noble red man” school of revisionist American history. I realize that it was 140 years ago, but generationally (merely my grandfather’s uncles), it was not far removed at all, and the stuff of my childhood stories.
Looking out from Enchanted Rock, I recalled this saga, and pondered how life seldom works out the way we envision. And thank God for that. Most of our envisioning is motivated by our selfish wants and whims of the moment. Somehow this story causes me pause, even at home when I walk down our hallway and the honest, confident, clean-shaven and youthful face of my Uncle Charlie stares out at me from the old daguerreotype on the wall. If my family had not been chased off by the Indian depredations, my great-grandmother would have never met my great-grandfather (himself, ironically, part-Indian). Their love, and the years and obstacles that stood in the way of their marriage, is another story. But somehow, this twisting tale is all God’s grace, and part and parcel of who I am.