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CHARLEY BONHAM’S TWISTED HISTORYG

Decipher Charley’s double talk and win a trip to the seat of Texas’ independence.
By RHAE LUMPKIN |

IT’S AN OUTRAGE. I’m sorry, but there’s no other way to put it. It’s a damn outrage. Dallas and all of Texas are launching a year-long party for the 150th anniversary of the state’s independence, and everyone seems to have forgotten Charley Bonham. An outrage is just what it is.

How can we forget the hero of San Jacinto, the assistant founder of Dallas, the prime defense contractor for our side (mostly) of the Texas Revolution? Well, I’ve made up my mind we simply can’t forget Charley Bonham.

I have prevailed upon the edi-tors of D to sponsor a contest to honor this worthy Texan. We are going to award some lucky read-er a trip for two to one of the cultural centers of our great state in memory of Charley, who hap-pens to be my great-great-grand-pappy. I’ve named this journey “The Charley Bonham Memori-al Sesquicentennial Wine Tast-ing, Beer Drinking, and Staying Up All Night Expedition.” Not that D has any intention of paying for any immoral goings-on. I just love that kind of talk.

If you want to win the trip, you will have to figure out the proper names of the people mentioned in the following story. Some of the people referred to are de-ceased, some alive, and some, like our hero, missing. (Charley was last seen in 1875, driving a wagonload of moonshine into the swamps of Caddo Lake at full speed. Many people think he is dead.) Figure out their real names, and you may win an invite to leave town and make a fool of yourself in relative anonymity at D’s expense.

Charley, whom I always call Grandpappy, grew up with his mother’s folks, Cherokee Indians, on an island in the Tennessee River. He spoke only Cherokee until he went into the whiskey business at the age of fifteen. Peddling moonshine to Germans, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Spaniards, and the occasional Irishman, he learned new words here and there until, by the time he was twenty, he developed a vocabulary of multilingual gibberish. Hardly anyone could understand him. His gobbledy-gook was especially bad with his friends’ names.

Charley wasn’t the only one who butchered people’s names. His son, Aaron, and his grandson, Rusty, developed the same talent. And being in the family myself, I’m no slouch at garbling names.

All of us men, and some of the women, in my family have been in the moonshine business since St. Patrick taught the Irish how to make whiskey. My grandfather, Rusty, used to deliver whiskey to a South Texas oilman who con-tinued to buy from him in spite of the fact that Rusty couldn’t remember his name and called him Jett Rink.

Rusty also risked some of his constitutional rights, including the ones guaranteeing “life, lib-erty, and the pursuit of happi-ness,” by referring to a West Dallas hoodlum and his would-be-poet girlfriend as Wheel and Poetisa.

Another one of Rusty’s victims-uh, customers-was a Texas politician who, inordinately fond of uncolored whiskey, accepted verbal abuse from Rusty as long as it was accompanied by regular deliveries of moonshine. The politician even put up with the nickname Brown and Root Hog, and listened to Rusty’s reminders that the only ; reason he had a job was because Grandpaw Aaron voted a straight Democratic ticket eighty-seven times in the 1948 election. Since Aaron had been dead eighteen years by then, this should qualify him as one of the Democrats’ most loyal supporters.

Even a Texas governor took delivery of white lightning and insults from the same truck, At a campaign rally in Austin, Rusty, unable to work his way through the crowd, climbed up on the roof of his pickup and shouted, i “’Tell old Pie in the Sky that I’ve got a load of rotgut for him when he gets through lying to the voters and picking his guitar.”

Rusty’s pap, Grandpaw Aaron, had the same innate ability to label customers with unflattering nicknames. And just about as much judgment when it came to using them. He once incurred the combined wrath of two famous outlaws and their girl-friend when he insulted her as she sang in a Dallas barroom. “What are you doing singing in a saloon? You look more like a cow, girl!” shouted Aaron from the back of the room. Bullets flew, but luckily, Aaron escaped. The name stuck, however, and the outlaw’s girlfriend was often referred to as Cow, Girl when none of her criminal consorts was in the vicinity.



BESIDES HIS EFFORTS to spread liquid cheer around the state, Aaron managed to get involved in the oil business for a short time when he caused an East Texas oil field to come to life with a bang. (This is the “big bang” theory we’ve all heard so much about.)

Aaron had a fear of his potent moonshine going bad and reach-ing critical mass. He thought any batch of whiskey over three months old was in danger of ex-ploding, so he looked for safe places to dump “old ’shine.” Dry wells in oil fields were often used as disposal sites. One well that Aaron thought was abandoned, wasn’t. The crew had only gone off to town for the weekend when Aaron snuck up and poured a half-dozen fifty-five-gallon bar-rels of his high-test down the hole. When the crew returned and fired up the drill, a spark flew down the hole and set off the shaft, now full of aged moon-shine, which promptly ignited and blew the drilling rig several hundred yards, in several hun-dred little pieces. The explosion also broke through the last layer of rock separating a billion gal-lons of pressurized crude oil from the Texas skies. The result is well documented. The opera-tor of the well collected the name Daisydaddy from Aaron, who never bragged about his role in the discovery. He didn’t want his other customers to know what could happen if they drank old whiskey and got too close to a match.

In recent years, I’ve found a more productive use for aging moonshine. I am not at liberty to tell the whole story, but you may notice that one Texan, Brickfoot, has more than his share of sue-cess with alcohol-burning auto-mobiles. His secret could have something to do with where he buys his fuel.

A few more or my own pet names are Senator Who, a classic politician; Liar Number One, a real early Texan; Shooting Star, from Farmersville, Texas (this boy was nearly as good a shot with blanks as he was with live ammunition); and Daniel T. Boone, the Texas version of a champion bear skinner.

But the real master of the absurd nickname, and the founder of the family moonshine business, was great-great-grand-pappy Charley. He came to Texas to get away from disagreeable neighbors in Alabama and found himself dragged into the war with Mexico as what you might call a defense contractor. Early Texans took their whiskey very seriously.

(Right here might be a good place to point out that I can’t prove much of what follows. The stories about Grandpappy were collected and passed down from generation to generation in my family and might have gained a bit in the retelling.)

Although drafted into the Texas Revolution, Grandpappy never took the fighting seriously. He saw combat as a chance to sell huge batches of whiskey and aggravate the commanders of the army. If his nicknames didn’t rile things up enough, he played practical jokes.

Grandpappy built his reputation during the Battle of San Antonio in December of 1835. He staggered back and forth through the cannon and rifle fire with armloads of rebel moonshine. He assumed that Mexicans wouldn’t shoot him because he sometimes replenished their whiskey supplies, too. As insurance, he cordially waved and shouted, “Bon jour, mien Mexican caraids. Charley bringen aguardiente de maiz! (Good day, my Mexican friends. Charley bring corn liquor!)”

However, the Mexican soldiers, out of whiskey and growing cranky, had no idea what he hollered. With bloodshot eyes, they sighted down their musket barrels and took potshots at Grandpappy. Only their shaking hands kept my ancestor from being seriously dead. No more whiskey for them, he vowed.

Rojo Cabeza, a hot-tempered red-headed colonel in the Texas Army, often was the butt of Grandpappy’s gags. Like many revolutionaries, Rojo Cabeza was something of a stuffed shirt. Grandpappy loved to bait him, especially by poking fun at the man’s well-known eye for the ladies. “Porque beaucoup senoritas with pelo rojo papooses soliciter en San Antonio?” Grandpappy would ask. (“Why are so many unmarried women with red-haired babies begging in San Antonio?”) Despite the garble, Rojo Cabeza understood this taunting well enough to threaten to strangle Grandpap.

Colonel Pig Sticker, a feared ex-Ranger, served as Rojo Ca-beza’s co-commander in San Antonio during the winter of 1835-36. Off duty, Rojo Cabeza wrote scathing letters to carp about his fellow officers’ drinking and carousing and to plead with the brass to relieve Colonel Pig Sticker of his command. Colonel Pig Sticker wrote a lot, too-mostly letters of resignation from the Army and IOUs for whiskey.

Grandpappy hung around San Antonio longer than he intended because he was having so much fun aggravating the two officers and their chief scout, whom Charley called Huhspy. The scout, not known for his sense of humor, took to pulling his skin-ning knife out and checking the edge on the blade whenever Charley was in sight. All of Charley’s descendants were galled later on when somebody went and named a county after the scout.



TWO AND ONE HALF months after the Battle of San Antonio, Mexican President Santa Anna and 6,000 Mexican soldiers showed up outside of town. Santa Anna was mad as hell over the earlier loss of San Antonio to the Texans, whom he hated. He also was embarrassed because the losing commander, General Cos, was his brother-in-law.

Just before Santa Anna arrived, a famous ex-politician from Tennessee, Jugabull, wandered into San Antonio and joined the Texas Army. A frontiersman, politician, storyteller, and practical joker, Jugabull also was a noted connoisseur of liquor. In fact, he bragged that he galloped all the way from Tennessee for another drink of Grandpappy’s firewater. With a full barrel of whiskey, Jugabull assured the Texans, 150 men could whip the entire Mexican Army.

Given to exaggeration, and always ready to play to a crowd, Jugabull made up songs and stories about the effects of Grand-pappy’s moonshine. He raved about its powers so much that, when Mexican spies repeated his tales, Santa Anna thought moonshine must be the Texans’ secret weapon.

When he marched into Texas, Santa Anna’s plan was to kill or drive out every single Anglo-American settler. He also had some vague scheme to march on Washington, D.C.

On the morning of February 23, 1836, Santa Anna dispatched General Ramirez y Sesma and a cavalry unit as an advance force for a march on San Antonio. Sesma was to surprise the city and kill or capture the Texans before they had time to guzzle too much magic moonshine.

As luck would have it, Grand-pappy crawled out of his bedroll early that morning to head back to East Texas. Hung over and in a hurry, however, Grandpap took a wrong turn out of town. Cracking his whip and cussing his mules in four languages, he careened over a hill and plowed into Sesma’s front ranks. Before the Mexicans could react, Grandpappy slid his wagon around and escaped.

“Mexicanos venir! (Mexicans coming!),” he yelled as he whipped his mules back toward town. Two Texan scouts heard the shouts and spotted Santa Anna’s cavalry then raced back to warn the Texans who hustled inside the Alamo.

Inside the Alamo, the volunteers enjoyed themselves as well as anyone could when besieged by 6,000 Mexican soldiers. Jug-abull regaled his captive audience with obscene songs about Santa Anna and the Mexican troops. Passing a jug of Grand-pappy’s whiskey, he sang lustily and accompanied himself on the fiddle.

Santa Anna continued the siege for twelve days. Just before dawn on the thirteenth day, Mexican soldiers collected their scaling tools and crept toward the walls of the Texan fortress.

At almost the same moment, a wagon rolled through the streets of San Antonio and up to the gates of the Alamo. “I Charley bringen agua tonto, Mexicanos outside! (I Charley, bring fool water. Mexicans outside!),” Grandpappy shouted over the gate.

Confused by the yelling, the Mexican troops charged the old mission, where Texans lined the parapet to return their fire. Grandpappy’s mules stampeded and he hid behind two barrels of com whiskey. The runaway team circled the walls, scattering infantrymen in every direction. With the wagon bearing down on them, the front-rank soldiers scrambled back. Grandpappy’s team found a gap in the lines and streaked for freedom.

Irate Mexican officers drove their fleeing troops back to the mission walls again and again. After four hours, they overpowered the Texans, and Santa Anna ordered the slaughter of survivors. Only slaves and a few women and children were spared. One of those, Llorna con Notica, carried the news of the massacre back to the convention at Wash-ington-on-the-Brazos.

Getting out of rifle range was the first thing Grandpappy worried about when the shooting started at the Alamo. Once safe, he and his mule team lit out for Washington-on-the-Brazos.

At the convention, Ootsetee Ardeetahskee (Osage for “Big Drunk”) emerged as commander of the Texas Army. Charmed by his charisma, the delegates apparently overlooked the fact that Ootsetee Ardeetahskee’s primary military experience was gained twenty years earlier at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend, where he served as a backstop for Creek arrows.

Taking command of the army was one thing; figuring out what to do with it was another. Ootse-tee Ardeetahskee led the army as far away from Santa Anna’s troops as possible. Some think he hoped to march right out of Texas but took a wrong turn and boxed himself in at San Jacinto Bay. Ootsetee Ardeetahskee insisted he allowed himself to be backed onto the San Jacinto Peninsula as a ploy to make Santa Anna overconfident.

Apparently, it worked. Santa Anna was so confident when he discovered the entire Texas army was trapped that he declared a siesta. Winning the war could wait until dawn. Besides, there was a woman, Morgan’s Emily, whom he wanted to interrogate privately.

As Ootsetee Ardeetahskee retreated across Texas to the peninsula, Grandpappy floated down the Trinity River on a wagon loaded with moonshine. He hadn’t planned to open the river to commercial navigation. He just went to sleep camped in a dry riverbed, during rainy season, and woke up a boat captain. For three weeks, he drifted downstream. For food, he caught catfish, which were so plentiful that he tossed hundreds of extras into his whiskey barrels for safekeeping.

Grandpappy floated into San Jacinto Bay just as 800 Texas soldiers broke all rules of civilized warfare and attacked the Mexican camp during siesta.

Tired after long hours in his tent questioning Morgan’s Emily, Santa Anna was rousted by an army of Texans screaming, “Remember the Alamo, remember Goliad!”

Santa Anna might have rallied his snoozing troops if Grandpap-py’s wagon hadn’t floated into sight just then. With his buckskins hanging on him in tattered strips, the half-breed looked as though he had just clawed his way out of a grave. The sight so unnerved Santa Anna that the Mexican president forgot his soldiers, straddled a horse, and spurred it into the marshes. Texans captured him the next day.

Though supplies were low, Ootsetee Ardeetahskee and his troops celebrated victory grandly that night. They confiscated the catfish Grandpappy had stored and feasted on 160-proof sushi. Though few history books record it, Grandpappy was known among the patriots as the man who catered the Battle of San Jacinto.



GRANDPAPPY OFTEN entertained visitors when he settled down after the Revolution. He frequently tapped a keg for leaders of the new Republic at a cabin he built on the banks of the Sulphur River. Among them was Coffee’s Boy, famous today as a city founder. Short on whiskey and down on his luck, Coffee’s Boy showed up one day in 1840 to talk about the city he planned and to recruit Grandpappy as assistant founder. Together, they set out on horseback to search for a spot.

After an especially long day of exploring, Grandpappy and Coffee’s Boy pitched camp on the North Texas prairie beside the Trinity River. Since Coffee’s Boy had once lived among the Cherokee and spoke their language, the two swapped tales, embellishing a bit, as storytellers will.

The story that most fascinated the would-be founding father was the half-breed’s account of his valiant effort to resupply the Texas troops. As Grandpappy told how, in order to get whiskey and catfish to the soldiers, he pushed his wagon into the Trinity River and paddled night and day for three weeks, Coffee’s Boy jumped up and stared at the trickling river beside him. With a grand gesture, he declared Grandpappy the father of Trinity River navigation and announced he would build his city on that very spot. “It will be an inland seaport,” he gushed. “It will be the northwestern terminus of Gulf of Mexico commerce.”

Then, for reasons long lost in history, Grandpappy completed the vision. “Let’s call it Dallas,” he mumbled.

Although it was late and the two men were well into a jug of corn whiskey, Coffee’s Boy insisted they start founding immediately. He handed Grandpappy a compass and one end of a ball of string. “Walk due east until you reach the end of the string,” the founder instructed.

Grandpappy couldn’t read a compass, so he staggered off toward where he thought east ought to be. If you wonder what sort of surveying a pair of drunks do by moonlight, pick up a city map to check the orientation of the streets in downtown Dallas.

There you are. All you have to do is figure out who the nicknamed people are. I counted twenty of them, so that’s how many answers you should have. (Actually, I counted them four times and came up with twenty-two, nineteen, eighteen, and twenty-one, but that averages out to twenty.)

For reference material, you might use Yoakum’s History of Texas, T.R. Fehrenbach’s Lone Star, or, for the really clever, Texas Celebrates!, the official statewide guide to the 1986 Texas Sesquicentennial. Good luck.

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