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Moran
"...Moses Moran Snow served in the Army for the Confederate States of America. He enrolled the 7th of Sept 1861 under the leadership of Captain George Freeman, in the Pedernales Home Guard Calvary Co. His rank is shown as 4th Sgt. While searching for bushwackers, he was killed by a squad of Captain Dorbandndt's Militia."
After many years of reading this and being somewhat confused by the wording I was able to do some research and became very enlighten on "what" this really meant. Moses Snow deserted the Confederate Army and went back to his frontier log cabin home in Texas, to defend his family on the border of 'Indian lands'. Many deserters were hunted down because they had become outlaws and "bushwackers" [Highwaymen, 'jumping out of the bushes to wack' and kill those hunting them]; Moses Moran Snow was not one of them, but a deserter who ran home to his family. He was actually killed in his home [with] his wife.
click to enlarge
I am currently working on my family history book and this blog post is a 'note to self' scribble. The names are links to the Find-A-Grave website which I've used as a resource in my book.
Moses Simons John Alden Priscilla Mullins John Peabody William Browne
I II I I I
Mary Simons - Joseph Alden; Elizabeth Alden ---- William Peabody Peter Browne
I I
I William Snowe -- Rebecca Browne
I II
Hopestill Alden…………………………...Joseph Snow
I
David Snow --- Joanna Haywood
I
Joseph Snow – Ruth Shaw
I
Moses Snow – Anna Batchelder
I
Jesse Snow – Sara Standard
I
I
I II II
II II II II
I I II I I I
I I II II
Ana Marie Longoria----Benito Alejandro Garza David DeLane Snow----Alice Irene Smith
II II
James Cuauhtémoc Garza…………………………….Elizabeth Rebecca Snow
II
Savannah Alise Garza; Jamison DeLane Garza; Ember Marie Garza
TALKERS
THE SHIPWRECK
West of the triple-headed, Dwarven Mountain
called Jebul, lie the Cracks of the Hora-medion. The cracked plains were south of the haunted forest
Kinderval, beyond the white beaches of the Great Sea. It was a barren waste-land, where the rocky
hills grew into the great heights of Mount Jebul, the jewel of the southern
dwarf kingdom. Seldom did it rain enough
for any vegetation beyond brush to even grow as the earth never drank her
fill. Hence, were the large three foot
cracks in the earth, where even the horses of unwary explorers, became
ensnared. Some cracks were bottomless
pits and others were openings to greater doom.
Those sparse broken-lands were harsh and most inhospitable to any but
the aborigines who lived there. They
were called Hora-medion: ‘the flesh eaters’.
The many disappearances were more
than rumors to impede travelers, as shaken, scarce survivors could attest first
hand. Even the stout dwarven miners of
Jebul bypassed that parched domain, out the uncertainty of overland travel.
At the moment, all that Captain Traclee knew
was that his ship and crew of fourteen had run ashore. They had left the port city of Lindol only
two days before under the hope of clear skies and promise of a safe dwarven
harbor. Neither was the case. A sudden storm tossed The Grey Gull and her men and cargo upon the jagged rocks. Unable to remain in a sinking craft the
sailors quickly gathered their belongings.
They loaded as fast as possible, crates of: pipe weed, rum, bundles of
boar pelts and what food provisions they could muster. Only
the lives of nine men were saved, and the barest of supplies filled a single
dingy.
Their overland travel had just begun. The old seafarer surveyed the land before
him, seeing only flat beaches to the left and right. Traclee knew exactly where he was. Despite the fear-laden rumors of where they beached,
the Captain bellowed orders to disembark the smaller boat. Off in the distance loomed the monster
infested forest that appeared to float on the rays of the desert heat. Many of his men were new and had never before
witnessed such a frightening sight. The
barking Captain ordered them to keep moving.
The illusion before their fearful eyes would do better fixed on Jebul,
and recalling that breaking a trade agreement with dwarves was a more dreadful
thing. Two men carried one of the rolled
up sails at either end, with goods in the other hand as they all marched east. Everyone was heavy laden with the burdens of commerce.
The weather worn Captain was three times the
age of his men; yet his own experiences in these dark lands came rushing back
to him. His grey eyes held back the fear
of what he knew lay before them. The old
man hoped that he had cheated death enough for his wisdom to keep his men
safe. But this trip felt like a replay
of Traclee’s own maiden voyage sixty-three years earlier. He
prayed like never before to all the gods of Lindol that the journey ahead was
not a repeat as well. He kept those
secrets to himself as he pushed his crew forward. Pointing to the right, they headed east. He aimed to round the back side of Jebul,
heading north near the Gorge of the Talkers.
From there they would turn south and head for the front door of the dwarven
kingdom. Such was the plan and hope.
A young boy, carrying a pack on his back and
an oar as a staff, called out up ahead to the Captain, “Sir, why do they call
it the Gorge of the Talkers?”
It was the First Mate who replied, “So, the
cabin boy is the first to conversate, and what a topic, eh Cap’n ?”
Traclee did not answer but kept pressing
forward without looking back. He kept
his thoughts to himself.
“Jonas, it is called that because the very
rocks themselves speak. Now, do you
believe in such tales boy?” The First
Mate asked playfully.
“Yes I do, Mister Sanders. I believe in the Prophet Kyon too, sir.” Against the men’s laughter, the twelve year
old held to Kyon’s strength and determination as well; dismissing them with his
own smile.
“Good to believe in something, boy. You will all need as much faith before this
day is done.” The Captain’s voice
silenced everyone.
Two hundred yards north of the beach they
came upon a crevasse, then another hole in the ground and then another. Like a lizard, a little man squeezed his way
out of one of the holes. He sprang to
his feet making the intruders halt.
The
tiny, mud caked figure had a broad nose that covered its wide face. Soulless black, deep set eyes peered at each
of them in turn. With a downturned mouth
that muttered its own speech, he chattered through tarnished, sharpened teeth that
demanded attention from the hearer, “Deeda motta uba su-ota ma ha-tuma?”
Looking at one another, the sailors did not
know how to respond to such a coded message.
Then, astonishing everyone, the
Captain answered the thing back, “Noa u-oma wda sayeis Deedo. Keta Lindol, yeta mama du-ma.”
The first mate was going to ask Captain
Traclee what was going on, but he could tell from the look of the old man’s
face there was nothing good being exchanged between them. The seafarer’s introduction agitated the man
that stood half their size; yet, as the two spoke several more crawled from the
cracks encircling the nine lost men.
With their growing numbers the tiny, odd looking aborigines took on a
more fearsome appearance, each armed with side blades and spears. Wearing just loin cloths their dark bodies
were coated in colored mud; war paint to be sure.
Suddenly, the first one that had appeared
and begun speaking first burst into laughter, at which all the others aimed
their weapons at the new comers. More
concerned with commerce than war, none of them were armed except for the
Captain, and he left his sword in its sheath.
Traclee removed his hat and bowed.
His men followed his example. The
Captain stayed bent down for a long time, when the leader yelled out, “Ka Demo!”
When the old man slowly rose up, Captain
Traclee saw that he and his men were all alone on the deserted beach, and then
ordered, “March.” They did so, all the
while silently heading east, making their way about the ever widening cracks of
the growing desert. After sometime, the
first mate commented to the cabin boy. “That was no garden gnome mind you, and
if they do not get us these cracks will!”
The day was edging toward evening, and still
they had not yet reached the foothills of Jebul, or their turn north. Overhead a mass of crows flew by. Looking up Sanders spoke his thoughts, “I
dare say that is never a good omen.”
On those words one of the crewmen asked, “Shall
we be making camp soon, Mister Sanders?”
Then adjusted the pack on his back, and switched loads from one hand to
the other.
Answering instead, the Captain ordered, “Mister
Aleens, only when you spy the painted split rock shall you set camp,
understood?”
“Aye sir.”
Then to another he said, “Neldo, you can
teach the boy how to strike flint and start a fire as you two will begin our
first watch of the night; on the second, we march.” He complied; but they all exchanged glances
of disapproval to the lack of real sleep.
They had yet to see a reason for such haste. Still they marched on in the heat of the
setting sun. The flatlands looked more
like a dry river bed with its scales of curling mud that stretched for miles in
every direction. The cracks deepened
even as they spread apart. Still they
followed in single file.
Six and a half hours after they made
landfall, Aleens called out, “Captain, a painted split-rock lies up ahead!”
“Very good, sir. Rest as you will, for in
two hours we turn north.” Moments later
their gear was dropped where the stood, a fire made and brief rations eaten
with sips of water. Beds made from
cloaks. Traclee did not sleep.
Moments after the Captain’s snoring was
heard, Jonas whispered to Neldo, causing the old man’s eyes to open wide, “Sir!”
Looking up from the campfire the older sailor
noticed what the boy was pointing to. A
fog had appeared all about them as if they were in the open sea. The others woke, jumping to their feet at the
sound of the Captain’s sword being withdrawn.
Sanders too, stood with a dagger at the ready; retrieved from his
boot. All that could be heard was
breathing, in-between held breaths. Fear
was in everyone’s eyes. Even Jonas was
armed with his oar, ready to club whatever came against them. Yet, all that was heard was the howling of a
lone coyote, off in the greater distance.
No reply came as moments later even it fell silent. Uneasily, one by one the crew found themselves
drifting off back to sleep as the Rig-man and cabin boy watched over them
all. Even the Captain snored away
beneath crossed arms, with a rock as his pillow. The cloudless night wore on.
With a half hour to go before their watch
was up, a horrific scream terrified everyone awake, scrambling them to their
feet. Mister Sanders was floating
overhead, wrapped in the coils of a huge tentacle that rose out of a deep crack,
mere feet from the camp fire. Jonas
furiously began beating at it with his oar.
Traclee shoved the boy to the ground and began hacking away at the beast
with his steel. A growl and squeal filled
the air just as the great arm retreated back into its crevasse. Sanders vanished into the black silence. Benso and Medane, the two men who carried the
rolled sail, suddenly became the next targets of two other great arms. The four other men: Jacob, Nora, Franal and
Seth had each pulled a broken-crate plank from the fire as a torch. Waving off any other arms they hurried to
gather what they could and continued on, this time heading north about the base
of the eastern mountain.
They were wide awake now. Sleep and food were the farthest things on
their mind. Each step forward was
measured with caution and haste. There
was no need to go back in search of their three stolen companions. Their screams had been snuffed out even as the
ground beneath the men’s feet shook. The
underground beast would have no other meal made of them as they fled in the night.
Nearing daybreak, the silhouette on their
left showed itself to be the eastern edge of the forest. Like the southern wastelands they were now
leaving behind them, Kinderval was no place to be wandering in either. Before them were the great hills that made up
the Blue Mountains, that ended with mount Jebul on their right. A great gap stood like a landmark for the
Grey Gull’s last crew to turn east, rounding the triple dwarven peak. They were nearing their journey’s end and a
change of mood allowed the men to breathe easier. Yet, the stoic Captain pressed the forward
in his silence.
Two huge faces were carved in the sandstone
where the adventures took a moment’s pause.
The bearded portraits were of forgotten kings of a lost people who had
been separated ages ago, so the stories went.
Both carvings had hallowed eyes; their missing spheres gave rise to more
questions than answers. Had they been
jewels waylaid by highway men? No one
knew. The mouths of the two great faces
were poised as if they were talking. The approaching men stood there like they had
interrupted the stone conversation.
Jonas stood leaning on his oar-staff, amazed
at the detail of the ancient kings. Those
guardians were only two of the many carved faces with the winding, rocky-gorge. The winds of time had softened their once
fine lines, but even now the workmanship showed character of personality.
Jacob asked Jonas, “Do you really expect
them to start talking to you boy?”
Franal injected, “After what we have
witnessed so far, anything is possible.”
Jonas replied, “Legends are all founded on
some kind of truth, sir.” With that they
began heading east along an almost hidden trail as the morning light abated the
shadows.
.............
[5] HINT: Go the the front fence, look near the ground. Middle bar, Brush covered.
.............
WORKING ON THIS....
West of the triple-headed, Dwarven Mountain
called Jebul, lie the Cracks of the Hora-medion. The cracked plains were south of the haunted forest
Kinderval, beyond the white beaches of the Great Sea. It was a barren waste-land, where the rocky
hills grew into the great heights of Mount Jebul, the jewel of the southern dwarf
kingdom. Seldom did it rain enough for
any vegetation beyond brush to even grow as the earth never drank her
fill. Hence, were the large three foot
cracks in the earth, where even the horses of unwary explorers, became ensnared.
Some cracks were bottomless pits and others
were openings to greater doom. Those
sparse broken-lands were harsh and most inhospitable to any but the aborigines
who lived there. They were called Hora-medion:
‘the flesh eaters’. The many disappearances were more than rumors to
impede travelers, as shaken, scarce survivors could attest first hand. Even the stout dwarven miners of Jebul
bypassed that parched domain, out the uncertainty of overland travel.
At the moment, all that Captain Traclee knew
was that his ship and crew of fourteen had run ashore. They had left the port city of Lindol only two
days before under the hope of clear skies and promise of a safe dwarven
harbor. Neither was the case. A sudden storm tossed The Grey Gull and her men and cargo upon the jagged rocks. Unable to remain in a sinking craft the sailors
quickly gathered their belongings. They
loaded as fast as possible, crates of: pipe weed, rum, bundles of boar pelts
and what food provisions they could muster.
Only the lives of nine men were
saved, and the barest of supplies filled a single dingy.
Their overland travel had just begun. The old seafarer surveyed the land before him,
seeing only flat beaches to the left and right.
Traclee knew exactly where he was.
Despite the fear-laden rumors of where they beached, the Captain
bellowed orders to disembark the smaller boat.
Off in the distance loomed the monster infested forest that appeared to
float on the rays of desert heat. Many
of his men were new and had never before witnessed such a frightening sight. The barking Captain ordered them to keep
moving. The illusion before their
fearful eyes would do better fixed on Jebul, and recalling that breaking a
trade agreement with dwarves was a more dreadful thing. Two men carried one of the rolled up sails at
either end, with goods in the other hand as they all marched east. Everyone was heavy laden with the burdens of commerce.
The weather worn Captain was three times the
age of his men; yet his own experiences in these dark lands came rushing back
to him. His own eyes held back the fear
of what he knew lay before them. The old
man hoped that he had cheated death enough for his wisdom to keep his men safe. But this trip felt like a replay of Traclee’s
own maiden voyage. He prayed like never before to all the gods of
Lindol that the journey ahead was not a repeat as well. He kept those secrets to himself as he pushed
his crew forward. Pointing to the right,
they headed east. He aimed to round the
back side of Jebul, heading north near the Gorge of Talkers. From there they would turn south and head for
the front door of the dwarven kingdom.
Such was the plan and hope.
A young boy, carrying a pack on his back and
an oar as a staff, called out up ahead to the Captain, “Sir, why do they call
it the Gorge of Talkers?”
It was the First Mate who replied instead,
“So, the cabin boy is the first to conversate, and what a topic, eh Cap’n ?”
Traclee did not answer but kept pressing
forward without looking back. He kept
his thoughts to himself.
“Jonas, they call it that because legend has
it that the very rocks themselves speak.
Now, do you believe in such tales boy?”
The First Mate asked playfully.
“Yes I do, Mister Sanders. I believe in the Prophet Kyon too, sir.” The
boy of sixteen caught everyone’s laughter, but dismissed it with a smile of his
own.
“Good to believe in something, boy. You will all need as much faith as you can
gather before this is done.” The
Captain’s voice silenced everyone.
Two hundred yards north of the beach they
came upon a crevasse, then another hole in the ground and then another. Like a lizard, a little man squeezed his way out
of one of the holes. He sprang to his
feet making the intruders halt.
The
tiny, mud caked figure had a broad nose that covered its wide face. Soulless black, deep set eyes peered at each
of them in turn. With a downturned mouth
that muttered its own speech. Through tarnished,
sharpened teeth unfamiliar words clicked from the creature, each one demanded attention
from the hearer, “Deeda motta uba su-ota ma ha-tuma?”
Looking at one another the sailors did not
know how to respond to such a coded message.
Then, astonishing everyone, the
Captain answered the thing back, “Noa u-oma wda sayeis Deedo. Keta Lindol, yeta mama du-ma.”
The first mate was going to ask Captain
Traclee what was going on, but he could tell from the look of the old man’s
face there was nothing good being shared.
The seafarer’s introduction agitated the man that stood half their size;
yet, as the two spoke several more crawled from the cracks encircling the nine
lost men. With their growing numbers the
tiny odd looking aborigines took on a more fearsome appearance, each armed with
side blades and spears. Wearing just
loin cloths their dark bodies were coated in colored mud; war paint to be sure.
Suddenly, the first one that had appeared
and begun speaking burst into laughter, at which all the others aimed their
weapons at the new comers. More concerned
with commerce than war, none of them were armed except for the Captain, who
left his sword in its sheath. Traclee
removed his hat and bowed, as did his men in turn. The Captain stayed bent down for a long time,
when the leader yelled out, “Demo!”
When the old man slowly rose up, Captain
Traclee saw that he and his men were all alone on the deserted beach, and then
ordered, “March.” They did so all the
while silently heading east, making their way about the ever widening cracks of
the growing desert. After a long time
the first mate whispered to the cabin boy. “That was no garden gnome, and if they do not
get us these cracks will!”
....
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