If James Bowie Had Lived….A Conjectural Obituary

by Jeffrey Dane

[Webmaster’s note]: This is an extensively revised and greatly expanded rendering of the James Bowie “obituary” delivered at the last Alamo Society Symposium on March 3rd, 2007.

©  Jeffrey Dane James Bowie died at the Alamo on March 6, 1836. In this “obituary,” which combines plausible conjecture with actual events in Bowie’s life, the author speculates about what might have happened if fate had graced Bowie with life for another 31 years. 

* * * * * * * * * san antonio, texas — wednesday, MARCH 6, 1867  James Bowie, who became as famous as the knife bearing his name, died today at his ranch near San Antonio. A service will be held at the city’s San Fernando Church, where Bowie had been married to Maria Ursula de Veramendi on April 25, 1831.  Word was received from New Orleans, Louisiana, that a memorial service would also be held at that city’s Saint Louis Cathedral, the oldest church in that state and the oldest cathedral in America.  

Bowie was not a religious man in the strict sense of that term, but he seems to have compensated his outward lack of piety with an innate goodness behind the occasionally abrupt manner, a deep-rooted generosity, and an often surprising consideration of others, particularly when such personal concern was unexpected.  John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, former presidents and signers of the American Declaration of Independence, both died on the same day forty-one years ago, on July 4, 1826. For those who believe in the efficacy of calendar dates, and that certain events happen by pre-destination and are not just accidents, the very day of James Bowie’s passing, too, seems more than merely coincidental. His death occurred exactly thirty-one years, to the very date, after a large contingent of his comrades and other patriots were slain at the Alamo here in San Antonio, at the hands of Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. The former Mexican general and president was deported from Veracruz two years ago, and was visited only two months ago by U.S. Secretary of State William H. Seward on St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, where Santa Anna was in exile until recently.  Col. Bowie had been in relatively good health ever since he recovered, seemingly miraculously, from an ailment of a peculiar nature — possibly tuberculosis, possibly a malarial fever — which went into a virtually complete and inexplicable remission in the spring of 1836, when he was 40. He had taken ill soon after arriving at the Alamo to fight alongside his fellow-volunteers for the independence of Texas, which became a state twenty-two years ago. Col. William Barret Travis assumed leadership of the mission-turned-fortress when, on February 24, 1836, Col. Bowie’s illness finally overtook him with such weakness that he could no longer function effectively as co-commander of the stronghold. Bowie was then removed from the Alamo garrison — against his will, it should be noted — and taken elsewhere for recovery, at the insistence of former congressman David Crockett, who perished with all the other combatants when the Alamo fell after a 13-day siege.  Like Crockett, Bowie inspired confidence in those he led. He evidently believed San Antonio had strategic importance and so wrote to Governor Henry Smith, “The salvation of Texas depends in great measure on keeping Bexar . . . we would rather die in these ditches than give it up to the enemy.”  

Sometimes what is most obvious can, by its nature, easily escape our attention, and while we know San Antonio as a city in Texas, it may be a long time before our citizens become reflexively cognizant that the battle of the Alamo was fought in Mexico.  When not traveling, Bowie often paid his respects at the site and to the memory of his fallen comrades. Though he did not often discuss the subject with others, on such visits he was given to standing silently before the Alamo Church — the building that iconically exemplifies the very concept of the Alamo — and also of standing pensively before the structure that once housed the main gate of the Alamo compound. This led some to suspect that his quarters during the siege had been in that building at the southwest portion of the grounds. The structure still stands today, though, like the Church, considerably changed since 1836.  Though he had first visited the territory in 1828, early January 1830 signalled his move to Texas. He was thusly a Texan — not by birth but by adoption, just as Beethoven was German-born, not Austrian (though he spent his adult life in Vienna).  Though not an actual “career” army officer in the traditional sense, Col. Bowie was so appointed in October, 1835, when he and a contingent of others had joined Stephen Austin’s forces in the fight for Texas’ independence from Mexico. It was Austin himself who on that occasion appointed Bowie — “a born leader,” as he was described — to command some of the volunteer troops, though the term “Colonel” is regularly used here in the South as a mark of respect for a male elder.  

At some point during the recent great civil war, he was visited by New Orleans native, Gen. P.G.T. Beauregard, who prevailed upon Bowie to consider serving as a Confederate leader, and in whatever capacity he chose. Accompanying Beauregard on this visit with Bowie was a young officer from Gen. Finnegan’s division, Major Henry Timanus.  By birth and upbringing, Bowie was a thorough Southerner who did not advocate separation but favored unity. He and Sam Houston himself shared these sentiments, though Houston, who died three years ago, paid for his view more dearly than did Bowie, whom Houston held in very high regard. The two men met and talked several times since the days of the Texas Revolution. When Houston died four years ago, Bowie said, “I trusted Sam Houston with my life. I’d have followed him if he had told me day is dark and night is light.”  Despite his relatively modest beginnings, Bowie developed into a considerable man, with homes in New Orleans and Opelousas, as well as San Antonio. With his passing, even in this advanced era of ultra-modernism, goes one of the last of the true self-sufficient men, just as the Baroque era effectively ended with the death of Johann Sebastian Bach in 1750. Each man thus has his own place in history, as well as the distinction of representing the finale of an epoch.  

the self-reliant man Rather than say that James Bowie was the least understood of them, it might be more correct to say that he was debatably the most misunderstood of those who took part in the Texas Revolution.  Some situations, and some people, are misconstrued because we don’t find details or traits we’ve been traditionally taught to look for — while in other circumstances we encounter things, good or bad, that we didn’t expect to find. This seems to distill the reasons for the contradictions that have led to so much confusion about him — even the family name has heard two different pronounciations, BOO-ee and BOW-ee — and it helps explain why more stories, legends, myths and fantasies, and even total nonsense exist about him than any other Revolution participant except David Crockett.  As in Crockett’s case, the actual facts of James Bowie’s life were more ordinary, though in some respects perhaps not quite as admirable, as he was at times involved in some questionable activities.  

Today some view Bowie’s recognition as fame. Others see it as notoriety along with the negative connotation that goes with the word. His eventual renown, of whatever kind and by whatever cause, makes it entirely reasonable to presume, human nature being what it is, that in spite of his faults he was not the evil fiend some have claimed he was, though the more disapproving view is still prevalent in some quarters, and may so continue.  Born in Logan County, Kentucky in 1796, James Bowie began and ended his adult life as a conspicuously independent man. His first financial successes, initially with family business ventures, came relatively early. When a youth, the family went to the Opelousas, Louisiana area, where his father established a plantation that produced livestock, sugarcane and cotton. Even in his teens, Bowie was enterprising and began buying land in the Bayou Boeuf area. Since his property holdings in the late 1820s pivoted around southern Louisiana, he lived in New Orleans where he enjoyed and benefitted by all it had to offer.  With his brothers Rezin and Stephen, Bowie set up a 2,000 acre plantation near Thibodaux. Its most distinguishing feature was that it was among the first in Louisiana to have a steam-powered sugar mill. When they later sold the plantation, Arcadia, and other land to some Natchez, Mississippi investors in mid-February, 1831, the Bowies realized the sum of $90,000. Even in current purchasing power, so undermined by today’s rampant inflation, that amount is more than enough to qualify anyone of sensible lifestyle as a person of lifelong comfort.  The familiarity thereby gained with land acquisition later prompted Bowie to involve himself in some dubious property dealings, an activity that sorely irritated Stephen Austin.  

One of the darker features of the family business is that it was also engaged in acquiring and marketing slaves. Scores of them were among the holdings in the sale of Arcadia. Long before the recent war that divided and devastated our nation, Bowie grew to regret his early involvement in slavery. Keeping a promise he’d made to his wife, he freed his slaves by 1834 and never afterward engaged in it, ultimately realizing the millenia-long but egregious sin of sacrificing lives and human dignity for power and profit.  James Bowie’s very existence fostered the creation of a historical petri dish in which grew and thrived the culture and concept of The Independent American. He broke no “new ground” in the way he handled his personal affairs, choosing instead to cultivate an already existing garden, the seeds of which had been planted by the traditions of those who came before him. There was nothing of the “revolutionary” about James Bowie — unless, of course, one considers his basic personal conservatism a revolt against the radicals. He might have agreed.  Throughout his life he remained an island in a sea of swells. Though aware of the popular social trends, Bowie usually showed a conspicuous disregard of them, almost always going his own way. His main concession was in how he dressed, which was fashionably but tastefully. While some saw only a formidable stubbornness in Bowie the Conservative, others saw the unyielding integrity of Bowie the Traditionalist. Both were right. He didn’t give others what they wanted or what they might have expected of him: he gave them what he wanted, and they accepted it on his terms. Bowie’s general reputation, and his business sense in particular, brought him fame and personal prosperity. Ultimately successful were his efforts to locate an elusive source of silver not far from the ruins of Mission Santa Cruz de San Saba, which provided him with considerable additional wealth. It had also involved considerable risk at one time, since that territory west of San Antonio was even then untamed Indian country. His profits, wisely saved, invested, and spent, gave him the enviable and fortunate practical stability to live throughout his life very comfortably, without the necessity of holding official position. Living his life as a man of leisure, he left an admirably large estate.  

the legend is born The ancient mariner of Coleridge’s 1798 poem seems to share his albatross with others. Beethoven’s was his “Moonlight” Sonata, and Bowie’s millstone was one with which he was forever identified. His burden was a knife, and the one documented fight in which he had to use it. That weapon has become emblematic of him, with his name indelibly linked with it. His own reminders to others that it was the only such incident of his life invariably fell on ears deafer than those of another Texas Revolution hero, Erastus Smith.  At the age of 31, Bowie’s knife was thrust into the public’s collective consciousness by a single incident on a Mississippi River sandbar that occurred on September 19, 1827. In it, quite unwittingly, Bowie found it necessary to defend himself in order to preserve his life: he killed a man with a knife his older brother, Rezin, said he had given him. The episode operatively defined Bowie in the minds of so many, and legends began to encircle him. Over time, he became known in the popular sentiment as a knife-fighter, but the tales that grew around that isolated occurrence were largely baseless.  

His reputation, some of it warranted, some of it not, began to precede him and followed him for four decades. The religious perception that the devil’s way is to mix lies with the truth is a concept we might consider in regard to the Bowie stories, particularly since he himself had little responsibility for — and no control over — the tales others started and perpetuated about him.  Though at variance with now-popular folklore, the sandbar incident was not planned as a hand-to-hand combat knife duel between Bowie and an opponent. The fact is that James Bowie was not a principal in the duel held on that day in 1827. He was not even there as one of the seconds.  The specifics of the event are by now too well-documented elsewhere to warrant recounting here, but suffice it to say that Bowie appeared at that duel only as one of the principals’ witnesses. He was thusly there just as an observer, and was not expected to be an active member of any part of the duel. The clash became an unforeseen, uncontrolled brawl in which Bowie found himself an involved but unplanned participant. The event triggered and inspired the tall tales that became legends, and which over time are now positively mythical.  Thus began Bowie’s celebrated but unwarranted reputation as a formidable knife-fighter.  

That reputation was celebrated because he was a resilient and singular man who fought for his life on that sandbar with the determination and intensity of engagement his comrades, the Alamo defenders, later showed during their last thirteen days. It was celebrated, too, because of everyone there at that duel, Bowie was the most seriously wounded, losing blood from nine wounds — two from gunshots — and in a letter written the next day by one of the principals, Samuel Levi Wells III, it was said that “Bowie is shot through the lungs and thigh, and stabbed in seven places, the faculty [physicians] generally are of the opinion he will not recover.”  His reputation was unwarranted because, in conflict with his legend and with the sole exception of the sandbar episode, there is no documented evidence that James Bowie ever killed anyone else in a knife fight, or that he even took part in one — or that he ever even fought in any duel as a principal. Even Rezin Bowie wrote later that the sandbar episode was the only duel in which James ever even participated.  Bowie neither confirmed nor denied the proliferating stories about him, but he had to contend with them. He tolerated the sometimes overbearing popularity of his reputation, and was particularly amazed at how, during the course of his life, the knives that were named for him evolved in their shapes, styles, and sizes. He explained that most of the weapons today called Bowie knives bore in their contours little resemblance to the weapon that originally prompted his fame. “The only similarities between these new knives and the one I had at the sandbar are that they all have blades and handles. That is all,” he was quoted as saying, and he added, as though prophetically, “Next, I expect they’ll be making these blades in as-yet-non-existent republics on the opposite side of the world, that they’ll name a hotel after me here in San Antonio, and that actors will someday seek public office.”  He didn’t endorse any of the innumerable knife styles — or their makers, regardless of country of origin — prefering instead to simply let the matter take its own course. His reason was both prosaic and practical, and even ingenious in its simplicity: “No importa lo que digas, y como lo expliqués, es totalmente en vano” (Whatever you tell them, and however you explain it, is totally in vain). He said this not long ago to a diplomatic-service visitor, former Mexican army colonel Juan Almonte, a participant in the Texas Revolution and one of Santa Anna’s more refined and sophisticated staff officers. It was then-Colonel Almonte who had met with Bowie and Green B. Jameson, the Alamo’s fortifications engineer, for a parley at a bridge that spans the San Antonio River at Commerce Street, on February 23, 1836, the very day Mexican troops arrived in San Antonio.  

That single meeting had remained fixed in Almonte’s memory. Bowie, visibly ill on that day, had conducted himself with a civility, honor, and personal integrity that earned from Almonte a remarkable and unforgettably enduring respect almost unique from an adversary. Bowie was entirely conversant in both Spanish and French. Almonte had been educated in the United States and since his English was better than Bowie’s Spanish, he suggested — merely with the courtesy of the true diplomat — that they converse in Bowie’s native language.  Only rarely would Bowie initiate with others an unsolicited conversation about his reputation, and when pressed about it would discuss the matter only with the greatest reluctance. He sensed that anything he said about the now-famous sandbar incident and the knife he used there would merely reinforce the bogus and misleading accounts of him as a trouble-maker and notorious knife-fighter. The telling and tantalizing clues about the sandbar weapon were actually perpetuated not so much by anything he said, but by what he did not say, in keeping with his sometimes cryptic way of speaking.  That it was described at the time by Sandbar eyewitnesses as “Bowie’s big butcher knife” and, later, as “a peculiar[ly] shaped and formidable knife” would lead one to suspect that it had no cross-guard, and was thusly not designed specifically as a combat knife per se; that the blade, while it had no conspicuous curve, might have had an unusual shape and perhaps even an angular position from where it met the handle; and that it was, according to Rezin Bowie’s description of it and as the record shows, certainly large enough to be an effective defensive weapon. The general consensus is that the original sandbar knife, even if only by its primacy, was Bowie’s Number One.  While James’ brother Rezin (who died in 1841) became quite bald even as a young colonel of the Avoyelles, Louisiana Mounted Riflemen, James himself retained most of his hair, including the conspicuous though rounded widow’s peak that was one of his distinctive visual hallmarks, and which could render to his countenance a rather intense and even severe appearance. As he grew older, his hair understandably took on more gray and the widow’s peak became less pronounced, though by his bearing his overall appearance was still formidable.  

In his maturity he was about six feet tall, weighed 180 pounds and was well made. His eyes were gray and rather deep set, very keen and penetrating. His hair was light of color, and he was fair of complexion with high cheek-bones. He could be a sociable man, always well-attired, and he generally had an open, frank disposition. His generally amiable and generous nature could on occasion be frighteningly offset by insult from others, at which time the angry James Bowie could be a fearsome foe and his ire when aroused could be terrible.  At this time Bowie was at his peak. If not a complete cosmopolitan, by age 34 he was certainly a man more well-traveled and experienced than most — he would eventually visit Cincinnati, Philadelphia, Princeton, Niagara Falls, Washington, New York, and Boston — and it’s said he enjoyed music. He was described by his friend Caiaphas K. Ham as “. . . a clever, polite gentleman . . . a foe no-one dared to undervalue and many feared . . . a true, constant, and generous friend . . . attentive to the ladies on all occasions . . .” This last comment gives credence to the reports that James Bowie could be absolutely courtly with women.  These admirable traits could also be counterbalanced by less positive attributes: he could be ruthlessly ambitious and a methodical schemer, and his gambling inclinations could surround him with debt. Like Crockett, Bowie wasn’t perfect — but he was human, and humans are imperfect by nature if not by definition altogether. Today some dwell on his shortcomings, while many focus more sensibly on his more positive traits.  A few years ago Bowie confessed to regretting his stubbornness and severity against a particular young man so many years before. Bowie had engaged him in 1833 to draw up land transaction documents, and again in 1834 to legally defend Bowie and his friend Isaac Donoho in a law suit. This young attorney had also written up some legal papers for blacksmith Jesse Clifft, one of several men sometimes identified as having early made a knife for Bowie.  

He had later said, “That boy is about as mad as anyone can get and still remain at liberty.” Bowie was critical of his own behavior and offensive treatment toward the young lawyer and reproached himself for it. He acknowledged not having had the kind of understanding and tolerance that can develop only with the experience of living that comes with the passage of years, but their respective cobra and mongoose personalities couldn’t have been more dissimilar. He had called the young lawyer a “long-winded jackenaypes.” The young man was one of those who led in the revolutionary vanguard at that time. His name was William Barret Travis.  The NATURE of the man Bowie’s problematic, sometimes galling and often downright disturbing strategies and business tactics in certain kinds of dealings could be maddening. Many believed, though wrongly, that these tactics were suggestive of a pervasive ethical malady that would manifest itself in everything he did. It is noteworthy that this belief was held mainly by those who did not know him. The duplicities did not signify personal character faults that would determine his behavior in all situations. Those who today would dismiss him as an ogre by imperfection would be doing him a disservice.  

Like us, he had a full set of human weaknesses, and the personal frailties to which he was subject make him more, not less, of a human being. The only thing consistently predictable about him was that he could be consistent but still unpredictable. If he took advantage, his aim was directed at commercial circumstances at hand, not at helpless individuals to their personal detriment.  Those who act badly at certain times often behave admirably in other circumstances. An individual and even peculiar quality ascribed to James Bowie, particularly when he was younger, is that he would come to the aid of defenseless men without solicitation. What he did at the sandbar to try to protect Samuel Cuny bears this out. Though exceptional, there are such men, and an unusually distinctive and benevolent trait like this would be remarkably revealing of a person’s real character. The preference, the very understandable human tendency, is for us to believe that the truest features of Bowie’s real nature were shaped by his most positive points. This is something his real friends knew.  Some reports claimed he was a rowdy, a trouble-maker, a sot, a swindler, and that he might have been among the least admirable of those who had participated in the Texas Revolution. Others say he had a noble character, that he developed a kind of cultivation that belied his modest beginnings, that he was self-reliant enough to amass wealth (admittedly by whatever means), and that he had that personal, elusive quality of charisma. It’s a quality that’s impossible to really define, difficult to explain, and hopeless to imitate — but it’s very easy to recognize. Just because he may have been far above us in some ways doesn’t mean he had to be far above us in every aspect of general daily virtue.  The personal character of James Bowie is one of the most interesting in the entire history of our country. Sometimes a great, benevolent heart would surface through the occasionally gruff and sarcastic (but protective) exterior. A master at defensive evasion, Bowie could speak and write his letters somewhat cryptically, as though he were trying to conceal his meaning rather than clarify it. “. . . As regards the details you ask for, I have by degrees supplied enough of these verbally on so many occasions to so many people, and I would rather participate in another capacity in this matter, which, after all, can be considered from other standpoints. I daresay this is a terribly long-winded sigh . . . but I really should have to find some other way if I am once more to help in clarification . . . Your obedient, James Bowie,” is how he replied in the 1850s to a stranger’s letter about the famous knife. There is no known letter in which Bowie ever mentioned a knife, in any context.  

Vulgarity was not in his makeup. Clever at cursing without profanity, in San Antonio he once responded thusly to a man who made a tactless remark in company: “What you can do with that suggestion, sir, is something I wouldn’t say in front of these gentlemen.” An elderly German man who witnessed the incident said, “Nobody dared to do somesingk.”  Because he never forgot his own humble background, Bowie was usually mindful of “the less-fortunate, real people . . . who occupy by adversity of circumstance the lower positions in society.” In this, he echoed the sentiments of David Crockett, whose sympathies lay mainly with the ordinary citizen, and who, when addressing others, could offer a virtual verbal fanfare for the common man.  Bowie was thorough: He would weigh his options, make the most informed decision possible, and, regardless of controversy or disagreement, stay with it to its conclusion. Such determination intimidated many, and prompted resentment. He said this: “Indecision. — I hate the sound of the word.” Such resolve was a character trait he shared with the recent war’s Northern general, Ulysses S. Grant. Bowie was stoic: when during a journey his gold watch was stolen from his lodgings, he was told to report the matter to the local authorities, but he countered, “Leave me in peace. It was probably taken by some poor bastard who needs it more than I do.”  He could be generous with others. Late in the 1850s a fire broke out in a carpenter’s shop near Bowie’s Opelousas residence. While everyone has an ego, Bowie’s conduct on this day, and his subsequent deeds, are clearly not the mark of The Egotist. Having already fled his dwelling in his shirtsleeves to join the bucket brigade, he impelled the idle onlookers to lend a hand. Ultimately, the ruined carpenter actually benefitted from the fire, thanks to Bowie’s munificence, which was both practical and anonymous, in keeping with his frequent procedure in matters of personal generosity with people who didn’t know him.  

He could be kind and considerate even with outsiders who, having heard of him, would approach him just to make his acquaintance. As time passed there were many. Gen. Washington, even as president, preferred in social company the formal bow to the more egalitarian handshake. Bowie, on the other hand, disliked empty ceremony as much as the presumption of gratuitous familiarity by those he didn’t know. He was called Jim only by his intimates. To strangers, particularly young people, who approached him and addressed him as Mr. Bowie, he reacted most favorably and a cordial result was assured.  Bowie had long ago commented on the lengths some adulatory multitudes went to in order to get his signature. “Hunters on the lookout for animals I understand, but the presence of autograph hunters on the lookout for the prominent can be more than tiresome to a man not blessed with patience even at the best of times,” he had written to a friend. He was referring of course to his experiences in the American southwest, where he was more easily identified than elsewhere. If he wasn’t as readily known by countenance in New York, for example, as he was on the streets of New Orleans, his reputation preceded him and his name was already recognized in most places.  His behavior during his recent stay on the Eastern seacoast bore little of the bearishness that had sometimes characterized his manner toward others; it reflected his awareness that he was there as a visitor and thusly a guest, and the treatment he received there corresponded not only to his conduct and consideration of others but also to their appreciation of his status as a very real kind of American icon. He accepted this appreciation and he accepted it graciously, but he commented, “Fame can be fickle and fleeting. Really I can’t imagine anyone years from now talking about me.”  

Bowie in New York A highlight of his last years was his return-journey, about a year ago, to New York, whence he and Rezin had gone in 1833 for consultations about Rezin’s failing eyesight.  Until photographic images became popular, the best-known likeness of James Bowie had been the portrait, painted in Boston (also in 1833), by a 20-year-old artist, George P.A. Healy.  During his New York stay, Bowie consented to the suggestion of his hosts and ultimately agreed to some photographic portrait sessions. His friends had approached photographer Matthew Brady who, by reason of his now-poor vision, suggested his own protegé and chief assistant, Alexander Gardner. Brady himself had studied with Samuel F.B. Morse, the painter and inventor of the telegraph. It was Morse who had popularized in the United States the Daguerreotype image (a French invention), now being displaced by Gardner’s new collodion (wet-plate) photographic process. These photographic prints were enormous and by virtue of their size, 17 by 20 inches, were known as Imperial prints. Since they sold for between $50 and $750, depending on the amount of required retouching with india ink, they were available only to those of means.  

Posterity is fortunate, as these candid and formal New York photographic portraits of Bowie easily match in quality those now well-known superb photographs of famous Americans taken by Brady and others.  Some of these images were made, at Bowie’s insistence, in front of the building at Nr. 25 Park Place. The previous structure, demolished in the mid-1850s, was the former residence and medical practice of Dr. Valentine Mott, a pioneer in vascular surgery, a faculty member of nearby Columbia College, and a primary founder of the New York University Medical School. It was Dr. Mott himself who had treated Rezin Bowie back in 1833 in the 3-storey row-house house then on that site.  Dr. Mott died at 80 on April 26 of last year, after Bowie’s visit and soon after learning of the murder of President Lincoln. The news of this, the first presidential assassination, had devastated Dr. Mott, whose friends claimed that the tragedy actually hastened his death. Dr. Mott was buried in Green Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York. People are still discussing the president’s assassination, and probably will be for years to come.  Bowie’s name was already known even in the East, and his arrival in New York was eagerly expected. At a special gathering at Dr. Mott’s current home at Nr.1 Gramercy Park, Bowie had been personally given an extraordinary gift by the doctor, who in anticipation of Bowie’s visit had commissioned the piece: a magnificent American-made knife, of surgical-grade steel with silver mountings and scales of mother-of-pearl, selected over ivory that was given to cracking and yellowing with age. 

This fine presentation weapon, its size befitting the magnitude of Bowie’s reputation, accompanied him on his person when he left New York. The massive blade worn by the quiet but impressive figure awaiting the train attracted some notice, including that of the station’s Pinkerton detective, who saw non-Eastern attire and easily recognized that the dignified and impeccably dressed man was a traveler, not a trouble-maker. The official approached him, politely identified himself as a Pinkerton officer, and asked the stranger his name. Came this reply, with a hint of a smile, a warm demeanor, and extending his hand: “Bowie. — James Bowie.” The detective was stirred but not shaken. By name-recognition the officer was delighted to be making his acquaintance, but he tactfully informed Bowie of the regional custom barring such a weapon in public. Nodding understanding and agreement, Bowie said he’d stow it in his gear on boarding the train. He was openly pleased when the Pinkerton man told him he would that night be telling his own children just who he had met this day.  During last year’s visit, superb photographs of Bowie were made at the Rockwood Portrait Studio, at 17 Union Square West in Manhattan. Bowie was pleased with these photographs, and as he was about to leave he was asked where he was from. “Well, I’ve spent a lot of time in Texas,” he replied. This prompted the photographer to tell him about the elderly man who was limping out of the studio just as Bowie entered and held the door open for him. The two had regarded each other briefly but intently, acknowledging each other with a silent nod. The photographer had asked the aged man, because of his limp, if he had a recent injury. The man, chewing a substance of a mint aroma, replied in broken English that he had an artificial leg, having long ago been a soldier and losing the real limb in a battle in the late 1830s. He told the photographer that he had arrived in New York by ship in the spring of that year, was living on Staten Island, and that he was originally from Mexico.  Bowie’s final years 

As the years passed Col. Bowie took interest in the latest inventions and seemed to enjoy even the small benefits provided by these simple advances. The absorbant blotting paper first marketed in 1856 obviated the need to sprinkle writing sand on the wet ink of just-written letters, and within two years, the upper ends of pencils were fitted with small pieces of rubber, to facilitate erasure.  Though in no way clairvoyant, in reflective moments Bowie also contemplated the possibilities and eventual existence of such developments as special photographic pictures, the images in which actually move; personal conveyances that travel not only faster than horses but with frightening speed, and even others which can actually fly as do the birds. Though in 1846 the administration of ether anesthesia ended the trauma associated with undergoing surgery, Bowie still hoped for medical discoveries and treatments that would altogether eradicate disease. He also envisioned the ability to capture the sounds of his favorite guitarist’s musical performances so it might be heard again at will, and the ability to communicate information speedily across wide expanses simply by speaking into a box and, as if by magic, receiving an instant vocal response from another person at great distance.  He had heard about a work which by name interested him. It had been written in 1845, the very year Texas took its place as the largest of the United States, after having been The Republic of Texas for nine years. He soon acquired what he supposed was a life-history, fittingly titled The Raven: “. . . a biographical piece about Ol’ Sam Jacinto,” Bowie believed. He was initially disappointed to find that The Raven was not a memoir of his friend Sam Houston, but a poem by Edgar Allen Poe. Nevermore would anything really surprise Bowie. As time passed his nature had mellowed, and one result was this serendipitous taste he developed for poetry.  1849, the year Poe died, was also when two seminal photographic images were made. One was the first known photograph, of the Alamo, that was made in Texas, and is the only known such picture in existence of the Church’s frontage as it appeared effectively as it was at the time of the battle in 1836 — without the now-defining bell-shaped hump at the roof. The other significant photo that year was a likeness of Frederic Chopin, who died of consumption not long after having posed for it, the only existing photograph ever made of him.  

On the very day the Alamo image was made, Bowie remembered standing behind the photographer and his Daguerreotype apparatus — and was genuinely pleased to see standing beside him a smiling man awaiting Bowie’s recognition. It was Juan Seguín, recently returned to San Antonio from a 6-year exile in Mexico.  This last year of his life was a period of deep personal reflection for him. It was only toward the end that he spoke in some detail about his marriage to Maria Ursula de Veramendi. Those who knew Bowie were aware that her premature death was a difficult topic for him. He himself didn’t discuss it, and others knew it was prudent not to broach the sensitive subject in his presence.  In 1833, while he was in Natchez recovering from malaria, Ursula was with her parents at their estate in Monclova, where they all died in a cholera epidemic. Some sources — one was a friend of the Bowie family — say James and Ursula had two children; others — a Bowie relative as well as Veramendi family lore — say they had only one child. Their marriage is of course documented but baptismal records for any Bowie children haven’t been found. Whether he and Ursula had children or not is a matter which may forever remain unknown.  The significance of Ursula de Veramendi in Bowie’s life cannot be understated — or, by some, even understood. She entered his life, occupied it for a brief time, and stayed within his memory. A remarkable and extraordinary woman in her own right, she was an altogether unique phenomenon in Bowie’s life — he never re-married — and his admiration, respect and deep affection for her had always been reciprocated. Her death left an unfillable void in his life; she was gone but surely not lost, for his memory of her consoled him for no longer being young. 

Bowie and Ursula de Veramendi shared a tender and yet intense personal interaction which ended only with her passing. “Those dear eyes are closed. . . so much has ended for me,” he said on learning of the cholera epidemic that claimed her.  In a sense, Bowie spent the rest of his life with her — not side by side, but surely together. What she meant to him was very clear to his intimates — as clear, in fact, as the tears they would see filling his eyes when he found himself speaking of her, which was very often, during the last thirteen days of his life.  It’s unlikely it was Bowie’s aim to leave us a legacy, but a legacy is what we find in him. An additional language, with many new adjectives, would have to be invented to provide a true understanding, in a brief lifetime, of what it was that made James Bowie the kind of man he was.  There are no popular-song answers to symphonic questions, and whatever mysteries linger about him will indeed remain largely unresolved.  # # #  ( Author’s Bio ): Jeffrey Dane is a researcher, historian and essayist who has written extensively about historical figures, of both the literature of music and of the American West, specifically 1830s Texas. It should surprise no-one that his favorite city in Europe is Vienna — and that his favorite in the USA is San Antonio de Bexar.