Corpus Christi History by Murphy Givens

Wednesday, July 26, 2000

Drought years and rain battles

   Dry spells are not new to South Texas. Crippling droughts hit in almost every decade of the last half of the 19th century. Grass burned up, water dried up, cattle died out. Droughts followed by severe winters led to the great "die-ups'' in the 1860s and '70s.
   Thomas Noakes described the devastating drought that hit during the Civil War. Noakes, an Englishman who moved here in the 1840s, was a rancher in the Nuecestown area (near Calallen). On Jan. 24, 1864, he wrote in his diary: "No rain worth mentioning since the 10th of last July, over six months. Dead animals meet your gaze in every direction . . ."
   After the war, when South Texas began to rebound, it was hit with another "die-up." During the drought of 1872, South Texans told of seeing cracks in the land that would swallow livestock. Cattle caught in the cracks had to be pulled out or they would die. They were still likely to die because of the drought. Like the drought of 1863, this one was followed by an extremely harsh winter. Cattle drifted, bogged down along the creeks, and starved.
   The Corpus Christi Gazette reported in January 1873 that great numbers of cattle were dying. Many thousands had died the summer before. "Last season," the Gazette reported, "from animals found dead on the prairies, upwards of $500,000 was distributed from hides taken in this section.''
   The ranchers skinned dead cows for their hides, but they didn't have enough hands to get to all the animals bearing their brands. This led to the "Skinning War," with hide peelers skinning dead animals where they found them and often killing live cattle. They would cut the tendons to immobilize them, stab them to death, skin them, and leave the carcasses to be fought over by buzzards and coyotes. (History is what it is; it's not always pretty.)
   The Skinning War led to new laws requiring that every hide had to have a brand, which, with fences, eliminated the rustling of skins.
   There was a mild drought in the 1880s, but another bad one hit in 1891. This led to rainmaking experiments based on a book, "War and the Weather," which said that artillery action during battles often brought rain. The basic idea was that if you bombarded the clouds with heavy ordnance, they would be forced to drop some moisture.
   In September, 1891, a 15-member crew came to Corpus Christi to conduct an experiment. It was undertaken by the U.S. Department of Agriculture, and it was partially financed by area ranchers.
   For the first few days after they arrived, no test could be conducted because of stormy weather. On Sept. 26, the experimenters took bombs and two howitzers to a spot west of the Corpus Christi railroad depot. They shot four 21-pound bombs from the mortars, which exploded at a height of 500 feet. Drops began to fall. By the time the last shot was fired, the experimenters and town dignitaries were all wet.
   The results were suspect because scattered showers had fallen earlier in the area. Still, it was declared a success and the experimenters went to San Diego for the big test of the concussion theory of making it rain.
   Soldiers from Ft. Bliss arrived to help with the experiment. A battery was set up a mile out of San Diego. An old cannon from King Ranch was sent over to help with the bombardment. Bystanders laughed when a San Diego judge showed up with his umbrella.
   Ten-foot balloons, made of muslin and covered with varnish, were sent aloft. They were filled with oxy-hydrogen gas and carried a mixture of dynamite and rackarock, which could be detonated from the ground. The plan called for 1,000 explosions, synchronized on the ground and in the air, in rapid succession. Firing began at 4 p.m. and continued to midnight. With the sky clear, the onlookers gave up and headed home. By 4 a.m., a last balloon was sent up and exploded. Drops began to fall. A few more bombs were exploded and rain came down in torrents.
   The experimenters moved on to San Antonio. The test there also involved gas-filled and explosive-laden balloons and mortars. The first shot detonated an explosive in the top of a mesquite tree, which was disintegrated and every window in a hotel down the street was shattered. The explosions continued all day and resulted in a downpour . . . in Laredo. People in Laredo sent the man in charge a telegram thanking him for the rain. But all San Antonio had to show for the air-shattering concussions were broken windows and a mesquite tree turned into toothpicks.
   The government abandoned the tests, even though the bombardment of clouds in Corpus Christi and San Diego did seem to bring a downpour during one of the worst droughts in South Texas history. Maybe it really worked. Where's the rackarock?
   (Sources: Caller-Times' archives and a centennial edition article in the San Antonio Express News.)
  

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