The Black Jacks
Authors: Jason Manning
The Black Jacks
Jason Manning
Copyright © 2015, Jason Manning
LESSONS OF WAR—
AMERICAN STYLE
McAllen had promised the visiting English Major Stewart that he soon would see what war on the frontier was like—and now that promise had come perilously true. There were just McAllen, his right-hand man Joshua, and Stewart by themselves, far from the other Black Jack troopers, when they ran into the Comanche band.
Outnumbered by seven to one, McAllen gave no thought of running. Dismounting, he drew one of the Colt revolvers from his belt and began firing. He held on to his mount's bridle, using the gray hunter as a shield, knowing a Comanche warrior would hesitate to kill such a splendid prize.
Major Stewart stayed in the saddle. Drawing his saber, he charged into the Indian horde.
This, though, was not a European battlefield. His saber dripping blood from a kill, Stewart was hit in turn by a war club and dropped in his crimson uniform to the Texas dust among the yelling Comanches. As they closed in for the kill, McAllen knew he had no choice but to take on odds that no frontier fighter would want to choose. He moved out of cover, his guns blazing.
One by one the Indians fell, until McAllen heard his Colts click empty—he knew his bullets and probably his luck had run out. . . .
A
UTHOR'S
N
OTE
I am indebted to the following works in the writing of this novel:
William Bollaert's Texas,
W. Eugene Hollon, ed.;
The Raven,
Marquis James;
Star of Destiny: The Private Life of Sam and Margaret Houston,
Madge Thornall Roberts;
Plantation Life in Texas,
Elizabeth Silverthorne;
Sam Houston,
John Hoyt Williams; and
Comanche Bondage,
Carl Coke Rister.
I am also indebted to Kenneth Roberts and Paul Wellman, whose historical fiction inspired me as a boy, and greatly influence my work today.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Patience had never been Sam Houston's long suit. As he stood on the porch of the weathered one-room cabin on Cedar Point and gazed bleakly through the evergreens at the shimmering blue expanse of Galveston Bay, he wore without realizing it a ferocious scowl on his craggy face. He was a man of action, predisposed by nature to tackle problems quickly and aggressively, and today trials and tribulations beset him at every turn. Yet here he stood, forced by circumstances to bide his time, powerless to act.
Restless, he stamped his feet and pulled the brightly colored Indian blanket closer about his brawny shoulders. This infernal weather didn't help matters. Texas weather was notoriously unpredictable, but never more so than in the month of February. Following two balmy weeks of false spring, when the redbuds began to decorate the woodlands with splashes of pink and the dogwoods put on their new buds, a blue norther had blown in yesterday, all gray and raw.
Though the sun was out today, the wind was still strong out of the north, and the chill caused him pain in the ankle which had been shattered by a musket ball at the Battle of San Jacinto. A pair of prominent Louisiana physicians—one of whom was his old benefactor, Dr. Ker, who had treated the grave wounds he'd received at Horseshoe Bend while fighting Creek Indians with ol' Andy Jackson—removed twenty bone fragments from his leg a month after the victory at San Jacinto. But by that time many weeks had passed without his having received proper medicine or even so much as a poultice, and Houston was today resigned to the fact that his ankle would never be wholly recuperated.
If only he could have a drink! A nip of Old Nash would smooth his troubled brow! But no. He had promised his beloved Margaret that he would abstain. An old Texas formula of orange bitters helped some, but it was really a poor substitute for genuine Oh Be Joyful. Still, his fiancée had made him swear, and a man's word was his bond. But, by the eternal, it was damnably hard to do the right thing sometimes!
His body servant, Esau, came out onto the porch. "You want I should bring you some orange bitters, Marse Sam?"
"No."
"Some hot coffee, then? It be almighty brisk out here."
Houston glowered. "By God, no, Esau. What I need are a few brave men to rescue the Republic of Texas from certain destruction."
Esau blinked and went back inside. The Old Chief was in one of his earthshaking moods, and at such times it was wise to leave him be.
With a sigh, Houston moved to an old rocking chair at the end of the porch. The
Telegraph and Texas Register,
dated February 18, 1840, was anchored against the caprice of wind by a hickory can sporting a staghorn handle. Houston picked up the newspaper and cane and sat down. Sitting in the rocking chair made him feel old and useless. His blue eyes swept the tree-covered point of land which he had purchased three years ago. He had planned a summer cottage at land's end, where the breeze off the bay would keep the heat, mosquitoes, and black "eyebreaker" gnats under control. He would name the place Raven's Moor. Unfortunately, he lacked adequate funds to start construction. All he had now was his law practice. Ordinarily, fraudulent land claims and old Spanish grants made Texas real estate a bonanza for lawyers, but the republic was in such severe economic doldrums that precious few clients could pay an attorney's fees in cash. And besides, Houston readily admitted that he was, at best, an indifferent lawyer. His preference was politics. But soon he would have a wife to support. . . .
Tom Blue, his other servant, came trotting around the corner of the cabin.
"Riders comin', Marster Sam."
Houston strode to the edge of the porch and peered up the lane at the three horsemen coming through the cedars. He squinted to identify them, but his eyes weren't what they used to be.
I am just a broken-down old warhorse,
he thought bitterly. One of the horsemen was leading a riderless pony—a fine-looking colt. Then Houston recognized the gray hunter beneath the saddle of the man in the lead, and his heart soared with joy. Only one man in Texas rode such a splendid thoroughbred.
As the riders drew near, Houston saw that he was right. The man on the gray was Captain John Henry McAllen. And that was Dr. Ashbel Smith with him! Houston smiled. He had just told Esau that he needed a few brave men to save Texas. Well, by the Eternal, here were two who fit the bill perfectly!
"Ashbel!" exclaimed Houston as the riders reached his cabin. "What a pleasant surprise! What brings the two of you out this way?"
Ashbel Smith glanced at McAllen. "By a happy coincidence, we were both in Galveston at the same time and met at the bar in the Tremont. John Henry was on his way here and permitted me to accompany him."
Sam Houston turned his attention to John Henry McAllen as the latter swung down from the saddle on the gray hunter. The man was tall, sinewy, broad in the shoulder, his hair black as the ace of spades beneath a straw planter's hat sporting a broad crimson band. He wore a black frock coat and doeskin trousers tucked into blucher boots. A handsome man of about thirty years, his features bespoke character and iron will, while his steady gaze was that of one who by nature was forthright and honest. There was a scar on his cheek, just to one side of a stubborn chin, on the chiseled jaw line; Houston knew McAllen had a habit of stroking that scar with his thumb when deep in thought. It only added to that air about McAllen which warned every observant person who met him that this was a man it was better to count as a friend than an enemy.
"If you remember, General," said McAllen, "a couple of years ago you were eloquent in your praise of Escatawpa." He patted the gray hunter's wither.
"He is undoubtedly the finest horse I have ever seen."
"And I promised you one to match him."
"I had forgotten," confessed Houston.
"I didn't forget." McAllen gestured at the colt. "Escatawpa has sired this splendid fellow. You would honor me by accepting him as a token of my esteem."
Houston was deeply moved. "Apart from those brave men who gave their lives so that Texas could be free, no man has ever given me a finer gift. But please, my friends, come in. You have had a long journey in poor weather, and you know Esau is the best bartender in the republic."
"I've heard a rumor you've forsaken strong spirits," said Ashbel Smith.
"That's one rumor concerning me that is true," replied Houston gravely. "But it doesn't mean my good friends must abstain when they call upon me. Come in!"
McAllen turned to the third rider. "Joshua, see to the horses, and find a blanket with which to dry the colt."
The man named Joshua nodded. As Houston stood aside to permit his guests to precede him into the cabin, he spared this man a glance. Joshua was the son of a runaway slave and a Seminole warrior. A boy caught up in the whirlwind of war in the Florida glades, he now served McAllen with undying fealty. McAllen had saved his life, and now they were inseparable. Houston had heard that the slaves on McAllen's Grand Cane plantation feared Joshua. Some of them were convinced that the half-breed was the devil incarnate. Gazing at the fierce cast of the young man's dark countenance, Houston could understand why they thought so. Joshua was like Escatawpa in some ways. The gray hunter and the savage boy showed deference only to John Henry McAllen. No other mortal could safely deal with either. It was said that McAllen's wife had tried to persuade her husband to rid himself of Joshua, but McAllen had adamantly refused. He was, in his way, as devoted to Joshua as Joshua was to him.
In spite of his boast regarding Esau's prowess as a drink maker, Houston lacked many of the ingredients necessary for such popular concoctions as the gin sling, whiskey punch, mint julep, Virginia fancy, smasher or cock tail, all of which Esau could produce, given the chance. Ashbel Smith settled for French brandy, while McAllen opted for a dose of Tennessee sour mash. With a sigh, Houston ordered orange bitters for himself.
"You must tell us more about this young lady," said Smith, as they sat around a small, lopsided table. "She must be quite extraordinary, to have convinced you to forsake the 'nectar of the gods.' "
Houston's smile was rueful. "Had things gone according to plan, she would be here today, and you would have seen for yourself that angels do indeed trod the earth."
"What happened that your plans went awry?"
"I thought it was arranged that she would come to Texas with her family. In her last letter to me, Margaret even identified the vessel which would bring them from Mobile. A week ago I was in Galveston when the ship docked. Margaret's family was aboard, true enough. But Margaret was not."
"I hope she wasn't ill," said Smith, alarmed.
Houston grimaced. "It was all her mother's doing. Nancy Lea is a force to be reckoned with. 'General Houston,' she said, 'my daughter is in Alabama. I have resigned myself that her marriage to you will take place. But I forbid my daughter to go forth into the world to marry any man. Even you. The one who receives her hand will receive it in my home and not elsewhere.' "
"My, my," said Smith, trying to suppress a smile. "Your future mother-in-law sounds to me like an extremely strong-willed person. What did you do?"
"What
could
I do? I tried my utmost to conceal my disappointment. I spared no effort—and no expense, I might add—to show Margaret's family a good time while they were in Texas. At least I can say that I persuaded them to make investments in the development of East Texas town sites. As for Margaret, I must go to Alabama if I want to marry her." Houston leaned forward, struck by an idea. "Ashbel, will you go with me? I would like for you, my old friend, to act as my second in this affair."
"I see." Smith was taken aback. A wiry man of medium height, he was thirty-four years old, a Connecticut bluestocking by birth, educated at Yale and in France. He had come to Texas to recuperate from a broken heart, and found himself appointed surgeon general of the republic's ragtag army. He had served with Sam Houston during the fight for independence, and roomed with him in the ramshackle "Executive Residence"—a two-room shanty on the banks of Buffalo Bayou—when Houston had spent two years as the first president of Texas in the town that bore his name. Dr. Smith was a man of charm, a suave conversationalist, and a confirmed bachelor now that he had learned his lesson. A temperate man, he had exercised a beneficial influence upon Houston, for when the Old Chief was of a mind to visit the notorious salon of Madame Raimon, or indulge in a few too many aperitifs, Smith could usually persuade him to play a game of chess instead, or lure him into talking politics until the new day dawned.