The Black Jacks (2 page)

Though he had sworn never again to risk his own heart to romance, Ashbel Smith was glad that his good friend had found a mate of Margaret Lea's obviously high caliber. After all, the young lady had already performed a miracle—she had induced Big Drunk himself to forswear hard liquor, even in her absence! That was no mean feat.

"Regretfully," replied the physician, "though nothing could please me more than to accept the great honor which you bestow upon me, General, I cannot go. As you probably know, I ignored all the signs of the coming of hard times. Up until a few months ago, I continued to purchase property. I'm not sure exactly how many thousands of dollars I invested. Now land will not command cash, and what little currency I possess is worth perhaps sixteen cents on the dollar. As to the money owed to me by others, how can I collect a debt in cash when no one has any?" Smith morosely shook his head. "Three years ago I averaged thirty dollars a day in private practice. The position of surgeon general was worth four thousand dollars per annum. And my real estate was worth, conservatively, thirty thousand. Now I cannot even afford to attend my best friend's wedding!"

"Cheer up, Ashbel," said Houston. "We'll pull through. Who knows? There may not even be a groom at the wedding. I'm somewhat strapped for funds myself."

"I have almost a thousand dollars in notes issued by a Louisiana bank," said McAllen. "You are welcome to all or part of that sum, General. They'll bring you ninety cents on the dollar in specie."

"I gratefully accept the loan of a few hundred dollars. I will, of course, repay the loan with interest." Houston knew that McAllen was chronically short of cash himself, and he hated to dip into the man's savings. But he had to get to Alabama and take Margaret for his bride! He stared at McAllen. "Tell me, John Henry—how did you come by these notes?"

"Through my factor, Robert Mills of Brazoria. Part of the proceeds from the sale of last year's sugar crop. A few Louisiana banks have survived the depression thanks to their conservative practices."

Houston chuckled. "I can't blame you for steering well clear of Texas paper. Lamar's damned redback dollars are an unmitigated disaster."

McAllen sipped his sour mash. "We all hope you will run for president next year."

"I just hope the republic can survive that long," said Smith. In his opinion, Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar's entire administration had been disastrous. Lamar had vowed not to pursue his predecessor's negotiations with the United States for annexation. Envisioning a Texas republic that stretched to the shores of the Pacific Ocean, Lamar had talked about launching a military expedition to conquer Santa Fe, which would lead in all likelihood to another war with Mexico. Lamar's executive pretensions had resulted in prodigal expenditures that had come close to bankrupting the republic, and his reckless issuance of paper money had sent the suffering economy reeling to the brink of total collapse.

"Lamar," muttered Houston darkly. The name left a bad taste in his mouth. "In '36, when most folks were trying to get across the Sabine into Louisiana to escape Santa Anna, Lamar crossed into Texas with sword in hand and asked every person he met where he might find my army. He performed well at San Jacinto, and I mentioned his bravery in my battle report. I did not know then what kind of man he was. I confess, he had me fooled."

"Colonel John Morgan said that even though you might at times be a bit intemperate," reported McAllen, "you're worth a thousand Mirabeau Lamars."

Houston laughed. "Perhaps he would have said ten thousand, had he known I now practice temperance." But his amusement was short-lived. Concern deepened the lines in his craggy face. "Ashbel, you say you hope the republic survives long enough for me to replace Lamar. But I had never hoped it would service even this long. Indeed, my hopes were that by now Texas would be a state in the Union. Yet this damnable issue of slavery, or rather the extension of that peculiar institution, has rendered the politicians of the United States impotent. By God, even Old Hickory himself seems to have lost his nerve in this instance. I felt certain he would ram annexation down the throat of Congress."

"General Jackson is a great man," allowed Smith. "But he is still only one man."

"Well, I'm not done with them yet," fumed Houston. "I'll force them to take Texas into the fold. In a few weeks' time I expect an Englishman to arrive here in Texas. His name is Major Charles Stewart. He has no
official
capacity. But he is coming to look and listen, and he will report back on what he sees and hears to the highest levels of government in London. Ashbel, since I must go to Alabama to claim my bride, will you serve in my stead as Major Stewart's host when he arrives?"

Ashbel Smith smiled wryly. "Old Chief, I do believe you have something up your sleeve. You know the English want an independent Texas. They are as adamant in their opposition to the expansion of slavery as any abolitionist, though for a different reason."

All three men knew what that reason was. British entrepreneurs had made huge investments in Mexico, and they feared American designs on that southern republic. An independent Texas would act as a buffer zone, not only to protect Mexico, but also to stymie American desire for California. If the United States took possession of Pacific ports, Great Britain would find it had a powerful rival in the valuable China trade. In short, British opposition to slavery in the American South was largely based on economic principles rather than moral ones.

At the same time, an independent Texas bolstered by British money and bayonets was the worst nightmare of American expansionists, and even of many opposed to expansion who nonetheless suffered chronic Anglophobia. Houston was well aware of this sentiment. He was hoping, Smith knew, that annexation would be hastened if it appeared that Texas and Great Britain were becoming too amicable.

"Major Stewart is a veteran of the Opium Wars," said Houston. "By all accounts he is a dashing
beau sabreur,
and will no doubt prove quite popular with the ladies. I trust, Ashbel, that you will keep him from mischief. From personal experience I know how good you are at that sort of thing."

"I will do my best."

Houston turned to McAllen. "John Henry, there is something you can do for me."

"You need only ask, General."

Again Houston was moved. The unquestioning loyalty of men like John Henry McAllen did him great honor, and gave him cause to hope that Texas could be redeemed. "Lamar's Indian policy has been the greatest disaster of his administration. My God, you need only look at what he has done to the Cherokees!"

McAllen nodded gravely. Last spring, Texas Rangers had killed a Mexican spy on whose body had been found documents linking the Texas Cherokees to Mexico in a secret treaty which pledged the tribe to wage war against the Republic of Texas. Lamar promptly declared that the perfidious Cherokees had to be driven out. Texas volunteers commanded by the inveterate Indian fighter Edward Burleson provoked a fight. The Cherokees were defeated, and Houston's old friend, Chief Bowl, was killed. It was said that Bowl was wearing a red silk vest, a present from Houston, when he fell. An outraged Houston had proclaimed the old chieftain a "better man than his murderers." Their will to resist removal broken, the Cherokees were embarked on a second Trail of Tears, north across the Red River.

Now Lamar had turned his attention to the Comanches, the feared warlords of the Staked Plain, who kept the Texas frontier in a constant stir with sudden raids. The president sent agents among the Comanches, claiming he wanted to meet with the tribe's leaders to talk peace.

"It is incredible to me," said Houston, "that the Comanche chiefs have agreed to come to San Antonio and meet with Lamar. Especially Maguara. That old fox ought to know better. Lamar's stated policy has been extermination, not conciliation. I smell a rat."

"What do you want me to do?" asked McAllen.

"The meeting is scheduled to take place in a few weeks, at the Council House in San Antonio. John Henry, can you be there?"

"I can."

"Go first to Austin. Perhaps you will see or hear something there that will give you a clue to Lamar's true motives."

McAllen nodded. "That's fine. In fact, I've been planning to pay a visit to someone in Austin."

Ashbel Smith shot a startled look of alarm in McAllen's direction, but Houston failed to notice.

"I know you're wondering what good you can do," said Houston, brows knit. "Everyone knows you are a 'Houston man.' As such, you are not likely to be consulted by Lamar and his cronies. Which is a shame, since you've gone up against the Comanches a time or two and know their ways as well as anyone."

"They've struck near enough to Grand Cane a time or two to make us sit up and take notice," said McAllen. "We've tried to make them pay a steep price."

"Just go there, and keep your eyes open. If you see trouble stirring, do what you can to nip it in the bud. God knows Texas is in no condition to fight a full-scale war against the Comanche nation."

"You evidently expect some skulduggery on Lamar's part."

"He has surrounded himself with Indian haters. This old nose smells danger, my friend. I have smelled it many times before, and I know the scent."

"I'll do what I can, General."

"Splendid." It seemed as though a great burden had been lifted from Sam Houston's shoulders. "Now, have another drink, and I will tell you all about this remarkable young lady who has made such a difference in my life. . . ."

Chapter Two

"John Henry," said Ashbel Smith, "I was afraid for a moment you were going to mention this business with Jonah Singletary in the Old Chief's presence."

They had gone some distance from Sam Houston's cabin, riding in silence, following the trail that wound through the evergreens of Cedar Point, and which would eventually connect with the Lynchburg Road. Tonight they would reach the town of Houston. From there it was ninety miles to Grand Cane. McAllen was ambivalent about getting home. There was plenty of work to be done, and McAllen was committed to making his plantation one of the most successful in Texas. He was not motivated, as were so many of his peers, to create a worthy inheritance for his heirs; he had no children, and had accepted the bitter fact that he never would. No, he would make Grand Cane prosper because that was just the kind of man he was. Once he started something, he never went at it in halves.

The problem with going home was that Leah, his wife, would probably be there. These days, McAllen did not care to linger long in her presence. She daily reminded him what a fool he had been to marry her. Not in words, but in her actions. The romance writers waxed eloquent about domestic bliss; McAllen lived in a domestic hell from which there did not seem to be an acceptable avenue of escape.

Ashbel Smith's remark disrupted his grim reverie. He glanced, scowling, at the physician. The thought of Leah seldom failed to put him in a bad humor.

"And why would I do that?" he asked. "This business between Singletary and I is purely personal."

"General Houston would disapprove, were he cognizant of your intentions." Knowing that McAllen revered the Old Chief, Smith hoped to weaken his traveling companion's resolve regarding Singletary. "Rumors to the contrary aside, he has fought only one duel in his life, and I know he has regretted doing so every day since. His adversary was General William White, a lawyer and veteran of the Battle of New Orleans. White interposed himself in a quarrel between Houston and another gentlemen. Harsh words were hastily spoken. A challenge was issued and accepted. For a week Houston practiced his marksmanship at the Hermitage, under the experienced eye of Old Hickory himself. Finally the two men met at the appointed place and hour, on the Tennessee-Kentucky border, at the farm of a man named Duncan.

"Houston did not want to kill White, but the old gentleman would not recant," continued Smith. "Realizing that White was a poor shot with the pistol, Houston gallantly agreed that they would take their marks at the distance of only fifteen feet. It so happened that Duncan had a pup he had named Andy Jackson. On the morning of the duel, Houston was awakened by the barking of Andy, the pup. He later told he considered that a good omen, and knew that, even at fifteen feet, he would go unscathed. And that he did, though General White was less fortunate. He lingered for months at death's door. No one was more relieved by the old gentleman's eventual recovery than Houston. He swore he would never fight another duel, though heaven knows his enemies have slandered him mercilessly. I know his respect for you would grow if you could see your way clear to forgetting Singletary's vile insinuations regarding your wife."

"You seem keenly interested in talking me out of this, Ashbel."

"I am, my friend, I am. Singletary is a Lamar man. He uses the pages of the Austin
City Gazette
to tell all manner of lies about his mentor's political adversaries."

"Then he is past due a lesson in common decency."

"But you would be playing right into their hands by pursuing the course of action which you propose. Ever since the Levi Laurens affair, there has been a public clamor to outlaw affairs of honor."

McAllen nodded. Everyone in Texas was familiar with the tragic details of the Goodrich-Laurens duel. Three years ago, Dr. Chauncey Goodrich, one of Ashbel Smith's Texas Army surgeons and a hot tempered Mississippian, had been forced by circumstance to share a room in Houston's Mansion House with young journalist Levi Laurens and two other gentlemen. During the night, a $1,000 bill was stolen from Goodrich's bags. Goodrich accused Laurens, and Laurens was obliged by the code of honor to demand satisfaction.

Rifles at twenty paces were the terms agreed upon. Laurens fell mortally wounded and died two days later. Shortly thereafter, Goodrich quarreled with a San Antonio gambler, who plunged a Bowie knife through the man's heart. Ironically, it was later discovered that one of the other men who had shared the room with Goodrich and Laurens, Marcus Cicero Stanley, had stolen the $1,000 note. Stanley fled to England to escape justice, but McAllen had heard that he now languished in a London prison for robbing the famous artist George Catlin at his Indian Portrait Gallery. The death of Laurens had triggered editorials and demonstrations denouncing the
code duello,
a storm of sentiment that was still raging unabated across the republic to this day.