Текст книги "The Black Jacks"

Автор книги: Jason Manning

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Chapter Thirty

When John Henry McAllen arrived in Columbus with Sam Houston, Artemus Tice, and the half-breed Joshua, they heard the news of Singletary's murder and the arrest of Major Stewart. Stewart had been in the Austin jail for nearly a week, but McAllen and his companions had intentionally avoided roads and settlements until Columbus, and as a result of this precaution had remained blissfully unaware of the incident. McAllen figured they might be the last ones in Texas to know; the news had spread like a prairie grass fire and was the chief topic of conversation from one end of the republic to the other.

Since leaving the Nueces Strip, they had tried their level best to remain undiscovered, thereby avoiding the need to explain what Sam Houston was doing in Antonio Caldero's neck of the woods. At the crossing of the Nueces they had only just managed to elude a patrol of Texas Rangers.

They rented a pair of rooms in the one and only hotel in Columbus—one for Houston, the other to be shared by McAllen and Tice. Joshua would sleep in the livery where they had boarded their horses, since the innkeeper balked at accommodating someone who was half Indian. The fact that the other half was Negro just made Joshua that much more of an undesirable. McAllen didn't take issue with the hotel owner. He and his associates had enough problems, and Joshua preferred sleeping without a roof over his head anyway. The stable tack room was by choice his berth at Grand Cane.

McAllen, Tice, and Houston met in the latter's room to discuss this new and vexing development.

"This is not good," said Houston, pacing the floor like a caged tiger, his brows deeply furrowed. "Not good at all. By the eternal, gentlemen, I could use a good stiff drink!" He noted the looks that McAllen and Tice exchanged, and smiled ruefully. "Don't worry. I don't intend to take up the old bad habits again, no matter what the provocation. My God! Why did they send a hotspur like Stewart? This may very well ruin everything, my friends."

"From what I've heard," said McAllen, "the quarrel between Stewart and Singletary was over my wife." He knew Houston and Tice had heard the same thing but didn't want to be the ones to broach the subject, so he did it for them.

"But Singletary had linked the major with you, General," said Tice. "So your enemies will be certain to drag your name into this."

"Of course they will. And Her Majesty's government will not be pleased when one of its heroes is hanged by a Texas rope." Houston sighed.

Tice had a sudden thought, and it alarmed him. "You're not thinking of intervening on Stewart's behalf, are you, General?"

Houston paced back and forth, scowling in silence for a full minute. The doctor's anxiety doubled by the second; the general was in some ways a mirror image of his mentor, Andrew Jackson. Both men had a history of engaging in reckless escapades regardless of the consequences. Tice was afraid Houston might be concocting some incredible scheme to break Stewart out of jail and smuggle him across Texas to a berth on a homeward-bound British ship. What was worse, Houston would probably ask McAllen and his Black Jacks to undertake such a desperate mission. Would John Henry go along? Would his loyalty to Sam Houston take precedence over common sense? Tice fairly cringed at the thought. If so, more than Houston's political career would be destroyed.

"No," said Houston finally—to Tice's vast relief. "We can't do anything for Stewart. He's jumped into the frying pan and now he's got to cook on his own. But he may expect my help. And there is no way of knowing what he might do or say to save himself once he realizes we'll do nothing to save him."

"You mean go to Lamar?" asked McAllen. "Tell the president anything he wants to hear about you and Great Britain?"

"Not even Lamar can help him now," said Tice.

"That depends on how desperate Lamar is," said McAllen. "But Stewart has his pride."

"The truth is, my problems in this case are nothing compared to yours, John Henry," said Houston. "I am truly sorry this happened. I feel at least partly responsible."

"Don't concern yourself, General."

"I suppose you'll be going to Austin."

McAllen nodded. "Do you have a message you'd like for me to relay to Major Stewart?"

Houston sighed. "No. Just see what you can do. I leave it in your hands."

Once they had returned to their room, McAllen took pen and paper and wrote a quick letter which he then let Tice read.

"This authorizes me to draw on your funds held by Robert Mills of Brazoria," said Tice, puzzled.

"My factor. I want you to hire Benjamin Sturgis, the freighter. He'll need several wagons. I want him to go to the plantation and load up everything that belongs to Leah and carry it to her father's house in Galveston. That includes all the furniture in her bedroom, and have them take the piano in the downstairs parlor."

With a nod Tice folded and pocketed the letter. "So it has finally come to this."

"I should have done it a long time ago, Artemus. But pride got in my way. I refused to admit failure."

"After all that has happened, no blame could possibly attach itself to you."

"I blame myself, for many things. Most of all for putting myself in the position where I could not reciprocate the feelings Emily had for me."

"Has. The feelings she has for you, John Henry."

McAllen moodily stroked the scar on his cheek. "I pray to God you're right. That she is still alive."

It was raining when McAllen rode into Austin, the first of the September rains which heralded the end of a long Texas summer. The gray, dismal day suited his mood perfectly. He went first to the Bullock Hotel. This was where he expected to find Leah.

"Glad to see you again, Captain," said Bullock. A Houston partisan, the hotel owner knew McAllen to be one of the Old Chief's most trusted lieutenants. "I only wish it was under better circumstances. If there is anything I can do for you while you're in town . . ."

"There might be," replied McAllen. "But for now I would like to see my wife."

Bullock told him that Leah was upstairs and gave him the room number. "She's hardly come out of that room since . . . well, since the murder."

When McAllen knocked on the door there was no sound from within the room. He knocked a second time.

"Leah? It's John Henry."

She threw open the door and the light in her eyes was something he had not seen since their first days together.

"John Henry!" She wrapped her arms around his neck, held him close, and cried softly. He did not hold her, but neither did he push her away—he simply waited until the flood of tears had subsided. He felt sorry for her and warned himself not to play the fool out of sympathy. In spite of himself, in spite of all she had done, he still cared for her. It wasn't love. That had died a long time ago. He tried to harden his heart.

Leah stepped back finally, brushing the last tears from her face, and he studied the bruises that were just now beginning to fade.

"Did Stewart do that to you?"

She nodded. "He . . . he took me, John Henry. Against my will. I'm not telling you this because I want sympathy. I deserve everything that happened to me—and everything that is going to happen."

McAllen thought, She has more than an inkling of what I'm about to do. This beautiful, wayward, hopelessly flawed woman-child! Had she really learned her lesson? McAllen's resolve was shaken.

"I didn't dare come home," she continued. "I didn't know if . . . if you would want me to."

"When you go home," he said softly, "it will not be to Grand Cane. Your things are on their way to Galveston, Leah."

She gasped, as though he had struck her; his words hurt worse than a physical blow. McAllen expected her to start crying again, but she fooled him, showed him more character than he thought she possessed.

"I don't blame you," she said, and managed a trembling smile. "I've been a terrible wife, haven't I? I'm so sorry for all the pain I've caused you. I do love you, John Henry. I never realized how much until these last few days. I—"

"It's too late, Leah."

"Why didn't you stop me?" she cried.

"Stop you? How?"

"You knew. You saw. This . . . this thing between me and Stewart. You saw it happening, right in front of you, at Grand Cane. But you didn't lift a finger to stop it. Is that because you didn't care?"

"I guess you could say it was a cure, of sorts."

"You gave me the rope and let me hang myself," she said resentfully.

"Maybe so."

"Will they execute him?"

He knew she meant Stewart. "Yes. They will."

"He deserves to hang."

Not, mused McAllen, because he had murdered Jonah Singletary, but because of what he had done to her. That was what Leah meant.

She turned away from him, went to the chair by the window, sank into it, and gazed out at the rain tap-tap-tapping on the weeping panes of glass.

"What will become of me?" she asked in a small, lost voice.

"You'll survive."

"No one loves me. All I ever wanted was to be loved."

McAllen shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips. Her words cut across the grain of his compassion. She was feeling sorry for herself. In some ways Leah McAllen—no, make that Leah Pierce—would never change. She was still concerned only with herself.

She glanced across the room at him. "Did you find the Torrance girl?"

"Not yet."

"You're in love with her, aren't you?"

"I hardly know her."

"That doesn't make any difference. That's not how love works, is it?"

"I'm no expert on the subject."

"Well, I hope you find her. I hope you find . . . happiness."

McAllen wondered if she was sincere. "Go home to Galveston, Leah. I'll arrange for a carriage to take you. And I'll take care of your bill here."

He turned and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Settling down in a chair on the hotel porch, he lit a cigar and let Bullock bring him a shot of good Tennessee sour mash. The whiskey restored him.

The hotelkeeper sat down beside him. "This business with the Englishman doesn't do General Houston any good. Singletary painted a pretty picture of Stewart as a British agent, and of Houston as Her Majesty's pawn. If you didn't know better you'd think the Union Jack would be flying over the Texas capitol if Houston won the election." Bullock shook his head. "That major's a damned fool. Especially for confiding in Saligny."

"Why do you say that?"

"The French want Lamar to win. Simple as that, Captain. They don't like it that Britain has so much influence in Mexico, and they sure don't want the British to get a toehold in Texas. Stewart should have known the count was no ally. How do you think Singletary found out about the connection between Houston and Stewart? It was Saligny, that's how."

"Saligny still rooms here, doesn't he?"

Bullock grinned. "Yes. He's got this notion he's going to build a grand legation right here in Austin. I wish he'd hurry up and build it and move in. My pigs flat out don't like the man."

"There is something you can do for me," said McAllen. "If you don't want any part of it, though, I'll understand."

Bullock shrugged, trying to pretend he wasn't intrigued. "Won't know till I hear what you have in mind."

"I want you to let me into Saligny's room."

"What are you after, Captain?"

"I'm not sure. Some kind of hard evidence that links Lamar with the French."

"Want to turn the tables on the president, is that it?"

"That would be nice."

"Come back in an hour," said Bullock, consulting his keywinder. "Saligny always takes a walk before dinner. He says the exercise titillates his appetite." The innkeeper smirked. "I might like the man more if he didn't talk so damn funny."

McAllen finished his whiskey and stood up. "I'll be back."

He and Joshua walked their horses the short distance to Austin's jail. When McAllen entered the sheriff's office the lawman looked up in alarm.

"You aint come to kill him, I hope."

"I just want to talk to him."

The sheriff breathed an audible sigh of relief. "After he left his mark on Mrs. McAllen I was afraid you'd have it in mind to cheat the hangman." He unlocked the cellblock door and gestured for McAllen to enter. "Your word's good enough for me, Captain, so I won't ask for those Colt pistols."

McAllen nodded his thanks. The sheriff shut and latched the door behind him. Stewart's cell was the first in a row of four strap-iron cages. The cellblock was dark, hot, and smelled bad. The man in the cell next to Stewart's was sprawled carelessly on his narrow bunk, snoring. Stewart was pacing, three strides one way, three back, his head down, hands clasped behind him. When he noticed McAllen he stopped and stared, just as alarmed as the sheriff had been. Then he recovered his composure and took his eyes off McAllen's Colt Patersons and smiled coldly.

"Hello, Captain."

"Major."

"I presume Sam Houston sent you."

McAllen nodded. "More or less."

"I knew it. I knew he wouldn't let them hang me."

"Oh, you'll hang, Major. Have no doubt on that score."

Stewart's smile faltered; only by dint of great effort did he manage to keep it in place.

"I was only doing your job, McAllen. Defending your wife's honor."

McAllen struggled to keep his temper from boiling over. "Were you defending her honor when you raped her, you bastard?"

"She's lying if that's what she told you. I didn't have to take what I wanted—she gave it freely. From what I've heard, she's done that before."

McAllen realized his fists were tightly clenched. He unclenched them. "She has her faults. We all do."

"My execution will not please Her Majesty's government."

"There's nothing General Houston can do about it, Major, even if he wanted to."

"As I recall, Santa Anna was set free—and how many Texas deaths was he responsible for? But I won't beg for mercy. I suppose I misjudged your general. So be it. If your purpose in coming here was to inform me that I would get no help from him, then I thank you, and you may go."

Stewart turned his back.

"I'm just sorry I won't be here to see you hang," said McAllen.

"I always wanted to be a pirate, you know. And pirates never die in their sleep, do they?"

McAllen left the cellblock.

Bullock was waiting for him on the porch of the hotel. "Saligny just turned the corner, Captain. Come on."

Once in the Frenchman's room, McAllen worked quickly while Bullock stood watch in the hall outside. If Saligny returned earlier than expected from his constitutional, Bullock would alert McAllen, who would have to escape by the window. But it didn't take McAllen long at all to find what he was looking for. A diary, with morocco leather binding and a clasp lock, had been stashed under Saligny's mattress. The lock did not stymie McAllen; he used a pearl-handled letter opener from Saligny's escritoire to break the lock. Hastily scanning the diary's contents, McAllen found it was written, naturally, entirely in French. But in the very back was a folded sheet of vellum—a letter bearing the signature of Mirabeau B. Lamar. McAllen read the letter once and then, in disbelief, read it a second time. Pocketing the letter, he left the room and handed the diary to Bullock.

"Can you get rid of this for me?"

Bullock asked no questions. He took the diary. "My pigs," he said, "will eat anything."

Chapter Thirty-one

"Mr. Houston is recognized."

The Texas House of Representatives, gathered in the one-room clapboard building on Capitol Square in Austin, fell silent. The windows had been thrown open, not only to let some air into the stuffy, smoke-shrouded confines of the room but also to allow the citizens congregated outside to hear what was going on. This was common practice, as the building could scarcely accommodate the representatives, much less a gallery of spectators. Every window was crowded—an inordinate number of people had come today to hear Sam Houston speak. Accusations had been hurled at the new representative from San Augustine in weeks past; the Lamar faction had charged the hero of San Jacinto with conspiring to sell Texas out to the British. Now at last Houston was prepared to respond to these charges.

"Gentlemen," said Houston gravely, "in days past I have been accused of being a drunkard, a coward, and a traitor. Some idle paragraphs have found their way into the newspapers, to which I give an occasional perusal—though I may truly say that you can seldom find either Scripture or Gospel in the editorials. I do not blame the editors themselves. They suffer only from a misguided zeal. The source of these calumnies, however—a man well known to all of you—is motivated by more than ideology. He opposes me out of pure spite, and I hold him strictly accountable. You know the person of whom I speak. David G. Burnet is the scoundrel, and I answer his charge of treason with one anecdote.

"When the convention of March 1836 was in session, who was it that rose in opposition to the Declaration of Independence? Who was it that advised those who called upon him for advice on the course they should take not to participate in the noble struggle for liberty upon which we had embarked? In his travels during those fateful days, this man called at a house located on Old River, and the fellow who lived there asked him what would happen if the members of the convention were so rash as to declare independence from Mexico. And who do you think it was that replied, 'If they do, and were I General Santa Anna, I would destroy every man, woman, and child west of the Sabine who could jabber English.' This, then was David Burnet's holy love of country. These are no idle charges I make today. Men are living who will attest to the truth of them, and to Burnet's eternal infamy and disgrace. Burnet prates about the faults of other men, while the blot of foul, unmitigated treason rests upon his own shoulders! I tell you now that David Burnet is a political brawler and canting hypocrite, whom the waters of Jordan could never cleanse of moral leprosy."

This drew a loud response from both within and without the assembly. Shouts of anger battled with exclamations of enthusiastic approval. Sam Houston stood as unmoved as a rock in the eye of this storm until the speaker of the house could quiet the solons and the citizens with a vigorous hammering of his gavel.

Houston continued. "The man who cannot act when his country demands action, regardless of threatened danger, deserves execration deeper and louder than the approbation my country has bestowed upon me, and I should be a traitor indeed if I did not risk all for her. I believe that the president who is employed by the people should preserve his oath inviolate. He should not be a blot upon your interests or carry poison to the fountainhead. He must not import strangers, to put them in high places, and include them in the highest councils of state, whose very actions savor of iniquity, and stink to the nostrils of the Almighty."

"Your reference is to Major Charles Stewart, I presume," sneered another member of the assembly, a Lamar man. "He will be put in a high place soon enough—a gallows. That is, however, as high as he shall ever go, in this life or the next."

Laughter rippled through the room. Houston's smile was cold.

"Actually, I was referring to the Count de Saligny."

A heavy silence descended upon the gathering. Houston drew a folded sheet of vellum from beneath his leopardskin vest.

"I have here a letter bearing the signature of Mirabeau Lamar. In this letter are the details of a transaction which, had it been foisted upon the people of Texas, would have been known as the Franco-Texienne Land Bill. In it, the president promises to cede millions of acres of Texas land for the loan of one million francs."

The Lamar partisan who had broached the subject of Charles Stewart now shot to his feet and aimed an accusing finger at Houston. "That's a dirty lie! Such a transaction was never even contemplated by the president. That letter is a manufactured piece of evidence, and the signature upon it is a forgery."

Another legislator spoke up. "We are all well aware that the French charge d'affaires reported his room broken into and valuable documents stolen. Apparently Mr. Houston has added common thievery to his catalog of crimes."

"I was hundreds of miles away when the event to which you refer occurred," replied Houston. "And you can't have it both ways, gentlemen. Did this letter exist, or not?" He strode to the desk of the house speaker and presented the paper. "I do not expect you will ever have evidence of this nature to prove any supposed collusion between myself and the British. I have nothing else to say, and will leave it to the people of Texas to judge."

He turned and strode from the building, swinging his walking stick, a grim smile on his lips. In the stunned silence of the assembly he imagined he could hear a sound that was music to his ears—the hammering of the last nail into Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar's coffin lid. He had played a dangerous game, and the seeds of his flirtation with Great Britain had very nearly sprouted tares instead of flowers. Now that he felt confident that the presidency of the Republic of Texas was his for the taking, Houston knew he would have to do everything in his power to prod the United States Congress into approving annexation.

As he stepped outside into the hot summer sunlight, the crowd of spectators flocked around him. A handful scowled darkly, but most of the people were shouting congratulations, jostling one another to get close to their hero. Houston kept moving through the press.

"Houston! You're a damned dirty liar and a coward besides!"

The crowd parted in frantic haste, and directly in his path Sam Houston found a man he did not know standing with feet planted wide apart, a pistol in his hand, and the look of murder on his face. Unarmed, Houston's first instinct was to duck for cover. But there was no cover, and if he dodged into the milling crowd an innocent bystander might take a bullet meant for him. In the next instant a towering rage consumed him, smothering the instinct for survival. He had come too far, for Texas and for himself, to be stopped now by an assassin. Houston rushed forward, wielding his walking stick like a sword, striking at the man's gun. The pistol discharged, and the bullet tunneled harmlessly into the ground. Again Houston struck with the cane, and the would be assassin collapsed, blood streaking the side of his face. A pair of Houston supporters pounced on him while he was down and wrestled the pistol from his grasp.

"Hand him over to the sheriff, boys," said Houston. He stepped closer to the half-conscious gunman, whose arms were pinioned by the general's partisans. "When you see Burnet, tell him that the next time he wants me killed to try the job himself."

The crowd cheered. The gunman was hustled away none too gently. Sam Houston walked on, realizing that once again he had cheated death. Some had said he was a man of destiny. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps the Lord God Almighty did have special plans for him. But for now Houston had only one plan—to hurry home to Margaret, to hold his wife in his arms, and to count his blessings.

Praise God for Margaret Lea Houston! In his hour of darkest despair, when it had seemed as though there was no hope for him, or for Texas, and when he had very nearly resorted to strong spirits to drown his misery, she had given him strength, had talked him through his crisis of confidence. She had more courage and more faith in him than he had in himself.

Another of those blessings. . . .

One of those blessings was John Henry McAllen, whose friendship and loyalty had prompted him to take steps in a bold initiative which had resulted in Sam Houston's possession of the Lamar letter. That saved my hide, and saved Texas, too, mused Houston. He could only hope that McAllen found that young woman, Emily Torrance. A good man deserved a good woman.

But only time would tell. . . .

Time was taking a heavy toll on McAllen. Having personally delivered Lamar's incriminating letter into Sam Houston's hands—he could not trust anyone else with the delivery of such an important document—he had returned to Grand Cane to await word from Antonio Caldero.

Not a day went by that he did not wonder what kind of fool he was for relying on a bandit like Caldero. Maybe Caldero felt as though he owed Houston and had said he would help without really intending to make much of an effort to locate Emily. And if Caldero did make a genuine effort, how long would he pursue the endeavor? Here was a man dedicated to one thing—the cause of keeping Texas out of the Nueces Strip—and who had played a deadly game of cat and mouse with the Rangers for years. How much time and effort would he expend in search of a Texas girl kidnapped by the Comanches?

Every morning, McAllen awoke to an almost irrepressible urge to saddle Escatawpa and head west. He had to convince himself on a daily basis that if Caldero really was trying, then he had a much better chance of getting Emily back that way. He couldn't do Emily much good dead—which would be his likely fate if he ventured alone onto the Llano Estacado. Finally he decided to give Caldero two months. If he hadn't heard anything by then he would go on his own, come what may. Two months wasn't much time, but McAllen could not give more; if he waited much longer than that to get started he would be slowed by the onslaught of winter.

He tried to immerse himself in plantation affairs. There was plenty of work to do, and McAllen felt as though he had neglected his home all summer long. The sugarcane was maturing fast. Soon it would be time to cut it with cane knives. Stalks stripped of their leaves would be placed in a hopper, and the rollers, turned by mules, would press the juice from the stalks. The juice would then have to be boiled to form sugar crystals.

In the mill, or "sugar house," the raw cane juice was first placed in the largest of three kettles, la grande, where lime was mixed in to act as a flux for releasing impurities. As the liquid heated up, the foreign particles rose to the top and were removed with copper skimmers into a wooden trough. La grande's contents were then ladled into a smaller kettle, la flambeau. Here the juice continued to boil, creating more scum to be skimmed off. As the juice cooked, it thickened and fewer impurities were released.

Finally the syrup was ready for the smallest and hottest kettle, la batterie. Here the syrup was boiled to the consistency needed for crystallization, at which time the batch was ready for "striking," removal to the cooling vats. Throughout the cooling process the syrup continued to granulate. Completely cooled, the raw sugary material called massecuite was transferred into large barrels for the final purging of molasses. What remained were brown crystals, or raw sugar, ready to be marketed. Arrangements would have to be made to transport the sugar and the molasses down the Brazos by boat.

In addition, a large quantity of wood would need to be cut and stored for heating and cooking during the winter months. In the process, fences that needed mending would be attended to. Early corn had already been picked, and a second crop was being planted. These and a dozen other tasks demanded attention. But McAllen's problem was that Jeb had proven himself an extremely efficient overseer and quite capable of handling everything in a more than satisfactory manner. So McAllen's involvement wasn't necessary, which meant he had to motivate himself, and that wasn't easy. He had only one thing on his mind—the only thing that seemed to matter. Emily.

Bits and pieces of important news reached him. Major Charles Stewart was found guilty of the murder of Jonah Singletary and sentenced to hang. Many people had expected Sam Houston to intervene on the major's behalf, ironically, it was President Lamar who stepped in to save Stewart from the hangman's noose. Lamar commuted the Englishman's sentence, and then went so far as to pardon him. McAllen presumed that the president had struck a deal with Stewart, giving the Englishman his life in exchange for political ammunition in the form of details regarding the connection between Houston and Great Britain. But Lamar was flogging a dead horse. His actions demonstrated the extent of his desperation. The accusations he hurled at his opponent had no effect on public opinion. Having made his own secret deals with the French, Lamar was the pot calling the kettle black.

Stewart, however, did not leave Texas alive. After arriving in Galveston to seek passage on a British ship, he was found dead in an alley near the wharves. The consensus was that a gang of Irish wharf rats had attacked him—the corpse had been stripped of everything of value. But McAllen had a sneaking suspicion that Leah's father might have been behind the killing. Assuming he knew that Stewart had raped his daughter, Henry Pierce would not have let the Englishman escape justice. Of course, Pierce was an important man in Galveston—important enough to get away with murder. If there was a connection, no one was going to look very hard to find it.

The French chargé d'affaires, Saligny, was more successful than Stewart in leaving Texas. Having had all he could stomach of Bullock's pigs, the count had shot and killed one of the innkeeper's prized Berk-skires and then had to flee for his life from the dead pig's irate owner. There was more to his departure than that, McAllen was certain. The revelation of the Franco-Texienne Land Bill made Saligny's position in Texas untenable. Lamar could not afford to have anything more to do with him.

Brax Torrance, having recovered from the amputation of his foot, disappeared from Grand Cane, and rumor had it he had gone to join the Texas Rangers. As for Yancey, McAllen never expected to see his friend again.

Finally, in early October, McAllen's suit for divorce, on the grounds of adultery, was adjudicated and finalized.

The very next day, Jeb came running up to the main house to give McAllen a note found pinned by a knife to the door of the sugar mill: