Текст книги "The Black Jacks"
Автор книги: Jason Manning
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Chapter Ten
Sam Houston knew he could not leave for Texas right away. The town of Marion had organized a public dinner for this afternoon, to be held in an oak grove near the Baptist church, and he was the guest of honor. As such he would be called upon to make an oration.
He had not prepared a speech; he would have to address the crowd in an extemporaneous fashion. He understood that Major Townes, an old friend of Margaret's father, would pay tribute to the new Mrs. Houston. The old gentleman had courteously presented Houston with a copy of the toast in advance: "I presume our honored guest will not deny, in spite of all his victories in the field of battle, that he has been compelled to trail his banner and bow a suppliant knee before our town's fairest woman. I give you therefore, gentlemen, the conqueress of the conqueror, Mrs. Margaret Houston."
Houston smiled. With Margaret at his side he would prevail in Texas. She gave him confidence and hope.
Tomorrow there would be another fete thrown in their honor, and then, on the day following, they would travel to Mobile by carriage, thence to New Orleans by steamer, where, if all went according to schedule, they would secure a berth on the steamship New York, bound for Galveston. The New York was justly famous for its opulence—mahogany and marble staterooms, and windows of painted glass representing the Texas arms. They said that even the table china bore a blue devil in the center of each plate with a depiction of the New York at sea with a Texas eagle hovering above her. Houston could ill afford passage for two on such a floating palace, but he thought it was the least he could do for Margaret, since she would have to live in virtual poverty once they arrived in Texas.
A few minutes later, Houston's bride returned from shopping for a suitable traveling outfit with her friend Sarah Kittrell Goree, who had been matron of honor at the wedding. Margaret showed her husband the blue serge dress and new bonnet she had purchased, and Houston tried to act interested, but she saw right through him immediately, and when she asked him what was wrong he showed her McAllen's letter. He watched her closely while she read it, and marveled again how fortunate he was that such an intelligent and lovely young woman had consented to sharing the rest of her life with him.
"I have decided," he told her, when she was finished, "to run for president. I will have to begin campaigning as soon as we arrive in Texas."
"Of course, dear," she replied promptly. "If you feel that is what you must do, I will help you to the best of my ability, and support you with all my heart and soul."
"It will be . . . difficult for you. My political enemies will say many harsh things about me. And they may target you as well. Texas politics is a cruel and dirty game."
"My brother is a politician, remember? I have an inkling what it's all about. Besides, how bad can it be? Surely not worse than all the venom and bile being hurled by Whigs and Democrats alike in the present campaign for the presidency of these United States."
Houston was familiar with the current American political scene. With the nomination of Old Tippecanoe, William Henry Harrison, the Whig Party was making a strong bid for the White House. Democrat Martin Van Buren presently resided at the Executive Mansion. But the severe depression which had rocked the economy threatened Van Buren's hopes for a second term. So did the Whig campaign. Though his loyalty lay with the Democratic Party of Andrew Jackson, Houston had to give the Whigs credit: traditionally the party of the banker and the merchant and the well-to-do planter, the Whigs had launched a remarkably vibrant and effective attempt to woo the farmer and the laborer to their cause with an ingenious "log cabin and hard cider" campaign. Conventions, parades, barbecues, and fireworks were organized by Tippecanoe Clubs on the state and local levels. Orators ranging in style and representation from Daniel Webster and Hugh Legare to Davy Crockett and John Bear, the "Buckeye Blacksmith," traveled around the country stumping for "Old Tip" and casting aspersions on the Van Buren administration. The Whig "slangwhangers" held nothing back in the mud they hurled at the president—or "Van Ruin," as they liked to call him. The 1828 election, in which the National Republicans had called Andrew Jackson a murderer and adulterer, had been bad—so bad that Old Hickory believed to this day that the vile slanders of his political opponents had caused the death of his beloved wife, Rachel—but for sheer mean spiritedness Houston had seen nothing like the current contest.
"All I can promise you, my darling," he replied, "is that it will not be pleasant. And if I should prevail, there will be no financial reward for the service I render to the republic."
Margaret tilted her head slightly and her eyes, serene and wise beyond their years, studied his troubled features. "That doesn't matter to me, Mr. Houston," she declared. "Your destiny is entwined with the destiny of Texas, and now mine is inseparable from yours. I will be right there with you through good times and hard, and you will not hear a solitary word of complaint pass my lips."
Houston put his arms around her and held her close. "With you by my side, how could I fail?" he said.
Eight hundred miles away, at the Quohadi village deep in the trackless, windswept plains of West Texas, Gray Wolf came to stand before the skin lodge of Spotted Tail, the husband of Snow Dancer's sister. He was clad in a buffalo robe painted with the symbol of the sun's rays. Upon his head was a feather warbonnet. In his arms he cradled his infant son, in the papoose which his dead wife had so lovingly adorned with beadwork.
He was expected, for it had all been arranged, and Snow Dancer's sister emerged with a tremulous smile to take the baby from the war chief. He did not look at her, or at the child. He could not bear to do so, for both his son and his sister-in-law reminded him too much of Snow Dancer, and it was all he could do to maintain his gravely impassive facade.
After Snow Dancer's sister had entered the tepee with the baby, Spotted Tail came out.
"Your son will always be well cared for, Gray Wolf. On this you have my solemn vow."
Gray Wolf nodded. "I have sworn never to take another wife, and I cannot raise the child on the warpath. This is best for him."
"He will always honor the memory of his father."
Gray Wolf stared at Spotted Tail, who was a very thoughtful and perceptive man, and who knew without having to be told that Gray Wolf had made another promise, this one to himself.
"I know your heart is bleeding," continued Spotted Tail. "No matter how many white men you kill, it will always bleed, until the day you die. You know this is true, Gray Wolf. That is why you intend to die in battle, so that you may join Snow Dancer in the next life. And that is why you have given up your son."
Spotted Tail was one of the few Comanches who remained committed to peace. Thanks to nearly fatal wounds suffered in a battle with the Utes, Spotted Tail's left arm dangled uselessly at his side, and he would walk with a severe limp until the day he died. These handicaps meant he would never again take the warpath, which suited him well enough, for he had acquired a strong aversion to war. Gray Wolf did not despise him for this, as others did. In fact, he was glad that Spotted Tail was a pacifist. That meant he would always be there to guide his son through life.
"I know my son will want for nothing while he is in your keeping," said Gray Wolf. His voice broke, and he turned quickly away. From the skin lodge came the cry of the infant child, and the sound wrenched painfully at his heart, and his eyes burned with sternly fettered tears.
When he reached the council and took his place in the circle, he bleakly scanned the faces of the assembled chiefs. So many familiar faces were missing! So many Quohadi leaders had perished at the Council House! Most of all he would miss the great Maguara, so valiant in war, so noble in peace, so dedicated to the welfare of the Antelope band. Most of those present today were young war chiefs, resplendent in battle array. Ironically, most of the ones the Texans had killed had been those most committed to peace.
The subject brought before the council for its consideration was the waging of war against the Texans. This time Gray Wolf knew there would be no chance of a lack of unanimity. The souls of even the few old patriarchs who remained burned for retribution. There could be no other course of action. The Comanches had been wronged. Turning the other cheek was not part of their creed.
Gray Wolf's brother, Running Dog, who had also earned the status of war leader, and who wore the buffalo-scalp bonnet, rose to speak his mind. The white devils had lured them into a trap, and they must be made to pay for this treachery, he said. The Penatekas and the Tanawas had declared war upon the Texans. The Quohadis must not dishonor their dead by failing to do the same. No mercy must be shown the whites. No man, woman, or child must be spared. For every Quohadi who had fallen at the Council House, a hundred whites must perish. The land must run red with Texas blood.
Red Eagle spoke next. He vowed he would not rest until he had tasted the hearts of a hundred Texas men. He would crush the skulls of a hundred white infants beneath his heel. He would cut open the bellies of a hundred white women so that they could not produce any more of their vermin. By the end of his tirade, Red Eagle was ranting like a lunatic, and he had worked many of those who heard him into a fever pitch, so that their angry shouts rang out for some time after Red Eagle sat down.
Soon it was Gray Wolf's turn to speak. Being one of the few to have survived the ambush at Bexar, he was looked upon with something akin to reverent awe, for clearly the Great Spirit had spared his life for some great purpose. The Quohadis believed this purpose must be that Gray Wolf was destined to lead them to victory against the whites.
"Red Eagle will wage war as he sees fit. So will Gray Wolf. But Gray Wolf will not make war against women and children. That is the way of the white man. I choose to fight like a Comanche instead." The veiled insult of his words made Red Eagle fume, but Gray Wolf paid the warrior no heed. "If we hope to defeat the Texans, the Comanches cannot wage war as they have in the past against their other enemies. The Quohadis must join forces with the Penatekas and all the other bands. Somehow we must put aside our differences. If we do not, we cannot win. The Texans are too many. Together, we must strike swiftly. We must cut a path of blood and fire from here to the great water in the south. We must do this soon, for then we will have bought precious time, and if we do not hunt the buffalo before the coming of the snow, our people will starve in the winter months. Then, early in the spring, we will join the other bands once more and strike again, in strength.
"Even so," he warned, "this is not enough, for while we fight the Texans, the Utes to the north and the Apaches to the west will try to lay waste our villages. They will try to steal our horse herds and our women. We cannot fight in the east and the west and the north all at the same time. There is only one thing we can do. We must try to make peace with the Utes and the Apaches."
This drew a gasp from the lips of some of those present. "But how can we do this?" asked Running Dog. "They have been our enemies since the time of our fathers' fathers, and even before."
"There is only one way," replied Gray Wolf. "We must make them see that unless the Comanches can defeat the Texans, their lands will be invaded by the whites in the years to come. It is in their best interests to leave us alone, or they will soon find themselves faced with the same enemy that threatens us now.
"Gray Wolf has only this left to say. He had hoped for peace with the Texans. Now he sees that there can be no peace. The Texans are without honor. Their word cannot be trusted. He knows now that they must be destroyed, or the Quohadis will not survive. Gray Wolf will fight them until the last drop of blood runs from his veins."
The council deliberated briefly. All could discern the wisdom of Gray Wolf's suggestions, and on that very day riders were dispatched west and north, bearing the peace pipe to the Utes and the Apaches.
Within a month's time, all the Comanche bands had agreed to unite in one great and devastating raid. They would number their warriors in the hundreds, the largest force they had ever assembled for war, and it was agreed that they would strike early in the summer.
Chapter Eleven
Major Charles Stewart, of the Royal Scots Fusiliers, stood at the rail of the steamer Chalmette as she entered Galveston harbor, gazing at the somewhat shabby port on the fringe of civilization—and liked what he saw. Civilization bored Stewart. His appetite for adventure was insatiable. And, from what he had heard about the Republic of Texas, he was confident of finding plenty of excitement here.
The pilot had come aboard, and the Chalmette was under way at full steam past the bar at the harbor's entrance. The island had been named in honor of the Spanish governor of Louisiana, Bernardo de Galvez. In the early days it had been inhabited by Karankawa Indians, who were reputed to be cannibals. Whether that was true was of little consequence now, since the Americans had long since exterminated the coastal tribe.
Of more interest to Stewart, since he had tangled with Malaysian pirates during his sojourn in the Orient, was the fact that Galveston Island had long been a haunt for Caribbean freebooters, the most notorious being Jean Laffite. After being routed out of his Barrataria stronghold on the eve of the Battle of New Orleans, Laffite had established a new base here under the Spanish and then Mexican flags, calling it Campeche. Laffite had remained for half a dozen years before being "cleared out" a second time. Rumor had it that he had gone next to Yucatán, reputedly dying there of natural causes.
Stewart was of the opinion that he had been born a century too late, else he, too, would have been a pirate, roaming the Seven Seas in search of loot, and giving Laffite some competition. As a lad growing up in Celbridge, twelve miles west of Dublin, he'd often pretended to be Sir Francis Drake, whom he considered something of a pirate regardless of his knighthood. The Spaniards had certainly thought so! In three years of raiding 'round the world in the Golden Hind, Drake had returned to London with the holds of his stout ship brimming with stolen Spanish treasure. Queen Elizabeth's cut of the booty had been 163,000 British pounds. Stewart had always aspired to that kind of life—daring exploits, fabulous wealth, a knighthood, and death in an exotic land. He disliked Merry Olde England with a passion, and so had made the world his oyster.
When the Anglo-American colonists came to Galveston they had found a low, nearly treeless island covered with long rank grass. Snakes and alligators populated the bayous—in fact, the Mexicans had nicknamed the island Punta de los Culebras, or Snake Island. In 1837 there had been only seven ramshackle houses on the island; now there was a bustling port city with a few splendid mansions. On any given day one was likely to see thirty or forty sailing ships flying the flags of a dozen different countries in the harbor.
As the Chalmette neared the wharf, Stewart returned to his stateroom. He was a slender, fair-haired man of thirty years. His rakish—one might say, piratical—features were dark from his recent posting in the South Pacific and East Indies. He was dressed in a natty dove-gray "shooting coat" and spotless white trousers; his scarlet uniform was packed neatly away in one of the two carpetbags which he called upon a steward—a curly-headed, rosy-cheeked Irish lad to carry off the steamer as soon as she had docked. The captain stood at the top of the gangplank to bid his passengers farewell, and Stewart paused to pay his respects and ask a question.
"I am to be met by a man who does not know me," said Stewart, "just as I do not know him by sight. If you are acquainted with a Dr. Ashbel Smith, would you do me the favor of pointing him out to me?"
"Why, certainly I know Dr. Smith." The captain scanned the small crowd gathered on the wharf. "Yes, there he is. The young man sporting the dark beard, wearing the brown broadcloth. There."
Stewart spotted the man at whom the captain was pointing. "My thanks, sir."
"Enjoy your visit to Texas, Major." The captain had enjoyed Stewart's company during the voyage, having invited his distinguished British passenger to dine with him, and Stewart had regaled him with tales of exploits in faraway lands. "We don't have any Chinese warlords or Malaysian pirates to contend with here, but I don't think you'll have too many dull moments in Texas." An astute judge of men, the Chalmette's skipper had Stewart pegged.
"I pray you are correct on that score, Captain. Good day to you."
"And to you, Major."
Stewart followed his bags down the gangplank and approached Ashbel Smith. "I believe I am your man, Doctor."
Smith was startled. "I confess, I was looking for the uniform."
"I thought it wiser not to advertise myself, as I understand there exists in some quarters of Texas an aversion to all things British."
Smith nodded. "Most Texans are transplanted Southerners, sir, and many Southrons consider all Englishmen abolitionists. Then, too, it is widely believed that British money props up the Mexican Republic and, as no doubt you are aware, we've had some trouble with Mexico of late. But, having said that, I welcome you to Texas, Major, on behalf of General Houston."
"He left word in New Orleans that he would not be able to meet me in person. An affair of the heart, I take it."
"If everything went according to plan, he is as we speak a married man." Smith took charge of one of Stewart's carpetbags. "I hope you don't mind a short walk. The Tremont Hotel is only a few blocks away."
"I am glad for the opportunity to stretch my legs on solid ground."
They passed between a pair of warehouses, crossed Church Street near the Customs House, and angled across Market Place. Stewart paid keen attention to the sights and sounds of Galveston. A variety of people crossed his path: planters in wide hats and nicely tailored broadcloth suits, long-haired Creoles in dungarees, Irish immigrants with that distinctive brogue Stewart knew so well from his youth, barefoot Negro laborers, young ladies in lace and crinoline, protecting their honey-and-cream complexions with parasols and bonnets. Stewart paid particular attention to the latter, as he had an eye for the well-turned ankle. He fully intended to make a romantic conquest here, as he had done in every port-of-call. It was a tradition of sorts with him, and, after all, traditions were for keeping.
The Tremont Hotel was the finest hostelry Galveston had to offer, and the room Ashbel Smith had purchased for him suited Stewart completely. "I suppose you've seen much better in your travels," said Smith.
"And much worse," replied Stewart. "I once spent six months in a rat-infested bamboo hut in China."
At dinner in the restaurant downstairs, Stewart told Smith about his life.
"My father was Colonel the Honorable George Stewart, one of the sixth Lord Stewart's ten sons. He was reputedly the strongest and most handsome man in the army. He fought in the American revolt. By his first wife, a soldier's daughter, he had two sons and a daughter, but his entire family, save for the infant daughter, died of the yellow fever in New York, and my father caught the disease. He was put aboard a ship bound for England, more dead than alive. His superior, Sir Henry Clinton, did not expect him to survive, and sold his commission so that his surviving daughter would not be penniless.
"But my father recovered, only to find that he no longer had a commission or a career. He rejoined the army as an ensign, and married a woman older than he, Lady Laura Banebrook, the daughter of a duke, and my mother. She was widely believed to be the most beautiful woman in London. King George III even proposed to her when she was but sixteen years of age. But my mother rejected the royal advance and married Sir Thomas Banebrook instead. Banebrook was a sporting man. Racehorses were his passion, and he paid so little attention to his bride that she resorted to engaging in several affairs. Eventually he divorced her, which explains why she married a penniless soldier like my father, when otherwise she could have had her pick of eligible bachelors."
"But I thought you said your father was the son of a lord."
"A fortune does not always accompany title, Doctor. And remember, my father had nine brothers."
"Oh, I see." Smith thought he could understand Lord Stewart's dilemma. Where titles are concerned, Smith mused, I am the surgeon general of the Army of the Republic of Texas, and what has it garnered me by way of financial gain?
"When I was quite young," continued Stewart, "my father was posted in Ireland. He had fought American and French revolutionaries, and now he found himself fighting the Irish variety. The 'Irish Problem' always flared up when England was at war with another country. They threatened trouble during your American revolution, and Parliament gave them free trade and a free parliament to keep them quiet. Then, when Napoleon was trying to seize Europe, Irish radicals led by Wolfe Tone sought French aid. A French expeditionary force actually landed on Irish soil. But the rebels were defeated at Vinegar Hill and the French soldiers went home. Still, some years alter, Catholic rebels and Protestant militia were continuing to commit outrages one upon the other, and my father's regiment was sent in to keep the peace." Stewart smiled. "In spite of it all, I fondly remember my childhood in Ireland."
"General Houston informed me that you fought in the Opium War. What is that all about?"
"The history of it goes back a good many years. The East India Company established a permanent post at Canton in the 1600s. The company's ships carried Chinese tea, silks, and porcelain to India. All other Chinese ports besides Canton were closed to foreigners, and at Canton we were forced to deal with hong merchants, an arrogant lot, and worked under an appalling lot of restrictions. The East India Company still managed to make a go of it until seven years ago, when they lost their monopoly.
"About that time, British and American ships began to carry Indian opium into China. The Chinese didn't like that, and the new merchants grew restive under the old trade restrictions which the East India Company had endured. Finally the Chinese ordered all the opium in Canton seized. The Canton mandarin exceeded his orders—not only did he confiscate the opium, he destroyed several million pounds' worth. He went so far as to launch fireships in an attempt to destroy British vessels." Stewart shrugged. "Well, Doctor, that sort of thing simply cannot be tolerated, and we've been trying to teach those yellow heathens a lesson ever since. Oh, we'll get the job done, have no fear. It's just that China is a bloody big country, with an awful lot of people in it."
"The war isn't over yet?"
"No, but it soon will be, and we shall have what we want—the cession of Hong Kong, resumption of trade, and an indemnity of six million pounds."
"You sound very sure of that."
"We have never failed at a task once we've set our mind to it."
"You're forgetting Yorktown, aren't you?"
"Not at all. In the case of your revolution, our heart simply wasn't in it. George III sent Hessian mercenaries and his worst generals. What does that tell you? Had he sent capable commanders and good British regiments it would have been a different story. We might still have American colonies."
Ashbel Smith had been exceedingly curious about Major Stewart and his mission ever since Sam Houston had broached the subject at Cedar Point, and now the doctor thought he saw an opening.
"There are some who say the British would like to make a colony of Texas."
Stewart laughed softly. "You're a canny one, aren't you?"
Smith tried to look ingenuous. "What ever do you mean, Major?"
"You're wondering why I'm here. If I were on a secret mission for the Crown, I would scarcely be in a position to divulge that information to you, now, would I? But I can tell you this. An independent Texas would suit us just fine."
"What about a Texas that is a state in the Union?"
"That will never happen. The Congress of the United States will never add another slave state to the Union. Why, even the leaders of the two political parties, Clay and Van Buren, have publicly voiced their opposition to annexation and the expansion of slavery."
"Were he here, Sam Houston would most strongly disagree with your prediction."
"I have long been an admirer of the general and his exploits. He and I are kindred spirits. We are both guided by an insatiable thirst for adventure."
"That may have been the case with the Old Chief ten years ago," said Ashbel Smith, "but now his only concern is Texas. He would sacrifice himself for Texas—in fact, has done so."
"I look forward to meeting him. Have you any idea when he might return?"
"A week, possibly two." Smith could see that he would get no further with Stewart on the subject of slavery and politics. "Until then, I am at your disposal. Whatever you wish to do, wherever you wish to go—I will do my utmost to bring your plans to fruition."
Stewart said that for the next day or two at least he would like to sample the pleasures which Galveston Island had to offer. He retired early, read some of Bulwer-Lytton's most recent novel, and was awakened at half past seven the next morning by the ringing of breakfast bells from the various hotels and boardinghouses across town. The Tremont's patrons congregated on the veranda. Ashbel Smith was waiting for him, and they joined the other boarders for what Stewart declared was an excellent dejeuner a la fourchette. Afterward, they rented a pair of horses and embarked on a vigorous ten-mile ride along the island's white beaches. There were gulls, snipes, and curlews in abundance. That afternoon, Stewart won a small wager from Smith over a game of billiards—money the doctor could ill afford to lose. They whiled away the late afternoon on the Tremont's veranda, watching Galveston's inhabitants pass to and fro in the street. Smith sipped an iced mint julep—the day was quite warm and the long ride had tired him—while Stewart consumed a Madeira and bitters. Dinner consisted of tender venison steaks and roasted wild duck and sweet potatoes dripping with syrup.
Throughout the day Stewart spoke freely of his experiences in Her Majesty's Army, and Smith learned some fascinating bits and pieces of information. He discovered that in Scottish regiments pipers always marched around the mess table after dinner playing their instruments; on St. Andrew's Day, it was tradition for the mess sergeant to pass around a quaich filled with Scotch whiskey which every officer drained and then turned the cup over to kiss the bottom, in this way demonstrating that the cup was empty; that aristocratic young men with wealth and a taste for high society and sport preferred the Guards regiments which were usually stationed in London or Windsor, guarding perhaps St. James's Palace or the Bank of England, and seldom having to fight in the nasty little wars that were breaking out in remote parts of the empire, while officers like Stewart, who were ambitious but poor, sought to obtain commissions in regiments posted overseas where glory could be won; that almost every regiment had its own mascot, usually a dog, like the Maltese terrier of the Royal Scots who liked to chase enemy cannonballs; that Scottish and Welsh regiments seldom got along well together, since Welshman considered Scots dirty "keelies" who shit too much and charged like hell in both directions—a keely being a Scotsman who regarded a bloody bareknuckled brawl the best way to spend a sociable evening on the town.
For many young males among the urban poor in Britain, the army was the only escape. Stewart told the story of a recruit rejected for having "hammer toes." The man returned a few days later to try to enlist a second time. He'd had his deformed toes amputated. "I'd ruther be a sodjer wantin' two taes than to remain a civvy," he explained. Such a man could not be turned away. The "Jocks," said Stewart, were heroic scum. They were poorly paid and poorly fed—the meat served in army messes was so notorious it was called "Harriet Lane" after a woman who had been hacked to pieces by her murderer. The common soldier was profane, rowdy, ignorant, and loved drink and prostitutes. But he was also loyal, courageous, and capable of extraordinary feats of endurance.
The next day, Smith accompanied Major Stewart to the smaller island of San Luis, a ferry transporting them across the mile-wide channel from Galveston. The prospering town of San Luis had two general stores, a weekly newspaper called the Advocate, a row of warehouses along a thousand-foot-long wharf, and the republic's one and only cotton press.
Rows of new, mostly unpainted clapboard houses lined Market and Liberty Streets. Piers were being set on the mainland side of the island for a bridge which would connect the town with a road proposed to run all the way to Brazoria and Columbia. Someday, declared the visionary boosters of San Luis, all the cotton of the Brazos River plantations would pass through here, destined as cargo on ships from the Seven Seas.
After several days of sightseeing, Ashbel Smith still had no clue to Major Stewart's purpose for visiting Texas. Was he merely to report on everything he saw or heard? Or had he been sent here for a specific purpose, to pursue some course of action? One thing Smith did know was that a man in his own dire financial straits could not afford to play host for any length of time. Yet General Houston was relying on him to show Stewart every courtesy, which meant one did not ask a guest to pay his own way. Smith began to despair. He was impaled upon the horns of an excruciating dilemma.
