Texas

by James A. Michener

  Macnab chuckled when he thought of his own case, and Campbell asked: ‘What you laughin’ about?’

  ‘Leaving Baltimore. I didn’t steal their damned cattle.’

  ‘Nobody here said you did.’

  ‘I just sold them. They got a fair profit.’

  When Macnab thought of his wife, Berthe, and her sniveling brothers he considered himself luckier than most to have escaped, and he would never have conceded that he had in any way been forced out of Maryland: ‘Tell you the truth, Zave, I left her a lot better off than when I met her. She and the girls will have no trouble.’

  Campbell summarized it well: ‘We ain’t fleein’ from nothin’. We’re fleein’ toward freedom.’ And Macnab added: ‘Those two over there, who stay together all the time. I’d say they were fleeing toward life itself.’

  ‘They escapin’ hangin’?’ Zave asked, and Macnab explained: ‘Their doctors warned them: “You stay in this city two more years, you’ll be dead of tuberculosis. Go to Texas. Let your lungs heal themselves in that good, dry air.” ’

  Now the two men tried to tot up the educational background of the passengers, and they found out that of the twenty-three men, twenty-one could read and write, and of these, fourteen had completed academy or high school and had some knowledge of Latin, Euclid and world history. Probing further, Macnab came up with some even more surprising information: ‘Did you know, Zave, that six of those men over there have been to colleges like Yale and Transylvania? I know that those two by the door studied law, they said so, and that short fellow who talks so much has a law degree from Virginia.’ What the amateur investigators could not know was that five of the immigrants had been to Europe, three of them knew the principles of banking, and one was a medical doctor with service in the United States Navy. Texas was getting prime citizens.

  Two other things Macnab and Campbell could not know that autumn day in 1831: four passengers were keeping journals—two men, two women —which would in later years prove invaluable; and of the men, eighteen would soon be serving in battles of one kind or another against Mexico, and of these, seven would become senior officers.

  On the most important question of all—the possibility of revolution against Mexico—the two men had no opinion whatever. Few members of this group openly espoused such action; some had vague expectations that Texas would eventually, by means not yet determined, free herself from Mexican control, but they certainly did not come expecting to incite rebellion, as would their successors in 1835 and 1836. This sample of immigrants came primarily in search of free land and a fresh beginning. For example, Macnab and Campbell entered Texas honestly, without the slightest intention of causing trouble. However, like the Quimpers before them, once they settled, they would find it impossible to accept the systems of government, law and society which their new homeland, Mexico, was painfully trying to establish.

  As the two men concluded their assessment, Macnab said: ‘I do believe you’re the only Catholic in the group,’ to which Zave replied: ‘From what I hear, you’ll all be joinin’ me within the week. If you want land.’

  There was another factor which differentiated the group, as Campbell pointed out: ‘Northern, against slavery but quiet about it, maybe nine. Southern, for slavery and ready to fight if you speak against it, maybe fourteen.’

  Macnab volunteered two final guesses: ‘Every man who can read, save you and me, Zave, has brought his quota of books, and all but one seems to be fond of strong drink.’ The abstemious one was Campbell, who explained in a loud voice: ‘I used to love it too much. But once you’ve been a bartender, you know the dangers. And if I got started again, I’d be as bad as an Irishman.’ The cabin laughed at this, for all could appreciate its relevance: of this contingent of thirty adults, all but Campbell had reached America after family affiliation with the Protestants of Northern Ireland.

  They were Scots-Irish, the whole cantankerous bundle of them, with all the turbulent, wonderful capabilities that the name implied.

  Following these ruminations, Macnab went on deck to be with his son as Otto peered into the darkness, hoping for a glimpse of the long sand finger which delineated Matagorda Bay. He had been there only a few moments when a commotion erupted in the cabin, and when voices rose and oaths reverberated, he hurried back to find a gentleman from Alabama shouting: ‘Why can’t Mexico ever do anything right? Why didn’t they tell us?’

  ‘Now, now, Templeton! The solution is an easy one.’

  ‘Not if they propose to deprive me of my property.’

  ‘It says that, to be sure, but …’

  ‘Why weren’t we told?’ the Alabama man shouted, and Finlay wondered what could threaten him half as much as the danger which hung over the Macnabs: the loss of their entire investment.

  ‘What you do, Templeton, is what we’ve all done.’

  ‘But why weren’t we warned?’

  ‘In a new land, you learn one thing at a time. Now you’re learning that Mexican law absolutely forbids slavery and outlaws the importation of any slave.’

  ‘Damned good law,’ a man from the North growled, but softly enough so that Templeton did not hear. That outraged gentleman asked: ‘If niggers are outlawed, how are you bringing yours in?’

  ‘By the simple tactic we all use to import our property,’ the conciliator said, and he spread upon the cabin table a set of papers, carefully drawn, which both amazed and delighted the man from Alabama: ‘Capital! Can I do this?’

  ‘We’ve all done it,’ and the Southerners had. Bowing to the irrevocable law that banned slavery throughout Mexico on pain of severe punishment —and Mexico was one of the first nations to enact such a law—the Southerners had devised a foolproof tactic, and Mr. Templeton now put it into effect. Carefully copying the documents laid before him, he penned seven forms replete with legal language, then summoned his seven slaves, but the captain of the sloop warned: ‘We allow no niggers in the cabin,’ so he went on deck, where he collected his slaves, handed each in turn a pen, and commanded him or her to make a mark signifying acceptance of the terms spelled out in the paper:

  Being a free man/woman, of my own free will and determination I do hereby indenture myself to Mr. Owen Templeton, formerly of Tarsus, Alabama, for a term of ninety-and-nine years, and do further promise to obey his stipulations on the terms hereby agreed to and for the wages set between us until such time as my indenture is discharged. Obijah, male 27 years, scar on left shoulder, his mark, 16 October 1831.

  Each of the Templeton slaves stepped forward and bound himself or herself for this term of ninety-nine years, the period settled upon decades earlier when a Mississippi judge handed down the opinion that if an indenture ran for more than that period, it would be unreasonable.

  The passengers slept fitfully that night, and long before daybreak, Otto was back on watch. As black shaded into gray, and gray into a pale rose, the boy peered intently toward the west, and before the others were awake he started shouting: ‘Land! Land!’ Then everyone, free and slave alike, hurried to the railing to see their new homeland looming out of the morning mists, and they were struck silent by the sight before them.

  The Carthaginian had made landfall opposite a finger of land no more than fifteen inches above the surface of the water and of no useful purpose whatever. There was not a single dwelling, not a tree, not a rock, not a person, not an animal. It was covered with low grass that sometimes moved softly in the breeze, but the grass, which had to fight salt air, was not nutritious, so none of the famed wild cattle of Texas roamed it. Desolate, windblown, inhospitable, the great sandbars of Texas served only to keep ships from shore and would-be settlers from their homes.

  The land was flat, not piled in interesting dunes as on other shorelines of the world, and beyond it the great bays it enclosed were also flat, not etched in leaping waves, and beyond the bays, when the eye could see so far, the mainland itself was utterly flat, with never a tree or a rise or a real hill visible anywhere. It was a land of sheer emptiness
and as forbidding as any which had ever rebuffed a group of incoming settlers.

  ‘Look!’ Mr. Templeton of Alabama cried. ‘A bird!’ And all eyes turned to watch this precious creature, this one proof that life could be sustained in Texas, as it flew from north to south along the vast sandbar. Otto, stunned by the terrible loneliness of his new home, watched the bird for a long time, and it was he who first sighted the tree.

  Far down on another sandbar, its crown almost blending with the sea, rose one solitary tree. Of the millions of seeds which through the generations had fallen on this desolate spot, this one seed had attached itself to some brief accumulation of nourishing soil and had survived, withstanding wind and storm as if it wished to be a hopeful signal to those like the Macnabs and their friends who would later approach by sea. There was no entrance into the bay where the tree stood, and no passage anywhere in its vicinity, but the tree was more appreciated that morning than a lighthouse, and the immigrants watched it with relief and affection, for it was the only familiar sight to welcome them to their land of freedom.

  The Carthaginian spent most of that day working its way through the perilous entrance to Matagorda, and as predicted, the passengers saw two more wrecks, not big schooners shattered on rocks as they would have been at Hatteras or Cape Cod, but small sailing ships first trapped in sand, then turned over on their beam ends by succeeding waves, immobilized and knocked to pieces by the sea.

  In late afternoon the sloop was safely inside the reef, with passengers cheering the cleverness of their captain, but now many hours of sailing to the west still lay before them, for the bay was vast. It was next morning before land was finally reached at the new town of Linnville, where Mexican port authorities waited. Linnville consisted of three wooden shacks, hastily thrown together, with chinks big enough for a hand to reach through.

  One of the houses served as a store, but its surly proprietor, an American down on his luck, could offer only strips of sun-baked beef, two flitches of bacon, some rope, some nails and a jar of sugar candies. Indeed, he was much more interested in buying things from the newcomers than in selling to them, and he had ample funds for his purchases, Spanish coins principally.

  Mexican authorities occupied the other two houses, and they were even more surly than the storekeeper. A Mexican law passed the previous year had banned all immigration from the United States, for the danger of unlimited influx was appreciated. But because of his enthusiastic adherence to Mexico, Stephen Austin had been exempted; he was permitted to bring in a few selected settlers, so grudgingly the customs officers had admitted the white arrivals but turned away the blacks. Then agitated Southerners cried: ‘They’re not slaves! They’re free men, indentured for a few years.’ And when Stephen Austin himself supported this interpretation, they were accepted.

  Each newcomer was asked if he had been born a Catholic, and since the greater part had reached America via Northern Ireland, only Zave Campbell could claim right of entry, which was quickly promised: ‘The alcalde in Victoria will give you papers.’ The Protestants must report to the same official: ‘He’ll arrange for the Catholic padres to supervise your conversions.’

  When Finlay handed these Linnville officials the beautiful sheet of embossed paper that testified to his ownership of land, they guffawed, for during the past two years they had seen many such worthless certificates: ‘Nada, señor, nada.’ And other Mexicans crowded about the table to laugh and assure the yanqui that his paper really was nothing: ‘Es nada, señor. Es absolutamente nada.’ One of the officials was about to tear it up, but Macnab rescued it, thinking to proffer it in Victoria as proof of his honest intentions.

  Otto enjoyed the tedious walk to Victoria, but no one else did; he marked the soft variations in the flat wasteland: ‘Look how that shrub stays protected behind the little rise of sand!’ He was delighted by the way deer traveled parallel to the immigrants, always at a safe distance, and twice he saw wild horses, those small mustangs that could run with such impetuosity. On instructions from his father, he kept constant watch for that first line of trees which would mark where men could live and farm, but none appeared. ‘This is awful flat,’ he said. ‘And so lonely. Is all of Texas …?’ He did not finish his question, for his father was obviously distressed by this terrible bleakness, this endless sea of softly waving grass: ‘And now look at that storm!’

  Big Zave, staring at the ominous black clouds sweeping in from the west, growled: ‘So this is the land of milk and honey they told us about. I don’t even see one bee, let alone a cow.’

  ‘Otto!’ Finlay called out. ‘Cover yourself with a blanket. We’re to be soaked.’

  Across that endless, unrelieved grassland came a tumultuous rainstorm, immense sheets of dark and splashing water which drenched them until the two men groaned, but Otto, keeping his eyes to the ground, saw that hiding beneath the grass were hundreds upon hundreds of lovely autumn flowers: blue, white, golden yellow, fiery orange, the brightest red. ‘Look!’ he cried, and the men bent down to inspect the watery garden he had discovered. Soon the storm passed overhead, allowing the sun to reappear above the western horizon. When the travelers wiped the water from their faces they saw, hanging in the eastern sky, a perfect rainbow, a grand multicolored are which they could almost reach out and touch.

  ‘Look!’ Otto cried. ‘We’re going to walk right into it.’

  Upon a bed of flowers, with the sky ablaze about them, they walked into the Texas they had dreamed of, until even Zave was awed by the beauty: ‘Maybe the Mexicans don’t welcome us, Otto, but the land sure does.’

  In Victoria the Macnabs learned two things: ‘This town and everything as far as you can travel … it all belongs to the De Leóns. Spanish only spoken here. So you become full Mexican or you perish.’ The other bit of knowledge disturbed Finlay equally: ‘Señor Macnab, I speak little English, believe me. If you convert with our two Mexican priests … long walk to the mission, many times, many questions. Very severe,’ and the speaker pounded his fist into his hand. Then he smiled: ‘But at Quimper’s Ferry … maybe you catch Father Clooney if he’s out of jail. He make you Catholic. Very nice … very sweet man.’

  Mexican officials quickly satisfied Macnab that his scrip was worthless, but they displayed none of the harshness he had encountered in the first office at the shore. ‘Señor Macnab,’ said an officer who spoke English elegantly, ‘we want American settlers. That is, if you build your house at least ten leagues inland from the sea. Especially we want fine lads like your son. So you are welcome to apply in the regular fashion, but only if you’ve converted to our faith. Then you pay only a modest amount for your land. Stamped paper, two dollars. My commissioner’s fee, seventeen dollars. The empresario’s fee, about twenty-five. And the surveyor’s fee, which cannot exceed one hundred and fifty dollars. We want you, but only on our terms.’

  Ironically, Zave Campbell received entitlement to his land within half an hour of registering, for he had cleverly brought with him testimonials from two Catholic priests, one who had been doing missionary work among the derelicts of Under-the-Hill, one a cleric in New Orleans well regarded by the Mexican authorities. Zave did not receive a specific allocation; he would be free to choose that later, but he did now possess an impressive document which permitted him to choose his quarter-league, about a thousand acres, from whatever lands in De Leon’s tract had not already been bespoken.

  The problem now arose as to where Zave should claim his land, but Macnab prevailed upon him to delay the selection until he, Finlay, could get to Quimper’s Ferry and make himself eligible through conversion; then they could choose together. Campbell, however, was hungry for his entitlement and would have designated it as soon as he could find a surveyor, except that he discovered an alluring technicality: ‘Finlay, did you hear what they said at the alcalde’s? I have my quarter-league, but I can have a whole league-and-a-labor if I find me a Mexican wife. Nearly five thousand acres. You go to Quimper’s. I’ll look around here.’


  ‘For land?’

  ‘No, for a wife.’

  So the Macnabs, with their dog Betsy, moved northeast through land that began to look as if it might be tillable, and the more they saw of the terrain the more eager they became to get their share. Now there was a slight roll to the prairies, a differentiation between this good area and that; there were trees, too, not noble ones like those in Ohio, but real trees nevertheless. Wild horses they saw frequently, and on two occasions they spotted large herds of cattle, lean, rangy beasts with enormous horns, waiting, it seemed, for someone to claim them. It was a rich, varied Texas they saw on this trip, and no part was stranger than the bottomlands bordering some insignificant stream where towering canebrakes, a wild growth much like sugarcane but worthless, grew in such tangled profusion that earlier travelers had been required to hack tunnels through them.

  To enter such a dark passageway, with the path scarcely wide enough for one to move, and to see the cane tops meeting in an archway far above the head was tedious for Finlay, delightful for Otto: ‘It’s a dungeon, Poppa! We’re going to meet the dragon, like the King of Crete.’

  Freed at last of the brakes, they intercepted the Brazos River some miles downstream from Quimper’s Ferry, and even this far inland the stream gave the impression of being navigable for another hundred miles, but when Finlay looked more closely he saw it to be clogged with sunken trees and jagged stumps that prohibited vessels. Seeking always to instruct his son in the necessary arts, he asked: ‘How wide is the river?’ and Otto guessed: ‘Maybe three hundred feet.’

  ‘No, I mean exactly how wide,’ and to the boy’s delight he explained: ‘All a surveyor needs is three trees, A, B and C. A is that one on the far bank which you can’t get to, B is here on this bank. Now find C along there that makes a right angle with B and an angle of forty-five degrees with A.’ Next he showed his son how, by folding a piece of paper, he could accurately determine each angle.