The Black Jacks

by Jason Manning

  Chapter Five

  Austin, the new capital city of the Republic of Texas, had originally been known as Waterloo. Ringed by wooded hills on the north bank of the broad Colorado River, the site had been selected on land which had been part of the Spanish grant given Stephen F. Austin for his colony, and everyone agreed it was only fitting that the capital be named in honor of the late lamented "Father of Texas." In fact, that was the only name everybody could agree on. In the spring of 1839, the town site was surveyed and construction of public buildings commenced. Three hundred lots were sold at auction that summer. The government arrived in October. In less than a year's time, Austin could boast of a population nearing one thousand souls. As one observer wrote, "The city of Austin, like Aladdin's Palace, seemed to have arisen in a night."

  The street nearest the river and running parallel to it was named, appropriately enough, Water Street. At the eastern end of Water stood the Armory Block, which contained an armory, barracks, warehouses, barns, and corral—all for an army that existed, for the most part, in the minds of wishful thinkers at the War Department. Between Water Street on the south and North Avenue at the community's opposite extremity, the east-west streets were named for trees of Texas, including Live Oak, Cypress, Cedar, Pine, Pecan, Bois d'Arc, Hickory, Ash, and Mulberry. The exception was College Street, which ran through the middle of town and intersected Capital Square. North-south streets, named for Texas rivers, included Nueces, Guadalupe, Lavaca, Colorado, Brazos, San Jacinto, Trinity, Neches, and Sabine. Congress Avenue was a broad thoroughfare leading to the one-story frame capital building, surrounded by a stockade to protect it from Indian attack, and occupying the tree-studded Capital Square. Cannon were aimed down Congress in order to deal raiding redskins a dose of grapeshot.

  On either side of Congress, similarly unprepossessing frame shacks housed the republic's Departments of State, Navy, Treasury, and War, the offices of the adjutant general and quartermaster general. A much grander structure than these was the private residence which President Lamar had built on San Jacinto Street, two blocks east of Congress and three hundred yards southeast of the capitol building. He could afford such a place, since his first budget provided $10,000 for his own salary, a credible increase over the paltry $1,000 a year allocated to Sam Houston during his term in office.

  Austin sat on the very rim of the frontier, terribly exposed to Indian and Mexican depredation. Hostiles were known to prowl the outskirts. No man who valued his scalp dared venture beyond the city limits without his gun. But Lamar believed that the establishment of the capital one hundred and fifty miles inland would attract settlers away from the crowded coastal region. Besides, he could not abide conducting affairs of state in the former capital, which had been named in honor of his political nemesis, Sam Houston, that "preposterous Vulgarian."

  In the spring of 1840, Austin could boast of nine stores, nine taverns, six gambling dens, eighty homes, and six inns, including the old Bullock Hotel on Pecan Street just west of Congress. There were, however, no churches. The chargé d'affaires of the French government—the first to recognize the sovereignty of the Republic of Texas—had plans to erect an embassy at a likely spot. But for now he resided at Bullock's, even though he despised the innkeeper's pigs, who in their turn resided in an odiferous sty behind the hotel. Nonetheless, Bullock's was by far the best available accommodations in Austin.

  Austin's most classically minded boosters pointed out that, like Rome, the republic's new capital stood upon seven hills overlooking a sparkling river. Far better, believed President Lamar and his backers, than that sinkhole of sin and dissipation on the banks of Buffalo Bayou, where the previous chief magistrate of Texas had incompetently carried out his duties as head of state. How appropriate that the town of Houston, with its horse racing, brothels, and forty-seven—count them!—saloons, should be named after the Big Drunk himself, the most profligate Texan of them all. Austin, on the other hand, was a shining city upon a hill, destined to become the center of a great Texas empire stretching from the Gulf of Mexico to—if Lamar had his way—the shores of the Pacific.

  Grandiose schemes preoccupied Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar, and on the day that Jonah Singletary came to call, accompanied by the republic's brash and bellicose war secretary, Albert Sidney Johnston, and Texas Ranger Captain Eli Wingate, the president was, as usual, dreaming such dreams.

  While one less familiar with the president's habits than the newspaperman, the war secretary, and the Indian fighter might have expected to find Lamar at the capitol building, they went instead to his private residence, confident that they would find him, as indeed they did, ensconced behind his massively impressive French desk, surrounded by his equally impressive collection of books. Lamar had taken it upon himself to become the patron of the arts in the republic. He dreamed of a splendid university perched upon one of the Austin hills; he had been largely responsible for the naming of Congress Street, Austin's primary east-west artery, which might have seemed off, or perhaps even presumptuous, to those who were aware of no institution within five hundred miles of the Colorado River which merited being called a college. Lamar was a master violinist, and poet of no small talent. But there was enough of the realist in him to know that the republic's first priority was to make the frontier safe. Culture would come later.

  The president stood and greeted his three visitors, then beckoned them to chairs arrayed around the handsome desk. He remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, and fastened his piercing gaze upon the secretary of war.

  "Have you any word of the Comanches, General?"

  "Our scouts report that Yellow Hand's bunch has been seen near the headwaters of the San Saba River."

  Lamar frowned. "Is that all? Nothing more?"

  Johnston shook his head. A graduate of West Point, he had given up a promising military career in the service of the United States upon the untimely death of his young wife and had joined the Texas army as a private. But a man with Johnston's training was not likely to remain at such a lowly rank for very long. Sam Houston had appointed him commander in chief of the army two years ago, replacing Felix Huston, a fiery Mississippi swashbuckler who, in a startling if characteristic display of hubris, had thought to march his troops into Mexico, promising them the wealth of Montezuma as loot, and without the permission of the president. Huston had not surrendered his command with good grace; in fact, he had severely wounded Johnston in a duel.

  Though Johnston owed his promotion to Houston, Lamar knew that the man was no supporter of "The Raven"—the Cherokee name by which Houston was widely known. Johnston had parted with Houston on the subject of the Indian problem. He stoutly opposed Houston's scheme to negotiate a boundary between Texas and the Comanche nation. In Johnston's opinion, that would be giving up a very large portion of the republic to a bunch of savages. Besides, the settlers would never honor such a naive treaty. Lamar was of a like mind.

  "Barely a week before the date set for the council is upon us," fumed Lamar. "Maguara and Yellow Hand and Buffalo Hump all agreed to attend. And they had better, sir, or they shall suffer the consequences."

  "Mr. President," said Singletary, "my readers would like to become acquainted with the terms you propose to offer the Comanche chieftains—assuming any of them show up."

  Lamar looked askance at the editor of the City Gazette. Jonah Singletary was a sardonic, bitter misanthrope, whose caustic pen Lamar felt fortunate to have on his side in the political arena. Still, he did not entirely trust Singletary, because he could not fathom the man's motives. Singletary's only joy in life seemed to be slinging scarlet abuse in his editorials. So far he had spared Lamar and his backers. But why? The question nagged Lamar.

  "I can oblige you there, Jonah," replied the president, his tone so friendly and familiar that one might have thought the two men were brothers rather than uneasy allies. "I intend to impress upon them that unless they surrender all their white captives and refrain from any further hostilities against the citizens
of this republic, I shall unleash the military might of Texas upon them and chastise them unto death, and I shall not rest from this endeavor until the republic is rid of the heathen race."

  "I see," said Singletary. He was inclined to query the president regarding what military might he was referring to. The republic's army barely existed. Lamar had wanted to build and garrison a string of frontier forts from the Red River to the Rio Grande, but he had neither the money nor the men to carry through with that scheme. All Lamar could really count on were the Texas Rangers. But Singletary exercised self-discipline. It would not do to alienate these men by administering to them, dreamers all, a cold dose of reality.

  "The problem may be," he said, "that these heathens cannot comprehend how it came to pass that the land over which they have reigned supreme for generations now belongs to us by dint of a little scrape on the banks of the San Jacinto River."

  Lamar eyed the editor suspiciously, and Singletary, apprehensive lest he had gone too far, changed the subject. Rising, he proferred a copy of the day's edition of the City Gazette to the president. "I thought, sir, that my remarks concerning certain gentlemen who are currently loitering in the general vicinity of Bullock's Hotel might amuse you."

  Lamar snatched the paper from Singletary's grasp. "What? No doubt you refer to Captain McAllen and his associates." He read for a moment. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. " 'Our fair city is blessed with the continued presence of a hero who served so selflessly the noble cause of Texas independence. I refer, of course, to Captain J. H. McAllen of Brazoria, who, we venture to guess, may be scouting for signs of his beloved wife, who has been known to stray in this vicinity.' "

  "My God, man," said Johnston, aghast. "I'm amazed you're still alive, Singletary. If you wrote about me in such a vein I would have killed you before the ink was dry."

  Singletary merely smiled.

  Lamar read on. " 'In company with the brave captain is Dr. Artemus Tice, that therapeutic vampire who has slain by his notorious malpractice more poor souls than the Yellow Jack carried away two years ago on Galveston Island. McAllen's other companion is unknown to us, but we feel confident in assuming that he is one of that stalwart band of Mississippi hooligans known as The Black Jacks.' "

  "The other man's name is Torrance," said Johnston. "And he is a Black Jack. Yesterday he departed for San Antonio. There is one more. That half-breed that follows McAllen around like a dog. He even sleeps on the floor at the threshold of McAllen's hotel room."

  "Why don't you just come straight out and say it, Singletary," drawled Wingate. "They're Houston's spies."

  Lamar looked up from the City Gazette. The Texas Ranger was sprawled in the chair, a slim and dusty man who carried a Bowie knife and a Colt Paterson revolving pistol in his belt. His squinty eyes were like chips of gray glacier ice beneath the brim of his hat, which he wore indoors in violation of the etiquette of the day. Eli Wingate didn't give a tinker's damn about etiquette—or anything else except killing Indians. He was a grim, silent man who lived for that and that alone. Until his comment to the City Gazette's editor, he had been gazing at Lamar's books as though he were trying to figure out what they were good for.

  Johnston leaned forward. "I still say you should officially outlaw the Black Jacks and every other group like them, Mr. President. In essence they are Sam Houston's private army, and as such present a threat to this republic."

  "You mean this administration," remarked Singletary.

  Lamar sighed and dropped the newspaper on his desk. "I would like nothing better. But now is not the time, General. A transparent ruse, and the people would see right through me. No, until they overstep their bounds I can do nothing of the kind."

  He turned to a parchment map of Texas, made in 1838, framed on the wall behind his desk, in an alcove between the towering bookcases. "Cast your eyes upon this map, gentlemen, and you will see why the Comanches must be dealt with, and swiftly. We are on the edge of civilization here, and until the Comanches are vanquished, we will remain so. The republic will not expand. The savages create an obstacle to the expansion of Texas sovereignty. Beyond their realm lies Santa Fe—and California. Mexico is too weak to hold on to her northern provinces, and we must have them for Texas, before some other country seizes them."

  "I have one more question, sir," said Singletary. "Will you be going to San Antonio to personally address the Comanche chieftains?"

  "My secretary, John Morris, will deliver my message to them. Captain Wingate will accompany Mr. Morris with his Ranger company, to ensure the peace." Lamar turned to the papers on his desk. "Now, if you have nothing further to discuss with me, gentlemen, I must get back to the affairs of state."

  Outside, on San Jacinto Street, Secretary Johnston bade Singletary and Wingate a brisk farewell and started off with long strides, bound for the War Department building.

  "What I don't savvy," said Wingate, checking the street and then the sky and then the street again, like a man who expects trouble but just isn't sure from what quarter it will come, "is why McAllen hasn't called you out on account of what you've written about his wife."

  Singletary smiled. "Perhaps because the pen is mightier than the sword, Captain. However, I am somewhat curious myself on that score. I think I shall go ask him."

  Wingate peered at him, startled. "You'll stay clear of McAllen if you know what's good for you."

  "Where is your sense of adventure, Captain? Come along with me, and we shall see what McAllen has to say for himself."

  Wingate's eyes glittered like sunlight on cold steel. "Sure, why not? I'll come along."

  "I knew you would. You don't care for him, do you?"

  "McAllen? Not a bit. He's Houston's man. And Houston wants to make peace with the Injuns. Anybody who wants to do that is no friend of mine."

  "Because the Comanches killed your brother and his entire family."

  "All but his little girl. They took her captive. She'd have been better off had they killed her, too."

  "Strikes me odd," remarked Singletary, as they began to walk, "that President Lamar would put an Indian killer like you in charge of a peace council?"

  Eli Wingate did not respond.

  As they approached the Bullock Hotel, they could see that, as had been the case for nearly a week now, John Henry McAllen was in place on the veranda. Almost everyone who was anyone in Austin passed by Bullock's, located near the center of town, and Singletary had it on good authority that quite a few prominent persons—most of them Houston partisans, or neutral taking a moderate stance between Houston's "Peace Party" and Lamar's "War Party"—had dropped by to engage McAllen in conversation. McAllen, mused the newspaperman, looked like a caged tiger on the hotel veranda. This was a man of action, unaccustomed to idling away the hours in a cane chair, drinking Kentucky bourbon and smoking Havana cigars and watching the world go by. Old, rumpled Dr. Artemus Tice was at his side, reading the day's edition of the City Gazette, a corncob pipe gripped in his teeth. The half-breed named Joshua sat on the porch steps, whittling on a stick. He looked about as friendly as a rattlesnake. But he did not give Singletary pause; the editor strolled right past Joshua and along the veranda to McAllen and Tice.

  "Gentlemen. Please, don't get up."

  "I wasn't going to," said McAllen. His frosty gaze slid past Singletary to the Texas Ranger and did not warm at all. "Hello, Wingate." He spoke with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

  "Singletary," said Tice, amused, "don't you think 'therapeutic vampire' is a bit extreme? I do confess to owning a thumb lancet, and a twelve-blade scarificator, but I'm really not much for bleeding, these days, and haven't practiced cupping, either wet or dry, in years. I think quinine and calomel sufficient for the treatment of malaria, and while I'm no Thomsonian, I do believe there is something to be said for certain herbal remedies. After all, quinine itself is derived from the bark of the cinchona tree, so why not raspberry leaves, spiced bitters, and Lobelia seed? Still, I must admit, 'therapeutic vampire' has a clev
er ring to it."

  Singletary smirked. "I am glad you are not offended, Doctor." He turned to McAllen. "I must say, Captain, that your presence here is a mystery to me. I would wager you have not lingered for this length of time in one place your entire life. You are a pure American, sir. Your accomplishments provide indisputable proof. Born in haste, you finish your education on the run, marry on the wing, make a fortune at a stroke. Your body is a locomotive, your soul a high-pressure engine, your life a shooting star—and death will overtake you like a flash of lightning. And yet here you sit, like a storefront Indian. I cannot help but wonder why."

  "And I wonder why I should answer you," replied McAllen, barely civil. "You have already made my personal affairs your business, and without any assistance from me. Besides, you have never allowed the truth to restrain you."

  "Some of my acquaintances suggest your presence here endangers my health. But I do not hold with that notion. You are an honest man, Captain, that much I willingly concede. And I might have cause for concern if what I printed had been scurrilous lies. But they are not lies. We both know as much."

  "Were you a gentleman I would demand satisfaction," snapped McAllen. "But all of Texas knows you are not."

  "How very southern, sir. I have never aspired to that distinction, no."

  Impatient, Eli Wingate stepped forward, a belligerent cast to his sun-darkened features. "I know why you're here, McAllen. Just as I know that I will see you again in San Antonio. I give you fair warning—stay out of affairs that do not concern you."

  "Peace on the frontier does concern me, sir, and I will go where I please and do what I must to achieve it."

  Wingate glowered. Dislike simmered between the two men, and Singletary decided to defuse the situation before it got out of hand.

  "We will intrude no further upon your leisure, gentlemen," said the newspaperman. "Good day to you both."

  "And good day to you," replied Tice cheerfully. "If you have the need to be purged or bled, Singletary, feel free to call upon me. I will do the honors at no charge. The least I can do for this free advertisement."