The Black Jacks

by Jason Manning

  But now, finally he told Margaret the secret of his break with Eliza. Before he had entered her life, Eliza had fallen madly in love with a young man who suffered from consumption. The young man was forced to go to another climate for his health, but soon thereafter died. Eliza's family pressured her to marry Houston, then governor of Tennessee and obviously a man destined for fame and fortune. Though she had not gotten over her first love, Eliza gave in. Shortly after the wedding, Houston came home unexpectedly to find Eliza weeping dreadfully over her loved one's old letters. Only then did Houston learn the truth. She confessed that she had married him only for the position he afforded her as wife of a governor. Houston's temper got the better of him. He angrily scribbled his resignation and thrust the paper at Eliza. "Here is your position!" he roared.

  Margaret swore to keep the information a profound secret. She was completely satisfied with her new husband's explanation, and Houston knew instinctively that he could trust her to take his secret to the grave.

  At the wedding reception, some of Margaret's friends sang an ode in honor of Houston, which they had authored, and which they performed to the tune of "The Old Oaken Bucket." The last verse went thus:

  "Our Washington's name has been hallowed in story

  A founder of Freedom's retreat in the West.

  Another has risen to share in his glory—

  The Texian Patriot, our honored guest!"

  Texian patriot? Returning to the hotel room window to gaze once more at Marion's bustling streets, Sam Houston shook his head. The comparison to George Washington was flattering, to be sure, but Houston wondered if even a man of Washington's caliber could save Texas now.

  There was only one thing to do. He would run for president. Lamar must be deposed. Many of Houston's friends had been pressuring him to announce, but he had not done so. His courtship of Margaret Lea had occupied him. But now he made up his mind that as soon as he returned to Texas he would do what his friends wanted. What had to be done.

  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 w
arpath. 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 l
and. 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.