Michener, James A.

by Texas

  It still retained its roof, though probably not for much longer, and its facade was sturdy, with a wooden entrance that must often have been barricaded when the Apache attacked. It was an honorable relic, testifying to the courage of the missionaries who had stubbornly tried to pacify this part of Texas.

  For me the most rewarding segment of the trip now began, for our cars skirted the mission ruins to pick up a trail which appeared on none of our maps. It wound its way due north for eighteen miles along the Rio Grande, so that whenever we looked to our left we saw the mountains of Mexico. Over the intercom we heard our young woman from SxMU ask Ranger Macnab: 'Tell us the truth. Does this trail lead anywhere, or is this a kidnapping?' and he replied: 'We're heading for the end of the world.'

  When we stopped we found ourselves in the adobe village of Candelaria, where the pretensions of Texas and the United States ended, for this was one of the loneliest and most inaccessible settlements along the southern border, with people living much as they had in the previous century.

  But to me it was compelling, a view of Texas that few ever saw, and my heart beat faster when Berninghaus said: 'Imagine, an international border, and from here, for more than a hundred miles, nothing.' But what delighted our staff was the fact that when we strolled down to the Rio Grande, that river with the magical name, it was so narrow and shallow that a tattered rope-and-wire suspension bridge sufficed to cross it. And as we looked, a pantalooned workman from Mexico carrying a battered gasoline tin with handles came across its swaying planks to purchase some commodity in Candelaria.

  'Behold the commerce of great empires!' Berninghaus cried, and we stood silent, confused by the hugeness of Texas and the meanness of its historic river. I think we were all gratified when Berninghaus explained the anomaly: 'We Americans in New Mex-

  ico and Texas take so much water out of the Rio Grande for irrigation that if this little stream were allowed to run toward the Gulf in this condition, it would simply disappear. But at a spot near Presidio, a large Mexican river joins up, the Rio Conchos. So the fabled Rio Grande, which we admire so much downstream, should more accurately be called the Conchos. It's mostly Mexican.'

  Then came a clatter from the town, and he said: 'I think they've arrived,' and when we returned to our cars we found that students from Sul Ross had brought a picnic lunch for us and had spread it on blankets under a tree.

  There will be no speeches,' Berninghaus assured us. 'I wanted you to imagine yourselves as Spanish immigrants coming here to settle, four hundred years ago. I wanted you to see the great empty Texas that they saw.'

  On the trip back, following an unmarked trail through mountains and canyons, I noticed that Berninghaus maintained a sharp lookout, and finally he announced: 'If I remember correctly, it's in the next valley that our little cheerleaders climb the hillside,' and when we reached the crest from which we could look across to the opposite hill we saw a bewitching sight, for the entire hill from creek to crest was covered with something I could not identify.

  'Look at them, the golden leaves at the bottom, the beautiful green at the top. And tell me what they are if they aren't a gaggle of girl cheerleaders in the stadium on a bright autumn day.'

  From a distance, that's what they were, a host of girls in the green-and-gold of their team, scattered at random over a sloping field of some fifty acres, as jaunty a performance as nature provided.

  'What are they?' one of the students asked, and Berninghaus said: 'Sotols. Dead leaves golden at the foot, new leaves green at the top. I feel better about life whenever I enter this valley.'

  So for sixty miles along a forsaken road we picked our way toward Marfa, one of the choice cattle towns of the West, with a flawless courthouse. There we turned east, and when we reached the outskirts of Alpine, to which most of us now wanted to move, we saw our third sign:

  U.N. OUT OF U.S. U.S. OUT OF TEXAS

  A

  S SOON AS IT WAS CONSONANT WITH HIS UNDERSTANDING

  of military honor, Persifer Cobb resigned his commission in Vera Cruz, but when he submitted his papers to General Scott's aide, Brigadier Cavendish of Virginia, the latter tried to dissuade him: 'Colonel Cobb, since the days of Washington we've always had a Cobb among our leaders. We can't let you leave.'

  'I will never again accept the humiliation I've had to suffer in this war. Deprived of a rightful command. Sentenced to work with those Texans.'

  'Are you aware that we've sent your name up for promotion?'

  'Too late.'

  'You mean you won't accept it if it comes through?'

  Cobb was polite but resolute: 'No, sir.' He thanked Cavendish for his concern and was about to leave when the brigadier pushed back his chair, rose, and took him by the arm: 'Perse, my dear friend . . .'

  In the formal discussion it had been 'Colonel Cobb,' as was proper, and this sudden switch to the familiar unnerved Persifer, who mumbled 'Yes, sir' with the respect he always accorded superior rank.

  'Could we walk, perhaps?'

  'Of course, sir.'

  In the public park that fronted the sun-blinded Gulf of Cam-peche the two officers stared for some moments at that bleak fortress out in the bay, San Juan de Ulua, where Mexican prisoners sentenced in Vera Cruz rotted in their dark dungeons. 'How would you like seven years in there?' Cavendish asked.

  i have much different plans.'

  'Then you won't change your mind? You're definitely leaving?'

  i decided that two years ago ... at least.'

  'And I understand your bitterness. But do you understand why we cannot lose you?'

  'I can think of no reasons.'

  'I can.' Very cautiously the Virginian looked about him, as if spies might have been planted even in this Mexican port city. Taking Cobb by the arm, he drew him closer and said in a con-

  ARKANSAS

  Caddo Lake

  RED RIVER RAFT

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  MISSISSIPPI

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  Birmingham

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  San Augustine
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  spiratorial whisper: 'Many of us are looking ahead.' Then, fearing that Cobb was not alert enough to have caught the signal, he continued: 'We're on a collision course.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Two irresistible forces—South, North.'

  'You think . . .'

  'I see it in signs everywhere. I read it in the papers. Even my family hints when they write.'

  is it that bad?'

  'Worse. The North will never stop its aggressive pressure, and if it intensifies, as I'm sure it will, we'll have to leave the Union, and that means . . .'

  Cobb had not interrupted. The brigadier had hesitated because as a loyal officer he was loath to utter the word, so Cobb said it for him: 'War?'

  inevitable. And that's why it's important to keep in uniform. Because when the moment of decision comes . . .'

  Cobb, reluctant to contemplate another war so soon after finishing one he had found so distasteful, tried to end the conversation, but Cavendish, having parted the veil that hid the future, kept it boldly open: 'Each man in uniform will have to decide. Men like

  SOUTH CAROLINA

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  Montgomery a,

  BAMA

  GEORGIA

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  A T LA N T i C OCEAN

  COTtOM TRAIL

  me, we'll fight for the South till snow covers Richmond sixty feet deep. Stupid bullies like some we know, they'll stay with the North. I suppose men like Robert Lee will, too, out of some sense of loyalty to West Point. But really able men like Jefferson Davis, Braxton Bragg, Albert Sidney Johnston, they'll give their lives to defend Southern rights. And you must be with us.'

  i'm still s
ending in my resignation,' Cobb said, and he returned to his quarters, where packing had to be completed before reporting to the waiting ship.

  When he stepped ashore at New Orleans, a civilian, and saw the mountain of cotton bales ready for shipment to Liverpool, where world prices were set, he was eager to hurry back to his family plantation on Edisto Island and assume command of its cotton production. Prior to enrolling at the Point he had known a good deal about cotton, for the Cobb plantation had for many decades produced the best in the world: the famed Sea Island, with the longest fibers known and a black, shiny seed which could be easily picked clean even before the invention of the gin.

  As soon as he had located a hotel and arranged for his journey northeast, he asked the way to the offices of a journal which his family had read since 1837 and to which cotton growers looked for

  guidance. When he introduced himself to the editor of New Orleans Price Current, a scholar from Mississippi, he was warmly greeted: 'A Cobb from Edisto. Never expected to see one in my office. You are most welcome, sir.'

  i'm returning home after military service and wanted to learn how things are going in the trade.'

  'Never worse.'

  'Do you mean it?'

  The editor slid his yearly report across the desk, and before Cobb had finished the third paragraph he grasped the situation:

  The commercial revolution which had prostrated credit in Great Britain, and which subsequently spread to nearly all parts of the Continent of Europe, and to the Indies, put a sudden check to our prosperous course . . A still more severe blow was given by the startling intelligence of a revolution in France, and the overthrow of the monarchy. This movement of the people in favor of popular rights rapidly spread to other countries of Europe, and in the tumultuous state of political affairs, commercial credit was completely overthrown and trade annihilated . . .

  All this produced a more rapid depreciation in the price of cotton than we remember ever to have witnessed. At Liverpool sales were made at lower rates than were ever before known for American cotton . . Many English mills simply shut down, while others were compelled to resort to part-time working . . .

  Cobb, feeling his mouth go dry, asked: 'How bad is it?' and the editor handed him the price report for Middling as sold at New Orleans: 'Here's how bad it is.'

  As Cobb took the paper he asked: 'What do you figure it costs to raise and deliver a pound of cotton these days?' and the expert replied: 'With care, seven cents.' When Cobb saw the record he felt dizzy: 3 September 1847 r 12%^ and a modest profit; 26 November, after the first flood of bad news, IV24, right at the no-profit level; 28 April 1848, when Europe was falling apart, 6^, which meant a cash loss on each sale.

  'Do you see any relief?' Cobb asked, and the editor pointed to his explanatory notes for this dismal year:

  . . . The Royal Bank of Liverpool suspended business.

  . . . Numerous business houses of great antiquity and reputation closed.

  . . Many contracts with American shippers voided without recourse.

  . . . Forced abdication of King Louis Philippe from throne of France.

  ... All Europe in worst condition since 1789.

  . . . Angry mobs of Chartists threaten the peace in England.

  . . . Population of Ireland in an unruly mood.

  'Surely,' Cobb protested, 'our marvelous victory in Mexico must have affected the market favorably,' but with his ruler the editor pointed to a minor note at the very end of his gloomy report: 'This shows how the rest of the world evaluated your war. "Our own war with Mexico was brought to a successful close by Mexico's cession of California &c. to the U.S." '

  'What can be done?' Cobb asked.

  'You long-staple Sea Island men, you don't have to worry.' He showed Cobb his summary: South Carolina short staple, 280,671 five-hundred-pound bales, 7 9 /W; they lost a fortune on that. Sea Island long staple, 18,111 bales, much of it from Edisto; price held reasonably firm, 9Vi
  And there was the difference: short staple, eight cents; long staple, nineteen cents, and Edisto grew only the long. Other plantations, of course, would have grown Sea Island had their land permitted, but it did not, and they were condemned to growing the more difficult and less profitable short.

  'Haven't you a brother in Georgia who grows short?' the editor asked, and Persifer smiled: 'A cousin. My father's brother became insulted over some fancied grievance years ago, about 1822 if I recall, and off he trundled to Georgia, predicting that he'd make a fortune. But of course he couldn't grow Sea Island up in those red hills. He was stuck with short, and he's never done too well with it.'

  'Why didn't he return to Edisto?'

  'When a Cobb leaves, he leaves.'

  'Did you say you were leaving the army?'

  'I did.'

  'But in case of trouble . . .' The editor paused exactly as Brigadier Cavendish had paused.

  Cobb, who had refused to consider such a possibility in Vera Cruz, now responded as an honorable soldier would: if real trouble threatened the Union, of course I'd report. So would you.' A long silence ensued, and it was obvious that neither man wished to be the one to break it. Then the editor surprised Cobb by switching subject matter dramatically.

  'Your cousin in Georgia should study this,' and he shoved a provisional report into Cobb's hands, i was going to print it in this

  year's summary, but I wanted to verify some of the amazing statistics." And Cobb read:

  AVERAGE YIELD PER ACRE (ACTUAL) OF COTTON CROP IN NINE STATES

  'Could these figures be real?' Cobb asked, astonished by that last line. 'We think so,' the editor said, 'but we're going to double certify. If they prove out, we'll print them. So you and your cousin both ought to move to Texas. Looks as if it's to be our major cotton state.'

  When Cobb started to ridicule the idea, the editor returned to his gloomy summary, tapping it with his pen: 'The lesson, Cobb, is that cotton prospers, and you and I prosper, when things around the world are kept in order. Why would the French throw out a perfectly good king? Why would the damned Chartists raise trouble in England, along with those idiotic revolutionaries in the Germanys and the Austrian Empire? For that matter, you tell me why the abolitionists are allowed to rant and rave in this country?'

  'They'd better not rant and rave in South Carolina.' In swift, inevitable steps Persifer Cobb had progressed from being against any war, to defending the Union in case of trouble, to championing the South.

  'The world would be so much better off,' the editor said, 'if only people would remain content with things as they are. Tell me, in Texas did you hear any agitation against slavery?'

  'In Texas I heard nothing except the buzz of mosquitoes.'

  'I envy you that plantation on Edisto. One of the world's best.'

  T aim to keep it that way.'

  Edisto Island was a lowlying paradise formed in the Atlantic Ocean by silt brought down the Edisto River, a meandering stream that wound its way from the higher lands of South Carolina. An irregular pentagon about ten miles long on the ocean side, the island's highest elevation was six feet and its dominant physical

  characteristic large groves of splendid oak trees, some deciduous but most live, which were decorated with magnificent pendants of Spanish moss. Its fields were miraculously productive, with soil so soft and even that it could be plowed with a teaspoon.

  About fifty white people lived on the island's great plantations, and fifteen hundred black slaves. Except for small family gardens and some acreage of rice, the only crop grown was Sea Island cotton: sown in March, ginned in September, shipped to Liverpool in Edisto ships in January.

  Every white family who owned a plantation home on Edisto— handsome affairs, with white pillars supporting the porch—also maintained a grander home along The Battery in Charleston, twenty-four miles away. In that congenial city the spacious life of the Carolina planter unfolded, and Cobb was most eager to renew his acquaintance with it. Both his father and his wife would be in Charleston, and he
longed to see them, but he felt it his duty to report first to the plantation, where his brother would be in charge.

  He liked Somerset, four years younger than himself, and had felt no qualms about turning the plantation over to him when he enrolled at West Point. His letters from the Mexican War had testified to their continuing rapport—they were more like those of a friend than of an older brother—and he was impatient to see Sett, as the family called him.

  He therefore ended his homeward journey at a road junction some twenty miles west of Charleston; here the Cobbs maintained a small shack in which lived an elderly slave whose duty it was to drive members of the family down the long road to the ferry that would carry them across to Edisto. This slave bore the extraordinary name of Diocletian, because an earlier Colonel Cobb had loved Roman history, believing the gentlefolk of the South to be the descendants of Romans. He had named all his house servants after the emperors, except his personal servant-butler-valet, whom he invariably called Suetonius, on the logical grounds that 'Suetonius was responsible for all we know about the first Caesars. He wrote the book. So you, Suetonius, damn your hide, are responsible for all the Caesars in this house.' He usually worked it so that he had twelve house servants, which permitted him to make the joke: 'My Suetonius and his Twelve Caesars.'

  Diocletian, an artful onetime house slave who knew that his welfare depended upon keeping various masters pacified, created the impression of being deliriously happy at seeing the colonel home from the wars. 'Get dem horses!' he shouted at his sons. 'We gwine carry Gen'ral Cobb to de ferry!' But when he was alone with