“What is her name?” Rosanna asked.
Travis hesitated. “Rebecca,” he said finally. “Rebecca Cummings.”
Rosanna nodded. “Rebecca. Not very different from Rosanna, is it?”
Travis smiled, trying for a note of levity. “Different enough,” he said.
Rosanna’s eyes filled with tears and Travis immediately regretted saying it. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and stepped toward her. She raised her hand, stopping him in his tracks. Rosanna reached into her purse and pulled out a handkerchief of her own. She dabbed her eyes with it and sat silently, composing herself, her face once again freezing into an emotionless mask.
Charlie stayed close by, never taking his eyes from Travis’s face, still showing no emotion of any kind. Rosanna glanced over the document. There was nothing there that she had not read a dozen times before. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she said.
Travis, looking uncomfortable, spoke with some effort. When he did, his voice was raspy. “We have signed the papers.”
“I meant Charlie,” Rosanna said.
“My dear,” Travis said, “I do not intend this harshly, but he should have a manly example in his life.”
She said nothing, but the look she gave him spoke volumes about the kind of “manly example” she expected Travis to be to her son. Travis ignored the look and plowed on. “I have already made arrangements for him to stay with a fine family while I am away: the Ayerses. Wonderful people. The wife is quite a bit younger than the husband but . . .”
Travis stopped. Rosanna was nodding, her eyes brimming with tears.
In a brighter voice, Travis said, “They promoted me to lieutenant colonel. Did I tell you that in the letter?”
“I cannot say I am happy for you, Billy,” his wife replied. Abruptly, she stood up. “Well,” she said a little too loudly, “we have a long way to travel.”
Rosanna knelt and wrapped the boy in her arms, holding him as tightly as she could. Charlie was a little bewildered by the fierce hug and struggled a little to free himself. She finally released him and held both shoulders, looking at him intensely, as if trying to memorize his face. Rosanna then kissed his forehead and took another long look at his face, smoothing the hair back out of his eyes.
Travis could not stand watching their farewell and stood at the window, staring out onto the busy San Felipe street.
“Your father is becoming a rich man,” Rosanna said, “and he will be able to see to your education.” Charlie did not say a word, did not cry, did not exhibit any emotion at all.
Rosanna stood and gazed sadly at her son one more time. Then she took Elisabeth’s hand and, without a word to her former husband, walked out of Travis’s law office. Elisabeth stole one look back at her father as the door closed. Travis stared after them for a moment, then turned to Charlie. He knelt before the boy and stretched his face into a smile. Once again, his voice tried for hearty and enthusiastic.
“We have a tutor,” he said, “to teach you Spanish.” Travis smiled widely, “Hola, Carlos. That means ‘Hello, Charlie.’ ”
Charlie, without a word, sat down in a chair in the corner. He reached into the little satchel that his mother had left with him and pulled out a picture book.
Travis wondered if this was really a good idea after all. He glanced through the window. Across the way, his wife and daughter were walking down the street, and out of his life forever.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The building was low-ceilinged and unpainted. In its center was a rough-hewn platform on which stood a podium. A small plank table sat nearby. Scattered around the walls were a few dozen wooden chairs and some hastily built benches. Every available seat was occupied. Today it was standing room only—and the milling crowd was too angry and agitated to sit, even if there had been more chairs. The room was divided almost evenly between the War Party and the Peace Party.
T. J. Rusk was there. He had come to Texas tracking down some men who had swindled him in a business deal. He never caught up with them, but he fell in love with the territory and decided to make it his home. Just before the siege of Béxar he had organized his own company of volunteers—but they did not quite make it to town in time to take part in the fighting.
Also present was blustery Governor Smith, a former schoolteacher who had fathered nine children with three successive wives. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, Smith was shrill and angry.
Other members of the War Party were James Grant and Mosley Baker, rash, ignorant men who had long been thorns in the side of Santa Anna. Baker had been marked for execution by the dictator but had managed to elude capture. He was there when the other men of Gonzales shouted, “Come and Take It!” and got this revolution off to a noisy start, and he had helped take Béxar back from General Cós.
Grant was a doctor who still spoke with the sometimes impenetrable burr of his native Scotland. He had been in Texas for well over a decade, having originally come to be an empresario and make his fortune selling vast stretches of land to new immigrants. Grant was successful at his business, possibly because he so frequently skirted—and sometimes crossed—the lines of legality. His shady business dealings made Grant many enemies—including Santa Anna, who despised land speculators and ordered many of them arrested and held in Mexican jails. Grant was on Santa Anna’s arrest list but, like his bad-tempered friend Baker, had escaped capture.
On the other side of the coin, and the issue, was David Burnet. He was another one of the original empresarios who were given grants by the Mexican government to bring settlers into Texas. Burnet was the kind of man who neither swore nor drank, but carried a Bible in one pocket and a gun in the other. He could be pretty deadly with either. Back in his native New Jersey, Burnet had earned his living as an accountant. Now, with his angry shock of black hair and a severe beard that circled his massive face like a chin strap, he looked like a fire-and-brimstone evangelist. He worked the crowd like one, too.
Now, Burnet stood imperiously at the podium in the center of the room, bellowing like a preacher at his pulpit. The members of the War Party and the Peace Party sat and stood facing one another on either side of him, glaring across the chasm of their many political disagreements.
“Gentlemen!” Burnet shouted. “Over two years ago, I wrote a petition which proposed a separation of Texas from Coahuila. Many of you in this room signed that petition!”
The room, already noisy, became even louder with the supporting shouts and cheers.
Burnet leaned forward, gripping the podium with both hands, glaring at the politicians surrounding him as if they were lost souls. “But today we want more than simple separation of the states. We want independence for Texas!”
A chorus of boos came from the Peace Party. Most of them supported compromise with Mexico. They considered the desire for independence as a revolutionary act that would certainly end in terrible bloodshed.
Burnet beat on the podium with his bare hands to quiet the room. “But we will win independence only with the support of patriots. Our cause can be irreparably damaged by the wanton acts of a few opportunists who are only out to build their own fortunes at the cost of their country’s freedom!”
A new wave of cheers met his statement—along with an equal number of boos.
Grant was seated beside the small plank table. He stood up and pointed at Burnet. “You want to call me an opportunist?” Grant shouted. “Hell yes, I am an opportunist! Taking Béxar changes everything. We are in control now!”
Governor Smith stood up and attempted to shout over the cheers of the War Party, “We swore allegiance to Mexico under the Federalist constitution of 1824.”
Mosley Baker stood up and interrupted, his veins nearly popping with anger. “Santa Anna tore that document up personally, did he not?” he snarled. “And named himself supreme dictator. The Centralists have changed the rules, and I for one ain’t swearing allegiance to no son-of-a-bitch dictator.”
On Baker’s side of the room the crow
d of men of the War Party clapped their hands, slapped the table or beat their canes on the floor, shouting, “Hear! Hear!” and “Me neither!”
Waving his hands to quiet the room—an impossible task—Governor Smith called out, his voice growing hoarse, “Gentlemen, are we fighting for restoration of the Mexican constitution, or for independence from Mexico?”
It was not the right question to ask this particular room. Half of the men yelled, “Independence!” or “Republic!” The other half shouted, “Constitution!” Both factions raised their voices to their highest volume until the din was nearly unbearable.
Juan Seguin elbowed his way to the front of the crowd and held his hands in the air. Most of the men in the room respected Seguin more than Smith, so they dutifully lowered the noise to a dull, steady roar.
“We can oppose the dictator Santa Anna,” Seguin said, “but as loyal Mexicans.”
Thompson, a charismatic but hopelessly corrupt politician from South Carolina, blustered loudly, staring at Seguin, “I ain’t no Mexican!” Others around the room echoed their agreement.
Seguin raised his hand and continued. “Every man in this room became a Catholic and a Mexican citizen in order to immigrate here.”
This was true, but for almost every man present, the oath had been nothing more than a formality, just a winking response to an archaic regulation. No one had any intention of living up to their new citizenship—not if there was a more profitable alternative.
Seguin said, his voice nearly overwhelmed by the squall of sound, “Sam Houston is general of the army—”
Grant interrupted loudly, “Sir, he is not the general of the men who tasted victory at Béxar!”
The War Party cheered the sentiment.
“And where is Houston, Señor Seguin?” Burnet said sneeringly. “Where is the good general . . . ?”
An empty shot glass hit the table, loudly, in the back room of Ingram’s General Store and Barroom. Sam Houston stood at the bar, alone, and started to pour another shot. His hand shook so badly that he set down the bottle and prepared for another try.
Mathew Ingram, the fifteen-year-old son of the proprietor, was sweeping the main room when he noticed Houston’s palsy. Mathew had silky blond hair and was small for his age. He did not realize that he was staring until Houston caught his gaze. Embarrassed, Mathew cast his eyes to the floor, carefully inspecting the place that he had just swept.
Mathew’s father walked back into the bar, carrying supplies, and said to Houston, “Are you all right?”
“I have about returned to ought,” Houston said with a sardonic grin, “which is a fairly good starting point, actually.” He reached for the bottle again, and made another determined attempt at pouring himself a shot. He nodded at Mr. Ingram. “Obliged to you for asking.”
Juan Seguin entered the barroom, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright San Felipe street to the darkness of this dank closet. When he saw Houston standing there, he shook his head to himself. “Time to go, General,” he said.
Houston ignored Seguin, concentrating hard as he poured from the bottle. He knew that the boy was still watching him surreptitiously, so he made sure Mathew noticed the steadiness of his hand. He did not spill a drop. With a certain air of pride, Houston threw back the shot. He turned to Seguin and said, “Drunk back sober is a miracle of the first order.”
“General?” Seguin said again, a little more urgently.
Houston nodded. “All right, Juan, here I come.” He tossed a coin onto the bar. It was engraved with the likeness of a distinguished-looking man. Under the engraving were carved the words GENERAL ANTONIO LÓPEZ DE SANTA ANNA.
Houston and Seguin walked down the street without speaking. Houston breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh air, his posture and demeanor changing with each step. Every man who saw him turned to watch him pass. Houston was physically bigger than almost any man he met. But the general impression that he was bigger than life was not solely based upon his size. He could have stood a foot shorter and still seemed to fill the street with his presence. Seguin always marveled at it, even as he felt a deep stab of frustration. He had never seen such a born leader—and had never seen a man so prone to squandering his gift of leadership with careless living.
Houston said, “Who is there?”
“Grant, Baker, some of the others,” Seguin said. In as few words as possible, he summed up the general tenor of the meeting, as well as the heated arguments over how next to proceed.
“Goddam fools,” Houston muttered.
Seguin continued, “Now that we have taken Béxar, they want to lead an expedition to Matamoros.”
“Matamoros?” Houston said. “Why in the hell they want to capture Matamoros?”
Matamoros was a port city in Mexico. It held strategic importance because it stood at one of the main gateways to Texas from southern Mexico. It was also believed that the population of the town was opposed to Santa Anna and that there could be many new recruits there for the Texian cause. But perhaps the most compelling reason to take Matamoros was because it was a wealthy city with plenty of money, goods and weapons, all of which were openly coveted by the members of the War Party.
Seguin said to Houston, “They want to loot the port. They have the taste of blood in their mouths.”
At that moment, Travis fell in step with the two men. He was closely followed by Joe, who carried saddlebags. “General Houston,” Travis said, “might you spare me a moment?”
Houston paused and looked at Travis. He said nothing.
Travis was ruffled a little by the lack of response but recovered quickly and said, “Sir, would you reconsider my posting to Béxar? Now that it has been taken back . . . It is just . . . I am a cavalry officer, sir, and my abilities would be better employed outside of a town and old mission.”
Travis nodded to Joe, who opened the saddlebag. Travis pulled out the uniform sketch and showed it to Houston.
“Sir,” Travis said, “I have proposed a legion of cavalry. . . .”
Houston did not look at the drawing. “Place it in writing,” he said.
Travis replied, “I have already done so, sir.”
Joe pulled a packet of papers that he passed to Travis. He offered them to Houston, who did not take them.
Houston looked at Travis with such intensity that it made him uncomfortable. “You are a lawyer, Travis? Are you not?” Houston said.
Travis relaxed a little. “Yes, I am,” Travis said, rather proudly. “As you are, sir.”
Travis looked at Houston expectantly, waiting for the rest of the question.
Houston nodded and patted Travis on the shoulder. “Well,” he said, “God is surely smiling on Texas.”
Travis stopped walking. He realized that he was being patronized. As Joe looked discreetly away, Travis watched as Houston and Seguin continued down the street. Then he turned and walked quietly back to his law office.
When they were a short distance away, Houston said to Seguin, “Explain to me why young men measure themselves with fights instead of yardsticks?”
Seguin said, “Why are you so hard on him?”
Houston looked at Seguin and smiled a little. “Reminds me of me,” he said.
Houston and Seguin walked toward the crowd gathered outside the Public Building. “They are going to want you a bit humble, General,” Seguin said in a whisper.
The crowd spotted him and Houston hesitated, letting Seguin’s comment sink in. There were some hostile stares coming from that room.
“Juan, mi amigo,” Houston said, “I humble myself before God, and there the list ends.”
The crowd parted to let them through.
The Public Building was in near chaos. Men huddled in groups, working over documents, arguing over details. The battle lines were clearly drawn between the Peace Party and the War Party. Burnet stalked the room, seemingly in control. He stepped up to the podium and said loudly, “The question has come to the floor whether to capture M
atamoros. . . .”
Before he could finish the sentence, Burnet saw Houston walk in and lean against a wall. He continued, pointedly speaking in Houston’s direction. “Discussion on the point, which is whether to capture Matamoros.” Men around the room raised their hands or waved their canes, eager to argue their side of the issue or simply to hammer home a point. Burnet scanned the crowd and finally settled on Grant. He pointed at the Scotsman, who stood and gestured toward a large tactical map of Texas and Coahuila that had been nailed to the wall.
“By attacking Matamoros,” Grant said, “we guarantee Texas independence. We hurl the thunder back in the very atmosphere of the enemy, dragging him—and with him, the war—out of Texas.”
The War Party responded with thunderous cheers.
Governor Smith stood up, smirking. “Well, we can certainly guess who has land holdings in the Mexican interior,” he said, “ . . . now worthless.”
Some of the men in the room made hissing sounds.
“This whole council is more corrupt than perdition,” Governor Smith continued. “In war, when spoils are the object, friends and enemies share a common destiny.”
The War Party side of the room erupted in a chorus of boos and catcalls aimed at Smith.
“Spoils?” interjected Baker. He stood up from his chair and stalked toward the podium. “We are talking about guts. About having enough of them to finish the task!”
There were loud cheers from most of the crowd. Houston looked at Seguin, then took in the rest of the room, shaking his head. He slowly started to walk through its midst. All eyes went to him. Almost no one there was glad to see him, but his presence had a profound effect on the proceedings. As they watched him come forward, the boisterous group became quieter than it had been since the meeting started.
“No leadership. No training. Few supplies. Less ammunition.” Houston’s voice was quiet, but carried clearly to every corner of the room.
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