The Raven's Honor

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “And fainted.” She returned the cloth to the basin.

  “I prefer not to remember it that way,” he said.

  “It proved most effective.” Margaret twisted the cloth in her hands and let the water splash and then drip into the basin. “I feared you dead, that I had witnessed the great Sam Houston die in New Orleans. But then you roused yourself, and Grace McMillan said … ‘It is like Lazarus.’ And the Reverend McLean said … ‘Blessed be the Lord.’ And I said … ‘Blessed be Sam Houston.’ That night, I went to bed dreaming that one day I would meet and marry the great Sam Houston.”

  His head shook as Margaret wiped the wounds in his arm and shoulder once more, wrapped them with linen, and then led him back to the rocker.

  “It was the Lord’s hand,” she said.

  He looked up into her beautiful eyes.

  “Who else,” Margaret whispered, “could have brought a seventeen-year-old student on a trip from Marion, Alabama, to New Orleans?”

  A servant called out for her from downstairs.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” he told her.

  “So does Sam Houston.” She left to instruct the Negro on what needed to be packed, and what would remain in Austin.

  Chapter Three

  For as long as Houston could remember, the Cherokees called him Co-lo-neh. It meant the Raven. Some years later, they also called him Oo-tse-tee Ar-dee-tah-skee, which meant the Big Drunk. He spied a pitcher of water, but studied the bottles and jugs on the table in his library. The urge came to him—as it so often did. Rye, bourbon, Scotch, gin, sour mash, brandy, port, scuppernong, and Madeira, plus a homemade concoction that used to be his drink of choice—bitters and orange peel, which he had vowed to be no more spirituous than Margaret’s sweet tea. That had worked, until he slurred his words and stumbled over the settee. And since he and Margaret had become betrothed, he had been sober. Mostly.

  He had slipped more than once. That time in Huntsville, when Margaret had gone to Alabama, when he had demanded that Joshua—a slave owned by Margaret who had become one of Houston’s manservants—chop off the bedpost because it spoiled his view. Or in Liberty, when he had fallen into the bushes and probably would be there yet had not Lee Bailey heard his curses and found him, pulled him to his feet, and deposited him inside his law office on Main Street to let him sleep it off. And he might have been inclined to go on another bender had Margaret not threatened to leave him.

  Such a statement from a Hard-Shell Baptist from Alabama proved enough. “Let me try,” he had begged her, and she had let him.

  Years now, without one single drop. His Cherokee friends would not have believed it. Hell, he had trouble believing it himself. Margaret gave much of the credit to the Reverend Rufus C. Burleson, the tough-nut Baptist who had dunked Houston’s head into the freezing waters of Rock Creek on a November day more than six years ago.

  “God gives you only as much as you can handle,” the reverend liked to say.

  So God had given them a blue norther that sent the temperatures plummeting on the day Sam Houston was baptized. But, by Jehovah, he thought he would either drown or catch his death from the cold when Burleson held him under. When they came out of the creek, the spectators whispered that the pair might freeze solid before they could get them near a stove.

  Houston, who had been a Presbyterian and red heathen, an agnostic and a questioner, a Catholic and a drunkard, had found that the Baptist faith suited him. Well, it suited Margaret.

  “It’s your own fault,” Margaret had chided him. “You could have been baptized inside the church.”

  “Not after those raucous tricksters filled the baptismal pool with mud and sticks,” he had reminded her.

  “The Reverend Rufus and I guessed you had bribed those boys to do that,” she had said. “To delay the inevitable.”

  They had laughed, and hugged, and she had whispered in his ear, “I dreamed of this all my life, Sam Houston, and when you stopped drinking, I thought it could never be better than this. Until this day. God bless you, my husband.”

  A man could not go back on his promise now. Not to a fine woman like Margaret.

  But, damn, he could taste whiskey on his tongue, feel the warmth as it glided down his throat. He would enjoy the power it gave him. He could forget. Forget everything. By thunder, how he wanted a drink. Just one, even if one turned into twenty. Even if it left him vomiting all over his clothes and wetting his britches. Whiskey. Glorious whiskey. God help him, he loved it so.

  Margaret, he thought to himself. The urge did not die in him, but he stoppered it … for now.

  Picking up the glass, Houston turned back toward his desk. “What’s your pleasure, George?”

  George Henry Giddings kept pounding away on his deerskin britches with his battered old slouch hat, sending dust into the air. A rough beard hid much of his face, bronzed from years in the wind and sun, and his dark hair resembled an eagle’s nest. Houston found it hard to believe that the man standing in front of him hailed from Pennsylvania, or that he had not reached his fortieth year. Houston supposed that working with mules, mails, stagecoaches, not to mention the federal government, sure aged a fellow.

  “Sorry, General.” Giddings frantically fanned away the cascading dust with his floppy hat.

  Houston gestured at the empty bookcase on the wall near him, and then to the crates and boxes that filled the library, or, as it was better known, “the Green Room,” after the god-awful green paint on the walls.

  “Let Governor Clark’s servants worry about cleaning, George.”

  “Well, sir,” Giddings said, “I apologize again for calling at such a late hour, but I just reached town.”

  “Nonsense. We have not yet taken our supper.” He nodded at boxes filled and empty. “Packing.” He held up the empty glass.

  “Bourbon, General, if it’s handy.” Giddings sat down on a crate filled with books.

  Bourbon. Houston grinned. You can take a boy out of Pennsylvania but …

  After filling the glass, he corked the bottle and brought the liquor to Giddings, his boots sounding loud on the hardwood floor since the slaves, Pearl and Nash, had rolled up the rug. After settling into the swivel chair at his desk, Houston turned around to face Giddings.

  “Did you get your money back?” Houston asked.

  Giddings shook his head, took a sip of bourbon, wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve, also deerskin, and set the glass on the crate to his right.

  Giddings had been contracted to run the San Antonio–San Diego mail line, better known as the “Jackass Mail,” but Comanches, Apaches, economics, and politicians had fought against the enterprise. John Butterfield’s Overland Mail had not helped, either, and now, even after Butterfield’s line had been moved north, out of Texas, out of the South, Giddings’ mail line remained in dire straits. Giddings had been in Washington City to plead his case for the promises Congress had made to reimburse him and his partners for their financial losses.

  “You know what it takes to get anything done in that town, General.”

  “A miracle or a war.” Houston frowned bitterly at his poorly-timed answer.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Master,” the slave Lewis said from the open doorway, “but Missus Houston wants to know if your guest will be stayin’ for supper?”

  Houston looked at Giddings, who shook his head and lifted his glass. “Supper enough for me, General. And I asked Charley to hold the stage to San Antone for me. He’s waiting.”

  “Very good, sir.” Lewis started to walk away, but Giddings nodded at the door.

  “Lewis,” Houston said.

  The old man turned.

  “Close the door for me, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the door shut, George Giddings drained his glass and rose. As he crossed the room, he withdrew a crumpled, folded, and
well-traveled envelope from the pocket of his britches. Wordlessly, he held the letter to Houston.

  Taking the envelope, Houston smoothed it out and saw the address: To Governor Houston.

  That was all.

  Quickly, he looked on the desk for an opener. Seeing nothing, he frowned, but George Giddings had already pulled out a pocket knife and opened the blade, offering the knife, handle first, to Houston.

  Letter opened and knife returned, Houston read just a few lines before looking up at the mail carrier. “Do you know what this says?” he asked.

  Giddings nodded. “I didn’t read it, mind you.”

  “He gave this to you, personally?”

  “Yes, sir. Montgomery Blair, the new postmaster general, used to be my attorney. After I met with him about the contract and all those debts, Blair said someone wanted to meet me.”

  Houston folded the letter and rose.

  “General?”

  Houston’s eyes locked on Giddings, who did not look away.

  “I also ran into General Longstreet back East.” Giddings wet his lips. “He resigned his commission.”

  Houston knew James Longstreet by reputation only, and the army officer’s reputation was outstanding. That Longstreet, a southerner, had left the US Army could come as no surprise. Just last month, Robert E. Lee had departed Fort Mason, northwest of Austin, to return to his home state of Virginia.

  “General Longstreet was a big help to me out in west Texas, General, and he has been a good friend,” Giddings said. “He spoke a lot about the South, the cause, and how Texas will need a lot of help to keep any Yankees coming in from Mexico. He made a lot of sense to me, General.”

  “You are a Yankee, George,” Houston said. “And a Unionist.”

  Giddings shook his head. “I’m a Texan. If I might be so bold … so are you, sir.”

  Houston waved the letter toward Giddings, smiling in an attempt to bring some levity to the library.

  “Did he have horns, cloven feet, and a pointy tail, George?”

  The buckskin-clad figure laughed. “Just not as big as yours, General.”

  Houston roared so hard he thought tears might begin flowing down his cheeks. When he stopped laughing, though, the sadness struck him, and he felt weak. He returned the letter to the envelope, which he shoved in his coat pocket, then held out his hand. After the handshake, Giddings turned for the door but stopped when Houston called out his name.

  “Could I impose upon you to do me a favor?”

  “Name it, General.”

  “Before you take that stage south … and I know you will have to wake most of them … would you ask Jim Throckmorton, George Paschal …” He paused to think, dismissing some names, before adding, “Ben Epperson and Dave Culberson to meet me here in … two hours.” Luckily, the clock had not been packed away.

  “I’ll find them, General. And, sir …”

  Houston waited.

  “I was sworn to secrecy, General. You don’t have to fear that I’ll go blabbing to Clark, or anybody. I gave my word to him, General, and I’m giving it to you, too.”

  “I know that, George. And, George … whatever happens to Texas, to the Union, to me, I wish you Godspeed.”

  When the door to the library closed behind Giddings, a powerful thirst seized Houston again, but he refused to look at the whiskeys. He stoked the fire, just to do something, and cursed. Epperson, Culberson, Throckmorton, and old Paschal would not be here for some time—if they came at all—and he had no appetite. Returning to his desk, he retrieved the letter from his pocket.

  Jeff, his personal slave, appeared at the doorway, and cleared his throat.

  Without looking up, Houston said, “Jeff, ask Margaret and the children to forgive me, but I shan’t join them for supper. Tell Aunt Liza to leave a plate and some milk at my place, but not to worry about heating it up. And please bring some coffee and five cups here before you take your own supper, Jeff. Lastly, tell Margaret not to wait up for me.”

  The young man turned away, but Houston stopped him, and called him back into the Green Room. He held out the letter.

  “Jeff,” he said, “I want you to hold this.”

  With a shaking right hand, the slave took the letter. Uncertainty filled his eyes. “You want me to read this, Master Sam?”

  Many Texans hated Houston for teaching his slaves to read and write. Houston did not give a damn what they thought.

  “That, I cannot allow,” he told Jeff. “I just want you to hold it. One day, Jeff, you can tell your children and grandchildren that you once held a letter written by a great, great man.”

  The slave glanced at the envelope. He smiled. “Yes, sir. You writ’ this letter to yourself, Master Sam?”

  Laughing, Houston took the envelope back. “No, Jeff.” The laughter died and his eyes turned sober. “See to your chores, Jeff. Good night.”

  When Jeff left, Houston removed the letter from the envelope and finished reading it before dropping it to the floor, clenching his fists. He whispered bitterly, “Too late … too late … too late …”

  Chapter Four

  March 7, 1861

  Dear Governor Houston,

  Although we never met personally during my previous—and short—service in Washington City, I have long admired you from afar, even before your outstanding work during the Compromise of 1850. I opposed, as might you remember, the war against Mexico, and I oppose what will come to our nation, too, if we follow the current path. But I must fight for our nation, else I might as well spit on Adams, Washington, Jefferson—and our glorious Constitution.

  As the proverb goes, “When two tigers fight, one will certainly get hurt.” Sir, we must stop both tigers from sustaining serious, perhaps fatal, injuries.

  Another proverb comes to mind as I think about you, Governor, and that one goes, “When one man is ready to risk his life, ten thousand men cannot defeat him.”

  You have the grit of a bulldog, sir, as you have proved in countless battles. The Union needs Texas, sir, and we need you. I hereby, with approval from the Secretary of War and other close associates, authorize you to recruit an army of one hundred thousand men, if such can be found, and save Texas for the Union. I promise you support from another fifty thousand troops in our army and navy, which can land at Indianola.

  Governor, you will be commissioned as a major general.

  My knowledge of war is so inferior to yours, sir, that I hate to bring it up, as my battles during the late Black Hawk War came mostly against mosquitoes, although I did lose a pretty good horse. That said, Kellogg’s Grove, though far, far from Horseshoe Bend or San Jacinto taught me one thing: Dulce bellum inexpertis!

  Please, Governor, help us prevent seeing our country torn asunder.

  My God bless you and our States. I anxiously await your answer.

  Your humble servant,

  Abraham Lincoln

  * * * * *

  Having read the letter aloud to the four men in the Green Room, Houston folded the letter. He happened to glance at the life-size oil-on-canvas that hung on the wall next to the fireplace. John Gadsby Chapman’s portrait of David Crockett had been in the Capitol before Margaret, lover of heroes, asked that it be moved to their residence. It had never been Houston’s favorite painting, but something struck him now that he had never noticed before. Crockett waved his hat as though bidding farewell. His eyes affixed on Sam Houston.

  Quickly, Houston shifted his attention to the portrait hanging over the fireplace, the one of Andrew Jackson, a painting he liked.

  “By God, Sam!” James Throckmorton thundered. “That’s … that’s … that’s …” Throckmorton downed his whiskey, shook his head, and spoke again. “I oppose secession as much as anyone here, but … by God!”

  “There you have it, gentlemen.” Turning away from the painting, Houston studied the men Gi
ddings had delivered, the men who had crawled out of bed, dressed, and hurried to the governor’s mansion at—he glanced at the clock—one o’clock in the morning. “I have asked you here for your counsel. Since I favor military rule … and by this I mean to listen to views, not battle … I want to hear from the youngest man present first. That means you, Epp.”

  Ben Epperson had arrived in Texas after statehood. A lawyer, he had tried and failed at politics, which turned out to be a blessing because he had succeeded at everything else. Houston always said, when the Baptists were out of earshot, that Ben Epperson was richer than God. But the young man was lame in one leg. Now, he limped away from the liquor, saying, “Yes, damn it. Yes. When the president asks you to do something, by thunder, you do it.” He quickly downed the whiskey. “Under your leadership, General, we could keep the Stars and Stripes flying over Texas.”

  That surprised Houston. Epperson had been born in Mississippi.

  Houston turned to David Culberson, a lawyer from Alabama and a newcomer to Texas, having lived here for roughly five years.

  The big man with fat cheeks, wild dark hair, and a mustache and goatee rose from the corner chair and grinned. “Not that you ever make a mistake, Governor, but I do believe I am younger than the honorable, and passionate, Mister Epperson.” You could almost smell molasses and Georgia peaches when Culberson spoke.

  Houston bowed. “Math was never my strongest suit, sir.”

  “That’s all right, Governor. Mother always told me I was wiser than my years.” The laughter left his eyes. “But Latin, sir, was never my strong suit. Those words President Lincoln wrote toward the end of that plea. What do they mean?”

  “Dulce bellum inexpertis,” Houston repeated. “War is sweet for those who have not experienced it.”

  The fire crackled as old George Paschal stoked the burning cedar in the fireplace. Culberson finished his drink and shook his head.

  “We cannot prevent secession, sir,” Culberson said. “I certainly learned that … the hard way.”

  Newly elected to the Texas House of Representatives, Culberson had opposed secession with such fervor that when Upshur County voted in its favor by more than ninety percent, he had immediately resigned his seat.