The Raven's Honor

by Johnny D. Boggs

  * * * * *

  He had expected a turnout—the reason he had given the fine citizens of Brenham more than an hour to gather—and slid between saddled horses tethered to the hitching rail to get onto Alamo Street. As he crossed the street, he heard the hisses and curses.

  “You try your damn Yankee talk and you’ll never speak again,” someone said.

  A tomato splattered in front of his boots.

  He saw the stump of the flagpole, but then it vanished. This time, the sea of armed men would not part.

  So, he stopped and waited.

  “Put him out!” a voice roared. Several burly men hoisted a rough-cut tie from the new railroad.

  Well, he thought, men have tried to run me out on a rail before.

  “Don’t let him speak!” cried another.

  A gun popped, and he caught the odor of gun smoke.

  “Kill him!”

  A man brushed against him, and Houston stiffened, but did not reach for the .36. To do so, he feared, would lead to bloodshed, and there were many more of them than there were of him. Still, he was Sam Houston, and refused to cower. “I am here to have my say,” he said.

  “We’re part of the Confederacy now, Houston,” another man said, “and you ain’t got nothin’ to say to us.”

  That man suddenly flew forward, landing against the big cuss who had fired his heavy single-shot pistol just moments early. A man stepped into the small patch of grass not covered with men. That man held a Walker Colt in his hand, the hammer at full cock, and his index finger touching the trigger. He wore a long gray frock coat, ribbon tie, and straw hat. Houston knew the planter from just outside of Brenham. Hugh McIntyre was no friend of Sam Houston.

  “Listen up!” McIntyre bellowed. “I and a hundred other friends of Governor Houston have invited him to address us!” That was a lie. Houston did not have a hundred friends in Brenham anymore, and the planter had never been among Houston’s allies. “You know me, boys, and you know where I stand, and it’s not with Sam Houston. Ask me, I say the governor ought to have taken that oath to the Confederacy and accepted the situation. But he didn’t. He thought otherwise, and that’s his right as a Texan.”

  Hearing the creak of leather, the lean planter whirled and aimed the massive .44 into the crowd. A mustached face paled, and the man slowly raised his hands away from his waistband.

  McIntyre went on. “This is Sam Houston. Governor. Senator. President of the Republic. There is no other man alive who has more right to be heard by the people of Texas.”

  He stepped in front of Houston and said, “Follow me, Governor,” and this time the sea of homespun, wool, and duck parted, and Sam Houston soon stood on the stump, with McIntyre, still brandishing the Walker Colt, at his side.

  “Now my fellow citizens,” McIntyre said, “give the governor your close attention.” He waved the .44 at the more rowdy element. “And you ruffians, keep quiet, or I will kill you.”

  With that introduction, Hugh McIntyre stepped aside. He lowered the revolver, but not the hammer.

  Clearing his throat, Houston began, “We hear the Latin maxim a lot these days. Vox populi, vox dei. The voice of the people is the voice of God. The Whigs used that back in the early 1700s. The archbishop of Canterbury used it centuries before. Sam Houston has heard the voice of the people of Texas.” He spoke of himself in third person, which he had learned from Cherokees. Indians, of course, spoke in third person out of politeness, which never had been among Houston’s talents. “But the vox populi is not always the voice of God, for when demagogues and selfish political leaders succeed in arousing public prejudice and stilling the voice of reason, then on every hand can be heard the popular cry of ‘Crucify him, crucify him.’” He studied the faces of the nearest men. “Then,” he said, “the vox populi becomes the voice of the devil, and the hiss of mobs warns all patriots that peace and good government are in peril.”

  No one spoke, not even in a whisper.

  “Civil war is inevitable.” He shook his head with a mirthless laugh. “Gentlemen, there is nothing civil about any war. Especially the coming one. When the tug of war comes, it will indeed be the Greek meeting the Greek. Fellow Texans, this fearful conflict will fill our fair land with untold suffering, misfortune, and disaster. It will be stubborn and of long duration, and the soil of our beloved South will drink deep the precious blood of our sons, our brethren.”

  They did not believe him. He could read that in most of their faces. He shook his head. Soon, they would know he spoke the truth here tonight.

  “You should know that Sam Houston cannot,” he said, “nor will Sam Houston, ever close his eyes against the light and voice of reason. But the die has been cast by your secession leaders, whom you have permitted to sow and broadcast the seeds of secession, and you must ere long reap the fearful harvest of conspiracy and revolution.”

  It felt strange as he stepped away from the stump and made his way through the silent crowd, leaving the courthouse and crossing the grass on the town square. Once, this had been his country, but no longer. What had become of his people and his friends? Just a few months ago they had been driven by Providence’s hand; now fear and hatred ruled their emotions. Having seen specters of patriots and family long deceased, Houston worried that he might be losing his mind—but these men, these Texas planters and merchants and industrialists, they were the ones truly mad.

  Chapter Eleven

  May 10, 1861

  Independence became strange to Houston, too. As in Brenham, men had taken a hatchet to the flagpole, but the citizens here had failed to remove the pole, or the Stars and Stripes, which now lay trampled, half-buried under leaves, mud, and weathered chewing tobacco.

  He longed for the old days.

  * * * * *

  For that day in the fall of 1853 when he had led Margaret, the children, the slaves, and his wife’s mother, Nancy Lea, to Independence. Having been reelected to the US Senate, he had bought a house in town—to allow Sam Junior a better education at Baylor’s school—and rented their home in Huntsville … Watching Sam and Nannie walk down the oak-lined avenue to school, and sending one of the slaves with pails to the children for lunch … That June day in 1854 when, although Houston had been in Washington City working on behalf of those New England preachers who protested the Kansas–Nebraska Act, Andrew Jackson Houston came into the world … The day Houston had been baptized and how lovely Margaret had looked … And those evenings when Margaret and he would walk over to her mother’s house, to sip coffee and converse lightly until Nancy Lea would bring up her impending death, and then show off the metal coffin she had ordered from New Orleans.

  * * * * *

  He walked with Margaret across the Baylor University campus. Anson Jones had been president of the Republic back in 1845, so Jones garnered the glory of signing the act that established the Baptist college. Yet Houston had donated five thousand dollars to start that ball. Back in 1855, school officials had separated the university into Baylor University for men and Baylor Female College for women. Now, those two schools feuded so much that Rufus Burleson, the preacher who had baptized Houston and now headed the men’s college, and Professor Horace Clark, in charge of the women’s school, threatened to tear the institution asunder. Rumor had it that Burleson would take the men’s university to Waco.

  Another Civil War, Houston thought.

  They had passed the Baylor Female College, perched atop a small hill four blocks away, in the yellow carriage. Young girls in hoop dresses moved outside the commanding building that stood three stories high, made of yellow limestone, and with a cupola atop—alive, vibrant, and young—and no Bonnie Blue flag waving in the sky. But here at the men’s school, Houston saw few boys, just balding, white-haired Rufus Burleson making his way from the brick building toward Houston and Margaret.

  “It is good to see you both,” the preacher said after shaking Hou
ston’s hand and kissing Margaret’s.

  “Where are all your students?” Houston asked. “Studying, I hope.”

  Burleson’s head shook. “What few we have left, perhaps. Yet most of the boys have gone home. To volunteer for a militia or whatever they are forming in these small towns across Texas.” He let out a sigh. “They fear their chance of glory, of seeing the elephant, that the war itself will be over before Independence raises a company of patriots.”

  * * * * *

  Houston’s home here had sat deep off the street, with a fine apple orchard and a cool spring, but they no longer owned the log cabin, so they stayed with Nancy Lea.

  Who never liked Sam Houston one whit.

  Yet Houston did have to thank his mother-in-law for one thing. If not for Nancy Lea, he likely never would have met Margaret. His memories carried him back to that May day in 1839.

  * * * * *

  On a visit to Nashville, after finishing his first term as president of the Republic of Texas, he stopped in Mobile, Alabama, and found his way into a tavern. Over a lot of rum, he befriended Martin A. Lea, who suggested that his mother, a widow, might be interested in investing in property in the new republic.

  “And who oversees her investments?” Houston asked.

  His new friend almost coughed rum out of his nose. “You will find Mother can handle her own affairs, Mister President.”

  At a strawberry festival, this striking girl in a beautiful green dress caught his attention while he sipped a cordial and admired the brilliantly colored flower garden. The girl brought a pair of glasses that hung around her neck up to her face, briefly studied her admirer, and then, laughing at something a redhead said, took the trail through the flowers.

  “When I sold the Cane Break, I learned that real estate is the best investment anyone can make,” said the Widow Lea, interrupting Houston’s thoughts, and he forced himself to turn away from the beautiful girl disappearing in the flower garden. He smiled at the widow. “But that is in Alabama. Tell me of this Texas.”

  He piled praises upon his republic. She stopped him when he mentioned cotton.

  “The market for cotton is fickle. Like a whiskey drinker’s whims.”

  “In Alabama, perhaps,” Houston said. “But in Texas, cotton is gold.”

  When they finished talking, Houston walked to the garden and waited with Martin Lea. At length, Margaret reappeared with her redheaded friend, and Houston allowed Martin to introduce him to his sister. Martin had the decency to escort the redhead—Houston couldn’t remember her name, or even what she looked like beyond that carrot-colored hair—for punch and sugar cookies, and Houston had been bold enough to take Miss Margaret Lea on a stroll through the garden.

  Before they reached the gardenias, he had fallen in love.

  * * * * *

  That evening in Brenham, he walked back to the flagpole to give yet another speech. The crowd of men, and quite a few women, gathered on the square, but he saw no guns among them. In fact, most appeared to be a handful of Baylor students and old men. No need for fire and brimstone. Living in a Baptist town, the people of Independence got enough of that at Sunday sermons. He told them that Sam Houston—using the third person again—held no ill will to those who had kicked him out of Austin, and whether or not Sam Houston had been treated unjustly no longer mattered. He told the few young men that differences must be set aside, and he told them that if, indeed, they did fight, then they must follow orders.

  “I have been a soldier,” he said with a smile, moving to a more conversational tone with the lads. The boys grinned back. “I know a few things, such as the value of subordination and discipline.”

  He paused, for the Reverend Burleson hurried across the street, his coat over one shoulder, and a piece of yellow paper flapping between his fingers in his left hand.

  The crowd turned to see what commanded Houston’s attention, and he stepped across the fallen flagpole, careful still not to step on the already desecrated American flag. The old preacher stopped running, his chest heaving and his face peppered with beads of sweat, and walked the final few rods.

  “God have mercy on us all,” the Baptist minister said. “They have fired upon Fort Sumter in South Carolina.” Several of the gatherers gasped. “War,” Burleson said, “has begun.”

  “When did it happen?” someone asked.

  Houston took the paper from the old man’s hands and began reading it.

  “Last month,” Burleson answered.

  How many times can a man of my years endure a breaking heart? Houston thought, returning the telegram to the reverend.

  “What do we do now, General?” a blond-headed boy said.

  “Follow your heart,” Houston answered. “The time has come when a man’s section is his country. I stand by mine.”

  * * * * *

  That evening, for the umpteenth time, he drank coffee with Nancy Lea and Margaret, listening to the former babble and watching the latter work her needlepoint, until Nancy Lea suggested they take a walk.

  As always, she led them down the same path, taking the well-worn trail behind her house, across the street, and into the churchyard. Nothing could be called fancy about Independence’s Baptist church. There was no steeple. In fact, inside you would not even find a stove. Which did not matter because Nancy Lea never led them into the church. She stopped in front of the limestone-plastered tomb, and pulled open the iron door.

  “I’ll be here before you know it,” she said. “In my metal coffin. It wears on a body, getting old, but it’s comforting knowing where you’ll pass eternity till the Lord calls my name on Judgment Day.”

  Houston nodded, as he always did, without sincerity.

  “Varilla and Antoinette and you, child,” nodding at Margaret, “you’ll be here, too. It’s big enough. I spent enough money so we’ll all have a place of rest.”

  And, repeating the ritual she performed every week or so, she closed the door and stared at Houston.

  “There’s room enough for me and my daughters,” she told him. “But nary a husband.”

  * * * * *

  When they entered their bedroom, Houston leaned his cane in the corner, and sank onto the bed. Margaret removed the tucking combs in her hair, and her eyes looked at him through the reflection of the mirror.

  He had been thinking about this for days, but knew not how to say it. So she said it for him.

  “You would like to return to Ben Lomond.”

  When they had settled at Cedar Point on Trinity Bay twenty years ago as newlyweds, Margaret, ever the romantic and lover of heroes, renamed the cabin from a line in one of Sir Walter Scott’s poems.

  “Your mother will throw a conniption,” he told her.

  “Which shan’t be her first.” Margaret turned. “Nor her last.”

  He began to tug off his boots, still grinning, and his wife turned back to the mirror.

  “Of course,” she removed her necklace, “we could always take her with us.”

  Seeing his reaction, Margaret laughed.

  Chapter Twelve

  May 12, 1861

  He did not leave immediately for the coast.

  Margaret wanted to register the girls—Nannie, Maggie, Mary Willie, and Nettie—at Baylor Female College. It was a fine school, and, having her granddaughters around would also ease Nancy Lea’s anger at being abandoned again.

  That morning, Houston asked Jeff to drive him over to Washington-on-the-Brazos. It lay along the La Bahía Road, high on the bluff overlooking the confluence of the Brazos and Navasota rivers, which ran high this day. The air smelled of fresh rain and wet grass. Houston had not been here in four or five years, back when the town boomed. But the residents had rejected the chance to get a railroad. He recalled the editor of the Washington American editorializing, “We are a river town, and we shall and must support our steamboat br
ethren.” Fools had reaped what they had sown. Today, Washington-on-the-Brazos looked like it had during the Runaway Scrape—abandoned.

  “Over there.” Raising his cane, Houston frowned as Jeff guided the carriage toward the crumbling, weathered building—almost hidden by an overgrowth of trees, brambles, and brush. Yet they were not alone, for Houston detected a mule-drawn buckboard close to the building, and a bearded man in a muslin shirt, sleeves rolled up on his massive arms, slops over his pants and shirtfront.

  When Jeff set the brake, Houston handed him his cane and commanded, “Wait here.”

  Boards lay in the back of the wagon, and the man knelt on the ground, struggling with a hammer to remove another plank from the old building. The stranger looked up, keeping the hammer ready as a weapon.

  “Morning,” Houston greeted.

  The man spit tobacco juice and nodded.

  “What are you doing?” Houston asked.

  “This your property?” the stranger asked.

  Houston’s head shook. “No. I always thought maybe it belonged to the people of Texas.”

  “Well.” The big man went back to work on the stubborn lumber. “I happen to be a people of Texas, and the winds knocked the roof offen my cabin. Ain’t seen nobody on this here property in a coon’s age, so I figure it rightly belongs to anyone in need.” The end of the wood finally gave way, splitting a bit, and Houston caught the scent of turpentine. He would not want such a tinderbox as his roof, but he smiled.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Let me help you.” He moved to the other end of the wood, and felt the dampness of the dew on his knees as he tugged on the siding.

  “You sure you up to this, old-timer?” The stranger rose and moved toward Houston.

  No, Houston thought, and grunted.