The Raven's Honor

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Why don’t you get your boy yonder to help?” Houston lifted his head as the big man pointed his hammer at Jeff, who was sipping from a canteen while sitting in the wagon seat.

  “Work never hurt a healthy man,” Houston growled, wiggled the wood, tugged harder, and felt splinters dig into his palms.

  “You need this here hammer,” the big man said.

  “No.” Strength came from deep inside Houston—maybe bottled up from all the rage—and the siding came off, almost knocking Houston onto his buttocks.

  “Criminy,” the stranger said. “You strong for an old coot.”

  Houston laughed, and helped carry the wood, sliding the three pieces, including the one Houston had helped remove, into the wagon bed.

  “That ought to do it.” After tossing the hammer onto the wood he had stolen, the stranger offered his hand. “I’m much obliged, stranger.”

  Houston liked the hard grip. The man pulled out a plug of tobacco from his stained overalls. “Chaw?”

  “Thanks.” Houston tore off a mouthful and worked the apple-cured tobacco. “The name’s Houston,” he said.

  Which meant nothing to the wood-thief.

  “McCutcheon.” The stranger slipped the quid back into the pocket of his slops. His head tilted toward the river. “Brother Leo and me got us a cabin ’bout a mile ’cross the ferry. He’s doin’ the plowin’. My name’s Wilbur. Leo and me come from Alabama ’bout five months ago.”

  “Call me Sam.” Still no recognition. “Welcome to Texas,” Houston said, but McCutcheon had already turned away to climb into the wagon.

  Houston did not watch him go. He went to the dilapidated building, peering first through the small window. No glass panes, only a dusty homespun curtain, which he pushed aside, catching the scent of dust and mold. Frowning, he went up the steps, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

  Sunlight showed him where floorboards had rotted away. Any furniture inside had long been removed, and he caught the musky odor of a skunk. He went no farther. With the sun on his back, he could see all he needed to see. And he could hear, Now is the day, and now is the hour, when Texas expects every man to do his duty. Let us show ourselves worthy to be free and we shall be free.

  If he closed his eyes, he knew he could picture Henry Smith as fiery and as independent as he had been back during those long days early in 1836 when convention delegates had gathered inside this building.

  * * * * *

  Governor Henry Smith. Houston’s head shook at the memory. His back straight as a ramrod, unbendable, Smith knew no compromise. If someone said Houston’s eyes were bloodshot—and undoubtedly they were back then—Smith would counter, “By damned if they are. His eyes are rubicund.” Smith had tried to dissolve the council; in turn, the council tried to impeach Smith.

  “It’ll be a miracle,” Houston had whispered to Willis Faris, “if we agree on anything before Judgment Day.”

  The town’s organizers had offered this monstrosity they called an “assembly hall,” then unfinished, to the delegates. It felt warm today. Twenty-five years ago, Houston thought he might freeze to death as men hemmed and hawed over picayune matters.

  * * * * *

  Moving to where he had sat, he pictured that young Sam Houston, a delegate from Refugio—only because those citizens had elected him after the town where he lived, Nacogdoches, had not. Strapping enough that he needed no cane. Thick, brown hair, not thin and white. And, yes, hungover.

  * * * * *

  March 2, 1836, his birthday, and Houston had signed his name on this Declaration of Independence with typical flourish. He recalled feeling as though he had waited hours before the quill was in his finger, the paper flattened before him, held by secretary H. S. Kimble and Richard Ellis, the convention’s president.

  He had hoped his hand would not shake, and thought of the weight this signature would have. It was enough to sober a man.

  The memory of Samuel Maverick’s grumbling made him smile.

  “Hell’s fire, Houston. Don’t read the damned thing. Get with the signing so the rest of us can put our names on our own death warrants.”

  Five copies had been made, given to riders to carry to Bexar, to Brazoria, to Goliad, and to Nacogdoches—and one more to San Felipe, where the printer would be ordered to make a thousand copies as handbills.

  A great day. He was forty-three years old.

  * * * * *

  The convention, of course, had just started.

  He looked at the place where James Collinsworth usually sat or stood. Shifty-eyed, with a high forehead, but a good man, and an even better supplier of whiskey. It had been Collinsworth, a fellow Tennessean, who—two days after the declaration had been signed—had nominated Houston to be commander in chief of the army of this newly created Republic of Texas.

  Houston turned, smiling as he remembered the faces of David Burnet and Robert Potter as Houston’s nomination, after some bickering, was confirmed.

  He could see the dark-skinned but continuously cheery, boyish face of Manuel Lorenzo Justiniano de Zavala y Sáenz. The best of the entire lot, Houston believed, a true diplomat, hard to rile, but firm in his convictions. After San Jacinto, Zavala had escorted Santa Anna back to Mexico to force the Mexican government to recognize Texas’ independence. Houston frowned. That had wrecked cherubic Zavala’s health, and he had been fishing in Buffalo Bayou that November when the boat capsized. Zavala had died of pneumonia a short while later.

  Which brought back another sad memory.

  Turning again, and frowning, Houston thought about Collinsworth, his old drinking buddy.

  * * * * *

  “No man holds his liquor better than the two of us,” Collinsworth had told him here, after the convention had recessed for the evening, and they had started drinking until late in the night.

  “Must be the Tennessee in us,” Houston had said.

  * * * * *

  Only, Collinsworth was no Sam Houston when it came to whiskey. Two years later, in 1838, Houston had felt with all certainty that Collinsworth would be elected president of the Republic of Texas, and there could have been no better successor to Sam Houston than Collinsworth. This was the man who had served as Houston’s aide-de-camp and had shown his bravery at San Jacinto. He had served in the Texas Senate and later as chief justice. A man like him certainly could beat Mirabeau B. Lamar, who wanted to put the capital in the hills of Austin, or Peter W. Grayson. Yet Collinsworth did what he did too often.

  He got drunk. Again.

  One summer night, he drowned in Galveston Bay. Some say he had slipped off the boat. A few fools even suggested he had been pushed. But Houston knew Collinsworth too well, and understood that he had leaped off.

  * * * * *

  “You’re a good man, Jim,” Houston remembered telling him during the convention of 1836.

  “No. I’m a good drunk. It’s all I’m really good at, Sam. It’s all I’ll ever be good at.”

  * * * * *

  They called it an accidental drowning, but Houston would always believe that poor Collinsworth had taken his own life, unable to bear the responsibilities of serving as the republic’s president, unable to follow Sam Houston’s footsteps.

  Deep in thought, Houston lost track of time until something flashed in the corner of his eye. A rat moved among the dust and leaves, stopped near Houston’s boots, glanced at him, wiggled its whiskers, and leaped into a hole in the floor.

  “Yes,” Houston said, “it is time to leave.”

  He did not bother closing the door as he left the old assembly hall.

  Jeff waited for him, holding the cane.

  “You all right, Master Sam?” the young man asked.

  “I am fine, Jeff.” He accepted the cane.

  “Ain’t much to this buildin’, is there, sir?” the slave asked.

 
“I guess not.” He shook his head.

  “Was there some treaties signed here, too?” Houston looked at the Negro. “I mean. Like that big ol’ tree you showed me back in Austin. Was this here place somethin’ like that?”

  “Something like that, Jeff. Let’s get back to Independence.”

  “Yes, sir. You must be doin’ a lot of rememberin’.”

  Houston nodded. “A lot.” He started to laugh, only to realize there was not a damned thing funny about what he had to say. “But, Jeff, when you reach the years I have accumulated, and the miles I have traveled, and you accept that they have put you out to pasture, there is not much for a doddering old fool to do. Except remember.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  June 3, 1861

  The salt air revitalized Houston, as it often did. So did the oysters. He spent his mornings walking along the beach with Margaret—and, sometimes, did not even need his cane—as she gathered a few seashells. When she had first arrived at Cedar Point, she had decorated the cabin christened Ben Lomond with shells. Shells were harder to find after all these years, but Margaret had a keen eye.

  Sam Junior had returned home from Bastrop, and Houston put him to work overseeing the slaves as they chopped firewood to be sold in Galveston or Houston City. Money had become scarce, and Houston’s credit could only buy so much. His name, these days, bought even less.

  Yet with newfound energy and a new purpose, he retired to his office to work on a plan, one that could save his family, his legacy, and if not all of Texas, at least a good part of it.

  As he pored over the maps, Lewis the slave appeared at the doorway, and cleared his throat. Irritated, Houston looked up and scowled.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Master,” the old Negro said, “but you got visitors. A Mister McCulloch and Capt’n Ford, sir.”

  A beaming smile replaced the hard look, and Houston straightened over the desk. “By all means, Lewis, show them in. Show them in. Then fetch us fresh coffee and brandy for our visitors.”

  * * * * *

  Few men loved a fight better than Ben McCulloch and John “Rip” Ford, or were better at it.

  McCulloch wore the tailored uniform of a general. Standing a couple of inches under six feet, his brown hair had begun to thin on top, but his beard seemed thicker. Yet from all his years on the Texas frontier—fighting Indians with the Rangers and John Coffee Hays, scouting for Zachary Taylor during the war with Mexico, and serving as United States marshal in the Eastern District of Texas, he remained fair-skinned. Houston remembered him at San Jacinto, where McCulloch commanded one of the army’s “Twin Sisters,” the two six-pounders that inaugurated the battle and helped win Houston’s greatest victory.

  He knew something else about McCulloch. The man absolutely despised Mexicans.

  McCulloch hailed from North Carolina. The other man in the library came from the other Carolina.

  John Salmon “Rip” Ford had served as doctor, congressman, Indian fighter, soldier, and newspaper editor. Tall and thin, Ford’s blue eyes appeared almost opaque, and his Roman nose revealed that he knew fists well.

  Ford sipped coffee. McCulloch had already drained his first brandy.

  Beckoning them to the map, Houston pointed. “Gentlemen,” he said, “ere long, there will be stirring times on the Río Grande.” They looked up. “Reclamation,” he said.

  He laid out his plan.

  It was not his alone. Representatives from England had first broached him even before he had been kicked out of the governor’s chair and exiled from Austin. Houston had already reached out to friends he knew he could still trust, Edward Burleson of Texas, Henry L. Kinney in Nicaragua, and Lewis Cass in Washington City. He had formed a secret society that he called the Order of the Lone Star of the West.

  “We make reclamation upon Mexico,” Houston said. “For all her wrongs. We form a new republic.”

  McCulloch did not even blink. Rip Ford, however, set his coffee cup on the nearby table.

  “We shall be a buffer,” Houston explained. “England still has access to cotton.”

  “England will have access to Texas cotton,” McCulloch shot out, adding a respectful, “begging the general’s pardon.”

  “Do you not think the Navy will blockade us, General McCulloch?” Houston fired back. “By Jehovah, General, the ships are already gathering, and the Confederate navy will be no match for Union guns, sir.”

  McCulloch frowned.

  Ford spoke in a soft, Southern drawl. “You call this reclamation, General. But what you’re really saying is invasion, or am I mistaken, sir?”

  He did not answer Ford’s question. “Ten thousand troops,” he said. “We can, we will, fill that muster in thirty days. Captain Burleson is already south of the Nueces, where he is secretly enlisting six loyal Tejanos who will serve as guides in this glorious endeavor. You gentlemen know Burleson. He has lived in Mexico, speaks the language fluently. He knows the country. He knows the people.” Houston laughed. “Burleson’s raring to go. I’m having trouble keeping him from starting the war right now.”

  McCulloch moved to the liquor and refreshed his drink. “General Houston,” he began, then sipped for a moment. “You wouldn’t need ten thousand Texans to whip the Mexicans, for a more indolent, stupid, and worthless race does not exist. But armies cost money. You footing the bill, sir?”

  Houston laughed. “I am still waiting to receive the salary owed me as governor of Texas, gentlemen. But we have backers across the Atlantic, my friends.” He did not have to say England.

  Actually, the British agents had proposed raising an army of twelve thousand, but Houston thought ten thousand would do the job. Nor did he tell the British operatives that representatives from France had visited him, too, with a similar offer. What he knew was this: he had made both the French and English agree to it, in writing. Should he fall in battle, Margaret need not worry about money. She would be paid a generous sum per annum until her own passing.

  “A lot of boys, sir, have already enlisted in militia, companies, whatever you want to call them, sir.” Ford’s melodic voice always made Houston relax. “And maybe you haven’t heard, sir, though I expect you have, but General McCulloch and I already have jobs.”

  Ford now commanded the Second Texas Cavalry along the Río Grande. Jefferson Davis, president of the so-called Confederate States of America, had commissioned McCulloch a brigadier general and assigned him to Indian Territory, to build something called the Army of the West.

  Houston stared hard at the two men. “Texans,” he said, “comprise the bulk of your command.” He brought the coffee cup to his lips, and grinned.

  “Mexico.” McCulloch drained the glass again, and set it down. “Sir, to do this will be the crowning act of your life.”

  Houston straightened. Pride, power shined in his eyes. “Yes,” he said with as much modesty as he could find. “I warrant you are correct.”

  “I know what the Confederacy has promised to pay me,” McCulloch said. “But what is your offer?”

  “We can negotiate your spoils, General, to terms I am certain you will find agreeable.”

  Staring at the map, McCulloch grinned in triumph. Ford, however, remained more reserved.

  “Let’s say you get your ten thousand men, sir. You got to feed them. And you have to arm them. Some of the boys I have down along the border, by Jacks, they have muskets that’ll likely blow up in their faces. I see more shotguns than rifles. More than a few don’t even have a long gun.”

  “My contacts have promised two thousand percussion rifles,” Houston said, “one thousand new Sharps rifles, and three thousand Colt’s revolving pistols.” He grinned. “Immediately. Once we are ready to march.”

  “A fellow in Charleston, years back,” Ford drawled, “once promised me the most beautiful ruby in the world … if I could fix him up without taking off his right arm. T
ook some doing, but he not only kept his arm, he had full use of it, too.” Ford’s head shook. “That was more than thirty years ago, and I’m still waiting for that ruby.”

  “You should have broached this idea with General Lee, sir,” McCulloch said, “whilst he remained at Fort Mason.”

  I did, Houston thought bitterly. While I remained governor. He said he was a servant to the president—at that time—and to his superiors, not to Texas.

  “But I have seen you fight, General McCulloch.” Houston appealed to the man’s vanity. “And you, Captain, remain wise beyond your years.”

  Ford checked his timepiece, and McCulloch moved to the rack to gather his hat.

  “You will let us know when you are ready, sir?” McCulloch asked.

  “Indeed, General.”

  “I eagerly await your command, sir, and I thank the general for the libation and conversation, yet I must catch the train in Houston City. Colonel Ford.” After bowing, McCulloch walked out of the house.

  Rip Ford wound his watch stem, and eventually slipped the timepiece into a trousers pocket.

  “Rip?” Houston asked at last.

  Looking up, Ford shook his head. “You remember back when John Floyd gave you all that grief when you suggested that you bring in a bunch of Cherokees to help us win the fight against Santa Anna?” he asked.

  “I do,” Houston said.

  “What was that you called the Indians? I mean, what you said they’d be.”

  “Auxiliaries.”

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  Houston waited.

  “I never cared for that word, at least the way you used it, General. No offense, sir. It just struck me that auxiliary meant a backup, that those Cherokees … and they were your friends, sir, for you lived among them for I don’t know how long … were just folks to fall back on. To use. To get killed. Save some of our boys from dying, I guess.”

  Houston frowned. “I did not mean it that way. I meant that they would support us.”

  “And die for us. Reclamation or invasion, no matter what you call it, people are going to die.”