The Black Jacks Read online

  The Black Jacks

  Jason Manning

  Copyright © 2015, Jason Manning

  LESSONS OF WAR—

  AMERICAN STYLE

  McAllen had promised the visiting English Major Stewart that he soon would see what war on the frontier was like—and now that promise had come perilously true. There were just McAllen, his right-hand man Joshua, and Stewart by themselves, far from the other Black Jack troopers, when they ran into the Comanche band.

  Outnumbered by seven to one, McAllen gave no thought of running. Dismounting, he drew one of the Colt revolvers from his belt and began firing. He held on to his mount's bridle, using the gray hunter as a shield, knowing a Comanche warrior would hesitate to kill such a splendid prize.

  Major Stewart stayed in the saddle. Drawing his saber, he charged into the Indian horde.

  This, though, was not a European battlefield. His saber dripping blood from a kill, Stewart was hit in turn by a war club and dropped in his crimson uniform to the Texas dust among the yelling Comanches. As they closed in for the kill, McAllen knew he had no choice but to take on odds that no frontier fighter would want to choose. He moved out of cover, his guns blazing.

  One by one the Indians fell, until McAllen heard his Colts click empty—he knew his bullets and probably his luck had run out. . . .

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  I am indebted to the following works in the writing of this novel: William Bollaert's Texas, W. Eugene Hollon, ed.; The Raven, Marquis James; Star of Destiny: The Private Life of Sam and Margaret Houston, Madge Thornall Roberts; Plantation Life in Texas, Elizabeth Silverthorne; Sam Houston, John Hoyt Williams; and Comanche Bondage, Carl Coke Rister.

  I am also indebted to Kenneth Roberts and Paul Wellman, whose historical fiction inspired me as a boy, and greatly influence my work today.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter One

  Patience had never been Sam Houston's long suit. As he stood on the porch of the weathered one-room cabin on Cedar Point and gazed bleakly through the evergreens at the shimmering blue expanse of Galveston Bay, he wore without realizing it a ferocious scowl on his craggy face. He was a man of action, predisposed by nature to tackle problems quickly and aggressively, and today trials and tribulations beset him at every turn. Yet here he stood, forced by circumstances to bide his time, powerless to act.

  Restless, he stamped his feet and pulled the brightly colored Indian blanket closer about his brawny shoulders. This infernal weather didn't help matters. Texas weather was notoriously unpredictable, but never more so than in the month of February. Following two balmy weeks of false spring, when the redbuds began to decorate the woodlands with splashes of pink and the dogwoods put on their new buds, a blue norther had blown in yesterday, all gray and raw.

  Though the sun was out today, the wind was still strong out of the north, and the chill caused him pain in the ankle which had been shattered by a musket ball at the Battle of San Jacinto. A pair of prominent Louisiana physicians—one of whom was his old benefactor, Dr. Ker, who had treated the grave wounds he'd received at Horseshoe Bend while fighting Creek Indians with ol' Andy Jackson—removed twenty bone fragments from his leg a month after the victory at San Jacinto. But by that time many weeks had passed without his having received proper medicine or even so much as a poultice, and Houston was today resigned to the fact that his ankle would never be wholly recuperated.

  If only he could have a drink! A nip of Old Nash would smooth his troubled brow! But no. He had promised his beloved Margaret that he would abstain. An old Texas formula of orange bitters helped some, but it was really a poor substitute for genuine Oh Be Joyful. Still, his fiancée had made him swear, and a man's word was his bond. But, by the eternal, it was damnably hard to do the right thing sometimes!

  His body servant, Esau, came out onto the porch. "You want I should bring you some orange bitters, Marse Sam?"

  "No."

  "Some hot coffee, then? It be almighty brisk out here."

  Houston glowered. "By God, no, Esau. What I need are a few brave men to rescue the Republic of Texas from certain destruction."

  Esau blinked and went back inside. The Old Chief was in one of his earthshaking moods, and at such times it was wise to leave him be.

  With a sigh, Houston moved to an old rocking chair at the end of the porch. The Telegraph and Texas Register, dated February 18, 1840, was anchored against the caprice of wind by a hickory can sporting a staghorn handle. Houston picked up the newspaper and cane and sat down. Sitting in the rocking chair made him feel old and useless. His blue eyes swept the tree-covered point of land which he had purchased three years ago. He had planned a summer cottage at land's end, where the breeze off the bay would keep the heat, mosquitoes, and black "eyebreaker" gnats under control. He would name the place Raven's Moor. Unfortunately, he lacked adequate funds to start construction. All he had now was his law practice. Ordinarily, fraudulent land claims and old Spanish grants made Texas real estate a bonanza for lawyers, but the republic was in such severe economic doldrums that precious few clients could pay an attorney's fees in cash. And besides, Houston readily admitted that he was, at best, an indifferent lawyer. His preference was politics. But soon he would have a wife to support. . . .

  Tom Blue, his other servant, came trotting around the corner of the cabin.

  "Riders comin', Marster Sam."

  Houston strode to the edge of the porch and peered up the lane at the three horsemen coming through the cedars. He squinted to identify them, but his eyes weren't what they used to be. I am just a broken-down old warhorse, he thought bitterly. One of the horsemen was leading a riderless pony—a fine-looking colt. Then Houston recognized the gray hunter beneath the saddle of the man in the lead, and his heart soared with joy. Only one man in Texas rode such a splendid thoroughbred.

  As the riders drew near, Houston saw that he was right. The man on the gray was Captain John Henry McAllen. And that was Dr. Ashbel Smith with him! Houston smiled. He had just told Esau that he needed a few brave men to save Texas. Well, by the Eternal, here were two who fit the bill perfectly!

  "Ashbel!" exclaimed Houston as the riders reached his cabin. "What a pleasant surprise! What brings the two of you out this way?"

  Ashbel Smith glanced at McAllen. "By a happy coincidence, we were both in Galveston at the same time and met at the bar in the Tremont. John Henry was on his way here and permitted me to accompany him."

  Sam Houston turned his attention to John Henry McAllen as the latter swung down from the saddle on the gray hunter. The man was tall, sinewy, broad in the shoulder, his hair black as the ace of spades beneath a straw planter's hat sporting a broad crimson band. He wore a black frock coat and doeskin trousers
tucked into blucher boots. A handsome man of about thirty years, his features bespoke character and iron will, while his steady gaze was that of one who by nature was forthright and honest. There was a scar on his cheek, just to one side of a stubborn chin, on the chiseled jaw line; Houston knew McAllen had a habit of stroking that scar with his thumb when deep in thought. It only added to that air about McAllen which warned every observant person who met him that this was a man it was better to count as a friend than an enemy.

  "If you remember, General," said McAllen, "a couple of years ago you were eloquent in your praise of Escatawpa." He patted the gray hunter's wither.

  "He is undoubtedly the finest horse I have ever seen."

  "And I promised you one to match him."

  "I had forgotten," confessed Houston.

  "I didn't forget." McAllen gestured at the colt. "Escatawpa has sired this splendid fellow. You would honor me by accepting him as a token of my esteem."

  Houston was deeply moved. "Apart from those brave men who gave their lives so that Texas could be free, no man has ever given me a finer gift. But please, my friends, come in. You have had a long journey in poor weather, and you know Esau is the best bartender in the republic."

  "I've heard a rumor you've forsaken strong spirits," said Ashbel Smith.

  "That's one rumor concerning me that is true," replied Houston gravely. "But it doesn't mean my good friends must abstain when they call upon me. Come in!"

  McAllen turned to the third rider. "Joshua, see to the horses, and find a blanket with which to dry the colt."

  The man named Joshua nodded. As Houston stood aside to permit his guests to precede him into the cabin, he spared this man a glance. Joshua was the son of a runaway slave and a Seminole warrior. A boy caught up in the whirlwind of war in the Florida glades, he now served McAllen with undying fealty. McAllen had saved his life, and now they were inseparable. Houston had heard that the slaves on McAllen's Grand Cane plantation feared Joshua. Some of them were convinced that the half-breed was the devil incarnate. Gazing at the fierce cast of the young man's dark countenance, Houston could understand why they thought so. Joshua was like Escatawpa in some ways. The gray hunter and the savage boy showed deference only to John Henry McAllen. No other mortal could safely deal with either. It was said that McAllen's wife had tried to persuade her husband to rid himself of Joshua, but McAllen had adamantly refused. He was, in his way, as devoted to Joshua as Joshua was to him.

  In spite of his boast regarding Esau's prowess as a drink maker, Houston lacked many of the ingredients necessary for such popular concoctions as the gin sling, whiskey punch, mint julep, Virginia fancy, smasher or cock tail, all of which Esau could produce, given the chance. Ashbel Smith settled for French brandy, while McAllen opted for a dose of Tennessee sour mash. With a sigh, Houston ordered orange bitters for himself.

  "You must tell us more about this young lady," said Smith, as they sat around a small, lopsided table. "She must be quite extraordinary, to have convinced you to forsake the 'nectar of the gods.' "

  Houston's smile was rueful. "Had things gone according to plan, she would be here today, and you would have seen for yourself that angels do indeed trod the earth."

  "What happened that your plans went awry?"

  "I thought it was arranged that she would come to Texas with her family. In her last letter to me, Margaret even identified the vessel which would bring them from Mobile. A week ago I was in Galveston when the ship docked. Margaret's family was aboard, true enough. But Margaret was not."

  "I hope she wasn't ill," said Smith, alarmed.

  Houston grimaced. "It was all her mother's doing. Nancy Lea is a force to be reckoned with. 'General Houston,' she said, 'my daughter is in Alabama. I have resigned myself that her marriage to you will take place. But I forbid my daughter to go forth into the world to marry any man. Even you. The one who receives her hand will receive it in my home and not elsewhere.' "

  "My, my," said Smith, trying to suppress a smile. "Your future mother-in-law sounds to me like an extremely strong-willed person. What did you do?"

  "What could I do? I tried my utmost to conceal my disappointment. I spared no effort—and no expense, I might add—to show Margaret's family a good time while they were in Texas. At least I can say that I persuaded them to make investments in the development of East Texas town sites. As for Margaret, I must go to Alabama if I want to marry her." Houston leaned forward, struck by an idea. "Ashbel, will you go with me? I would like for you, my old friend, to act as my second in this affair."

  "I see." Smith was taken aback. A wiry man of medium height, he was thirty-four years old, a Connecticut bluestocking by birth, educated at Yale and in France. He had come to Texas to recuperate from a broken heart, and found himself appointed surgeon general of the republic's ragtag army. He had served with Sam Houston during the fight for independence, and roomed with him in the ramshackle "Executive Residence"—a two-room shanty on the banks of Buffalo Bayou—when Houston had spent two years as the first president of Texas in the town that bore his name. Dr. Smith was a man of charm, a suave conversationalist, and a confirmed bachelor now that he had learned his lesson. A temperate man, he had exercised a beneficial influence upon Houston, for when the Old Chief was of a mind to visit the notorious salon of Madame Raimon, or indulge in a few too many aperitifs, Smith could usually persuade him to play a game of chess instead, or lure him into talking politics until the new day dawned.

  Though he had sworn never again to risk his own heart to romance, Ashbel Smith was glad that his good friend had found a mate of Margaret Lea's obviously high caliber. After all, the young lady had already performed a miracle—she had induced Big Drunk himself to forswear hard liquor, even in her absence! That was no mean feat.

  "Regretfully," replied the physician, "though nothing could please me more than to accept the great honor which you bestow upon me, General, I cannot go. As you probably know, I ignored all the signs of the coming of hard times. Up until a few months ago, I continued to purchase property. I'm not sure exactly how many thousands of dollars I invested. Now land will not command cash, and what little currency I possess is worth perhaps sixteen cents on the dollar. As to the money owed to me by others, how can I collect a debt in cash when no one has any?" Smith morosely shook his head. "Three years ago I averaged thirty dollars a day in private practice. The position of surgeon general was worth four thousand dollars per annum. And my real estate was worth, conservatively, thirty thousand. Now I cannot even afford to attend my best friend's wedding!"

  "Cheer up, Ashbel," said Houston. "We'll pull through. Who knows? There may not even be a groom at the wedding. I'm somewhat strapped for funds myself."

  "I have almost a thousand dollars in notes issued by a Louisiana bank," said McAllen. "You are welcome to all or part of that sum, General. They'll bring you ninety cents on the dollar in specie."

  "I gratefully accept the loan of a few hundred dollars. I will, of course, repay the loan with interest." Houston knew that McAllen was chronically short of cash himself, and he hated to dip into the man's savings. But he had to get to Alabama and take Margaret for his bride! He stared at McAllen. "Tell me, John Henry—how did you come by these notes?"

  "Through my factor, Robert Mills of Brazoria. Part of the proceeds from the sale of last year's sugar crop. A few Louisiana banks have survived the depression thanks to their conservative practices."

  Houston chuckled. "I can't blame you for steering well clear of Texas paper. Lamar's damned redback dollars are an unmitigated disaster."

  McAllen sipped his sour mash. "We all hope you will run for president next year."

  "I just hope the republic can survive that long," said Smith. In his opinion, Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar's entire administration had been disastrous. Lamar had vowed not to pursue his predecessor's negotiations with the United States for annexation. Envisioning a Texas republic that stretched to the shores of the Pacific Ocean, Lamar had talked about launching a milit
ary expedition to conquer Santa Fe, which would lead in all likelihood to another war with Mexico. Lamar's executive pretensions had resulted in prodigal expenditures that had come close to bankrupting the republic, and his reckless issuance of paper money had sent the suffering economy reeling to the brink of total collapse.

  "Lamar," muttered Houston darkly. The name left a bad taste in his mouth. "In '36, when most folks were trying to get across the Sabine into Louisiana to escape Santa Anna, Lamar crossed into Texas with sword in hand and asked every person he met where he might find my army. He performed well at San Jacinto, and I mentioned his bravery in my battle report. I did not know then what kind of man he was. I confess, he had me fooled."

  "Colonel John Morgan said that even though you might at times be a bit intemperate," reported McAllen, "you're worth a thousand Mirabeau Lamars."

  Houston laughed. "Perhaps he would have said ten thousand, had he known I now practice temperance." But his amusement was short-lived. Concern deepened the lines in his craggy face. "Ashbel, you say you hope the republic survives long enough for me to replace Lamar. But I had never hoped it would service even this long. Indeed, my hopes were that by now Texas would be a state in the Union. Yet this damnable issue of slavery, or rather the extension of that peculiar institution, has rendered the politicians of the United States impotent. By God, even Old Hickory himself seems to have lost his nerve in this instance. I felt certain he would ram annexation down the throat of Congress."

  "General Jackson is a great man," allowed Smith. "But he is still only one man."

  "Well, I'm not done with them yet," fumed Houston. "I'll force them to take Texas into the fold. In a few weeks' time I expect an Englishman to arrive here in Texas. His name is Major Charles Stewart. He has no official capacity. But he is coming to look and listen, and he will report back on what he sees and hears to the highest levels of government in London. Ashbel, since I must go to Alabama to claim my bride, will you serve in my stead as Major Stewart's host when he arrives?"