The Black Jacks Read online

  Ashbel Smith smiled wryly. "Old Chief, I do believe you have something up your sleeve. You know the English want an independent Texas. They are as adamant in their opposition to the expansion of slavery as any abolitionist, though for a different reason."

  All three men knew what that reason was. British entrepreneurs had made huge investments in Mexico, and they feared American designs on that southern republic. An independent Texas would act as a buffer zone, not only to protect Mexico, but also to stymie American desire for California. If the United States took possession of Pacific ports, Great Britain would find it had a powerful rival in the valuable China trade. In short, British opposition to slavery in the American South was largely based on economic principles rather than moral ones.

  At the same time, an independent Texas bolstered by British money and bayonets was the worst nightmare of American expansionists, and even of many opposed to expansion who nonetheless suffered chronic Anglophobia. Houston was well aware of this sentiment. He was hoping, Smith knew, that annexation would be hastened if it appeared that Texas and Great Britain were becoming too amicable.

  "Major Stewart is a veteran of the Opium Wars," said Houston. "By all accounts he is a dashing beau sabreur, and will no doubt prove quite popular with the ladies. I trust, Ashbel, that you will keep him from mischief. From personal experience I know how good you are at that sort of thing."

  "I will do my best."

  Houston turned to McAllen. "John Henry, there is something you can do for me."

  "You need only ask, General."

  Again Houston was moved. The unquestioning loyalty of men like John Henry McAllen did him great honor, and gave him cause to hope that Texas could be redeemed. "Lamar's Indian policy has been the greatest disaster of his administration. My God, you need only look at what he has done to the Cherokees!"

  McAllen nodded gravely. Last spring, Texas Rangers had killed a Mexican spy on whose body had been found documents linking the Texas Cherokees to Mexico in a secret treaty which pledged the tribe to wage war against the Republic of Texas. Lamar promptly declared that the perfidious Cherokees had to be driven out. Texas volunteers commanded by the inveterate Indian fighter Edward Burleson provoked a fight. The Cherokees were defeated, and Houston's old friend, Chief Bowl, was killed. It was said that Bowl was wearing a red silk vest, a present from Houston, when he fell. An outraged Houston had proclaimed the old chieftain a "better man than his murderers." Their will to resist removal broken, the Cherokees were embarked on a second Trail of Tears, north across the Red River.

  Now Lamar had turned his attention to the Comanches, the feared warlords of the Staked Plain, who kept the Texas frontier in a constant stir with sudden raids. The president sent agents among the Comanches, claiming he wanted to meet with the tribe's leaders to talk peace.

  "It is incredible to me," said Houston, "that the Comanche chiefs have agreed to come to San Antonio and meet with Lamar. Especially Maguara. That old fox ought to know better. Lamar's stated policy has been extermination, not conciliation. I smell a rat."

  "What do you want me to do?" asked McAllen.

  "The meeting is scheduled to take place in a few weeks, at the Council House in San Antonio. John Henry, can you be there?"

  "I can."

  "Go first to Austin. Perhaps you will see or hear something there that will give you a clue to Lamar's true motives."

  McAllen nodded. "That's fine. In fact, I've been planning to pay a visit to someone in Austin."

  Ashbel Smith shot a startled look of alarm in McAllen's direction, but Houston failed to notice.

  "I know you're wondering what good you can do," said Houston, brows knit. "Everyone knows you are a 'Houston man.' As such, you are not likely to be consulted by Lamar and his cronies. Which is a shame, since you've gone up against the Comanches a time or two and know their ways as well as anyone."

  "They've struck near enough to Grand Cane a time or two to make us sit up and take notice," said McAllen. "We've tried to make them pay a steep price."

  "Just go there, and keep your eyes open. If you see trouble stirring, do what you can to nip it in the bud. God knows Texas is in no condition to fight a full-scale war against the Comanche nation."

  "You evidently expect some skulduggery on Lamar's part."

  "He has surrounded himself with Indian haters. This old nose smells danger, my friend. I have smelled it many times before, and I know the scent."

  "I'll do what I can, General."

  "Splendid." It seemed as though a great burden had been lifted from Sam Houston's shoulders. "Now, have another drink, and I will tell you all about this remarkable young lady who has made such a difference in my life. . . ."

  Chapter Two

  "John Henry," said Ashbel Smith, "I was afraid for a moment you were going to mention this business with Jonah Singletary in the Old Chief's presence."

  They had gone some distance from Sam Houston's cabin, riding in silence, following the trail that wound through the evergreens of Cedar Point, and which would eventually connect with the Lynchburg Road. Tonight they would reach the town of Houston. From there it was ninety miles to Grand Cane. McAllen was ambivalent about getting home. There was plenty of work to be done, and McAllen was committed to making his plantation one of the most successful in Texas. He was not motivated, as were so many of his peers, to create a worthy inheritance for his heirs; he had no children, and had accepted the bitter fact that he never would. No, he would make Grand Cane prosper because that was just the kind of man he was. Once he started something, he never went at it in halves.

  The problem with going home was that Leah, his wife, would probably be there. These days, McAllen did not care to linger long in her presence. She daily reminded him what a fool he had been to marry her. Not in words, but in her actions. The romance writers waxed eloquent about domestic bliss; McAllen lived in a domestic hell from which there did not seem to be an acceptable avenue of escape.

  Ashbel Smith's remark disrupted his grim reverie. He glanced, scowling, at the physician. The thought of Leah seldom failed to put him in a bad humor.

  "And why would I do that?" he asked. "This business between Singletary and I is purely personal."

  "General Houston would disapprove, were he cognizant of your intentions." Knowing that McAllen revered the Old Chief, Smith hoped to weaken his traveling companion's resolve regarding Singletary. "Rumors to the contrary aside, he has fought only one duel in his life, and I know he has regretted doing so every day since. His adversary was General William White, a lawyer and veteran of the Battle of New Orleans. White interposed himself in a quarrel between Houston and another gentlemen. Harsh words were hastily spoken. A challenge was issued and accepted. For a week Houston practiced his marksmanship at the Hermitage, under the experienced eye of Old Hickory himself. Finally the two men met at the appointed place and hour, on the Tennessee-Kentucky border, at the farm of a man named Duncan.

  "Houston did not want to kill White, but the old gentleman would not recant," continued Smith. "Realizing that White was a poor shot with the pistol, Houston gallantly agreed that they would take their marks at the distance of only fifteen feet. It so happened that Duncan had a pup he had named Andy Jackson. On the morning of the duel, Houston was awakened by the barking of Andy, the pup. He later told he considered that a good omen, and knew that, even at fifteen feet, he would go unscathed. And that he did, though General White was less fortunate. He lingered for months at death's door. No one was more relieved by the old gentleman's eventual recovery than Houston. He swore he would never fight another duel, though heaven knows his enemies have slandered him mercilessly. I know his respect for you would grow if you could see your way clear to forgetting Singletary's vile insinuations regarding your wife."

  "You seem keenly interested in talking me out of this, Ashbel."

  "I am, my friend, I am. Singletary is a Lamar man. He uses the pages of the Austin City Gazette to tell all manner of lies about his mentor's polit
ical adversaries."

  "Then he is past due a lesson in common decency."

  "But you would be playing right into their hands by pursuing the course of action which you propose. Ever since the Levi Laurens affair, there has been a public clamor to outlaw affairs of honor."

  McAllen nodded. Everyone in Texas was familiar with the tragic details of the Goodrich-Laurens duel. Three years ago, Dr. Chauncey Goodrich, one of Ashbel Smith's Texas Army surgeons and a hot tempered Mississippian, had been forced by circumstance to share a room in Houston's Mansion House with young journalist Levi Laurens and two other gentlemen. During the night, a $1,000 bill was stolen from Goodrich's bags. Goodrich accused Laurens, and Laurens was obliged by the code of honor to demand satisfaction.

  Rifles at twenty paces were the terms agreed upon. Laurens fell mortally wounded and died two days later. Shortly thereafter, Goodrich quarreled with a San Antonio gambler, who plunged a Bowie knife through the man's heart. Ironically, it was later discovered that one of the other men who had shared the room with Goodrich and Laurens, Marcus Cicero Stanley, had stolen the $1,000 note. Stanley fled to England to escape justice, but McAllen had heard that he now languished in a London prison for robbing the famous artist George Catlin at his Indian Portrait Gallery. The death of Laurens had triggered editorials and demonstrations denouncing the code duello, a storm of sentiment that was still raging unabated across the republic to this day.

  The irony of his own situation did not escape John Henry McAllen. Jonah Singletary had made snide comments in the City Gazette about his wife, Leah, who had been seen in the company of more than one young Austin man-about-town, while McAllen was off with his Black Jacks chasing a Comanche raiding party that had struck several farms in Brazoria County six weeks ago. "Poor Captain McAllen," Singletary had sneered. "While the heroic fellow is on the warpath against those red savages, his wife can be found on the footpath of Lovers Lane with several of our own local bucks."

  The problem, from McAllen's point of view, was that this was no baseless slander. It was the truth. Nonetheless, he was obliged to defend Leah's honor—even though she had none. Truth or not, Singletary had overstepped his bounds.

  "I never said I would issue a challenge," McAllen told Ashbel Smith. "But I could hardly be blamed for taking a blacksnake whip to the man's back."

  Smith sighed. Whether Sam Houston or John Henry McAllen had the quickest tempers in Texas was a close-run thing. The difference lay in the Old Chief's talent for being charming and tactful when called upon. As for tact, McAllen did not know the meaning of the word. He was a blunt, straightforward man of action, cut from the Andrew Jackson mold. He was tall, lean, rugged, strong; a fighter, and a man of iron will. The kind of man Texas desperately needed, particularly in these times of crisis. But he was no politician. And Ashbel Smith worried that the scandalous Singletary comments were a trap designed to ruin one of Sam Houston's most loyal and able supporters. The caustic, keen-witted Jonah Singletary was taking advantage of McAllen's only weakness—his pride.

  Smith was well aware of the problems in McAllen's marriage. The man seldom spoke of them, but Smith had eyes and sound instincts. McAllen didn't love Leah. Perhaps he never had. Leah Pierce was a beautiful and seductive young woman, and McAllen had fallen prey to her charms. The fatal flaw in Leah's character was a need for male attention. Not just from one man, but all men. That being so, she was incapable of fidelity.

  John Henry realized now that he had made a terrible mistake. A few friends who were acquainted with Leah Pierce had dared to warn him before the marriage took place, but McAllen, completely beguiled, had refused to listen to their counsel. Now he was paying for his folly.

  And paying dearly, mused Ashbel Smith. There were no children involved, and Smith believed his friend ought to divorce his unfaithful wife. But he didn't dare suggest such a course to McAllen. For one thing, it wouldn't do any good. Call it stubborn pride, a refusal to admit failure, but McAllen was a man who simply could not let go. And so, even though he knew that Jonah Singletary's information concerning Leah's indiscretions was probably accurate, McAllen felt duty-bound to defend the honor of a wife who had none. What cruel irony!

  Deeming it unwise to press the issue, Smith changed the subject. "I wonder if Lamar really is up to something with the Comanches."

  McAllen only shrugged. He was a man of occasional massive silences, and he now forgot all about the physician who accompanied him, and brooded over what Sam Houston had said about the imminent peace talk at San Antonio's Council House.

  Comanche affairs were of tremendous importance to McAllen—as they were to all settlers who lived on the fringes of civilization. Criticizing Houston's conciliatory approach to Indian affairs, Mirabeau B. Lamar had made nothing but belligerent talk when it came to the Comanches. So why now, suddenly, these peace overtures?

  The Comanches were a proud and fierce people. Tested by more than a century of conflict with the Spanish as well as other Indian tribes, they were now the undisputed masters of the plains. As fighters they had no peers. Fortunately for Texas, they were divided into a number of autonomous bands—the Quohadis, the Penatekas, the Tanawas, and others. Lacking unified leadership, they had yet to combine for the purpose of waging full-scale war upon the white interlopers.

  But if they ever get together, mused McAllen, there wouldn't be a white left alive west of the Sabine.

  That was what Sam Houston was worried about. The Old Chief was concerned that Lamar, by some underhanded device, might give the Comanche bands motivation to join together. In which case, the fledgling Republic of Texas would be extinguished in a maelstrom of fire and blood. McAllen hoped Lamar had better sense. Surely the man could see that Texas was in no condition to battle the Comanches, not with another war with Mexico so likely.

  Lamar's chief weapon in his campaign to rid the republic of what he liked to call the "red scourge" was a group of hard-bitten Indian-haters called the Texas Rangers. The organization had been created by Stephen F. Austin in 1823, when the impresario dipped into his own pockets to pay ten men to serve as "rangers." Their job was to protect the Austin colony from all enemies. Later, the colony's militia as a whole took to calling themselves Rangers.

  During the revolution, the Committee of Correspondence resolved to create a corps of Texas Rangers "whose business shall be to range and guard the frontiers between the Brazos and Trinity Rivers." The Rangers were irregulars; they furnished their own horses and weapons; they had no flag. There were three companies of fifty-six men each. They did little to distinguish themselves during the revolution, and while he was president, Sam Houston had made no use of them.

  Then Mirabeau B. Lamar succeeded Houston. In his opinion, the white man and the red could never live in harmony. "Nature forbids it," he declared. He approved a law for the protection of the frontier by creating eight companies of mounted volunteers. Since the men who volunteered came from the frontier counties and had in all likelihood already tangled with the Comanches and, in some cases, had lost loved ones during a Comanche raid, there was no love lost between the Rangers and the Indians. The only good Indian was a dead one. That was their creed, and they tried to live by it. Their mission was to exterminate the Comanches. Only then, they believed, would Texas be safe. You couldn't make peace with a savage, because a savage had no concept of honor, and would not keep his word. This was their thinking. And President Lamar's, too. So McAllen kept coming back to the same old question.

  Why the peace overtures?

  Two months ago, three Penateka Comanche chiefs had ridden boldly into San Antonio and, in a conference with Ranger Henry Karnes, stated that a tribal council had agreed to ask the Texans for a treaty. Colonel Karnes had replied that no treaty was possible until the Indians gave up all their white captives. The Comanches agreed to this condition, and the talks were scheduled for March 19.

  There would be trouble. McAllen could feel it in his bones. The Comanches were not gentle with their captives. If they did b
ring in their white prisoners, Texas would be able to see all the suffering those poor souls had endured, and bad feeling would run at high tide.

  But what could he do?

  Scowling, John Henry McAllen shook his head. It didn't really matter what he thought he could or couldn't do. Sam Houston had entrusted him with this task, and by God he would get it done or die trying.

  Chapter Three

  Saying farewell to Ashbel Smith in the bar room of Floyd's Hotel, McAllen took three days to travel the distance between the booming town of Houston and the Brazos River. The rains had swollen the creeks and rivers, and the crossings slowed him down. He arrived at the Grand Cane plantation late in the afternoon of the third day.

  In spite of his problems with Leah, McAllen was glad to see his home. He was proud of Grand Cane, and anyone acquainted with the plantation would have said he had a right to be.

  Five years ago, John Henry McAllen had come to Texas, like so many other adventurous Americans eager to strike a blow for liberty. He came from Mississippi, a lawyer by trade and a militia officer who had seen action in the Second Seminole War with Zach "Old Rough and Ready" Taylor. With McAllen came twenty-eight stalwart men, all of whom had served with McAllen in the Florida campaigns. The women of Warren County had presented them with black roundabouts adorned with red piping and brass buttons, and thanks to these distinctive shell jackets McAllen and his men rode boldly into Texas legend as the Black Jacks.

  They were not the only such group to risk all for Texas independence. There were John Shackleford's Red Rovers from down Alabama way, and the New Orleans Grays, too. But as far as Sam Houston was concerned, Captain McAllen and his Black Jacks were the best and bravest of the lot. He had seen them in action—their gallant assault on Santa Anna's left flank at San Jacinto was a scene Houston would never forget. The Black Jacks had met and vanquished a much larger force of veteran lancers. And then, while the rest of Houston's little army became a wild mob embarked on a killing frenzy as the Mexican troops broke and ran, McAllen and his boys had kept good order and protected their suddenly vulnerable commander, who lay wounded in his camp on Buffalo Bayou.