by Jeff Long
Seguin motioned with his chin. One of the vaqueros spurred his mount and dashed into the woods to get the prisoner. While they waited, Houston drew Bryan to one side.
"What game is he playing, Mr. Bryan?" Houston demanded under his breath.
"I don't know, sir." Bryan kept his voice low, too. "We've talked many times before. All I can tell you is that the captain feels very strongly that this revolution does not belong to us. These Tejanos have seen people like us come and go with our filibusters. Twenty years ago an army of norteamericanos came to San Antonio with great promises of independence. But then the Spanish army arrived and defeated them. The Americans who didn't get killed fled back to the States. For many years afterward, it was the people of San Antonio who suffered for a foreign adventure. Their men were executed. Their women
were raped. He has joined our fight to ensure that never happens again."
"But what is it about this prisoner? This feels like an ambush."
"My guess is that Captain Seguin wants some sign of good faith on our part. Maybe some kind of sacrifice. I don't know."
Just then Seguin's vaquero returned, leading the prisoner out from the woods on a rope, and Houston's mouth went dry. His boisterous army quit its yammering. The prisoner was a skinny man with a wispy beard and no hat. A rope bound him around the chest and his hands were cinched with rawhide. Now Houston understood. Captain Seguin had delivered to them an American. The prisoner was a white man.
"Morning all," the prisoner said.
No one replied. The entire army had lost its balance, its voice, its spirit, all in a heartbeat. What now? Houston asked himself.
"Somebody get this rope off me," the prisoner said.
A soldier started forward, but Houston stepped in first. He felt Seguin towering above him.
"You," Houston said to the prisoner, "give us your name."
"Johnny Jarvis, by God. But I am known as Popcorn." Except for the rope, he seemed perfectly at ease.
Houston paused. "How come 'popcorn'?" He had to know. Sometimes a man's etymology explained everything you needed to learn about him.
"I settled up the popcorn patch near Brazoria," the prisoner answered. "Then the Meskins come and said you got to be baptized to keep land, and I said well then baptize me Popcorn. Popcorn Jarvis." He displayed a mouthful of twisted teeth which Houston took to be a grin.
"If you will, Mr. Jarvis, explain how you got to be in your present circumstances?" Houston asked.
"Say what?"
"Why are you in a rope?"
"Meskins."
"What were you doing with the refugee column?"
"Looking for you," Popcorn said. He made a shrug, mostly to point out that, despite his request, the ropes still bound him. "I come to volunteer."
"Captain Seguin says you're a thief and a rapist."
Popcorn spit. He turned his whole body and faced the army. "And he's a goddamn Meskin."
The crowd shuffled. There were murmurs of retrospection. They were second-thinking the accusation now. But closer up, Houston could see the fingernail marks on the man's face and neck. In fairness they could as well have been scratches from thorns.
"The captain alleges you were stealing from the refugees," Houston said. His lawyer days were a thing of the past, and he felt stale trying to remember how to prosecute such a charge. At the same time, it wasn't his place to prosecute this at all. He was a general, and this was a war, not a courtroom.
"I was confiscatin', I'll admit," the man said. "I was hungry. And I was coming to volunteer."
"Captain Seguin also alleges you were raping."
"Hell," Popcorn said.
Houston turned to Bryan. "Ask Captain Seguin, did he bring the alleged victim along with him?" He wouldn't have, but there was a form to these inquiries.
Before Bryan could put the question, however, Popcorn reacted. "Victim?" he sputtered. "Why it was just some prairie gal. She's been married to every man in Gonzales anyhow."
Now Mosely Baker stepped in. "What gal?" he said.
Popcorn smiled fondly, a wrong thing to do as it turned out.
"Popcorn Jarvis," Mosely said with cold eyes. "Here on, you be Dogal Jarvis." One of Seguin's vaqueros lit up with a broad white grin.
"Doe-gal?" the prisoner said. His burst of good humor crashed against Mosely's sinister mood. "What's it, doe-gal?"
Mosely got up close to say it. "That's Mexican. It means noose." Then he looked away. Houston was inclined to pass the same judgment. Jarvis looked guilty, he acted guilty, and, with Juan Seguin looking on, a quick hanging of one of their own would confirm the equality of American vengeance. He was about to sentence the prisoner when several other colonels appeared in the front.
Colonel Forbes spoke first. "For my vote, gentlemen, there can only be one outcome, and it just got wisely pronounced.
Capital punishment, swiftly executed. So be it. What do you say?"
Houston scowled. That might be his own judgment, but this wasn't a court martial. The matter wasn't open to a vote of the colonels and he had no intention of sharing authority with subordinates. If he hadn't known Forbes better, Houston would have accused him of being clever.
"You can't kill me," Popcorn protested, apparently convinced Forbes had just solicited his opinion. "I come to volunteer."
Now Private Lamar squeezed out from the mass of onlookers. "Since Colonel Forbes has raised the issue of a voting up or down a man's life," he said, adjusting his green spectacles, "and since the man in question has had no benefit of counsel, I hope you'll allow me to introduce a rudimentary point of law."
It was something like this that Houston had been afraid would happen. If not Lamar, it would have been one of the officers, making what was simple complicated. Anymore these challenges were coming at him constantly, on a daily, sometimes hourly basis.
"Speak your piece," Houston said to the private.
"The accused . . ." Lamar began.
"The condemned," Mosely Baker amended.
"This fellow unfortunately named Popcorn," Lamar said, and that drew an appreciative guffaw, "he has had no proper trial nor credible witnesses. These are serious charges and our commander in chief has rightly promised Captain Seguin a display of American justice. But what's unfolding here is an aberration."
Colonel Wharton cut Lamar off. He was brusque. Of late the malcontents had taken to haggling among themselves and that sometimes provided Houston a respite. "All right, Mr. Lamar," he said, and Houston was surprised that the private was known by name to the colonels. "You've made your point."
Wharton turned to the prisoner. "Are you innocent?" he asked Popcorn. When that got no response, Wharton tried it the other way. "How about guilty, how do you plead?"
"I'm a white man," Popcorn told him.
"And a goddamn pity that you are," Wharton responded. "You've pillaged. But worse by far, sir, you've defiled a woman."
"Maybe he has, Colonel, maybe he hasn't," Lamar persisted. "But my point here is that General Houston has instructed Captain Seguin there will be no killing of prisoners without his approval. And I'd just like to get on record what the highest authority in the land has to say about mob justice." He faced Houston with a pleasant smile.
"I'm sure you didn't mean to call the Army of Texas a mob," Houston parried. The ugly reality was that for weeks now they'd been in the mood for blood.
"Of course not," Lamar demurred. "What I meant to refer to was the effect, not the cause. And, forgive me, sir, my question still stands. Do you call this justice?"
"If we are not here to fight evil," Houston sidestepped him, "then why fight?"
"A quaint notion," Lamar responded with enough courtesy to cover the insult.
Houston knew that was how it might sound. His problem lay in making these hundreds of men believe in their righteousness the way he believed in it. But do you really? a voice surfaced in his mind. Do you believe? Houston's head snapped away from the thought. He went on searching for high-minded word
s to seduce his army back from Lamar. But that terrible instant of doubt tangled him like a serpent. What if he didn't believe?
"We are near the edge of the world," Houston said, trying to buy himself more time to think. "We are the law. We are pathfinders in this wilderness. Without us, there is no justice."
"All I'm saying," Lamar appealed to the crowd, "is that we should be sure that our justice is fair. With our enemy so close, maybe we should just draft the accused and put a rifle in his hands. Later let us sort out his guilt."
Houston felt dizzy and unclean. Lamar was right. They should wait. Even if this gatemouthed Popcorn was guilty, waiting would lend gravity to what ought to be a state function, not a mob action. Because otherwise, all he was doing was presiding over a lynching. For the first time Houston felt the awful weight of being more than just a man. As commander of an army, he was also an instrument of the people. But what did that mean, to be an instrument? Was it his role to be wielded by the people, to carry out their passions, to lead where they were already going? Or was he here to guide them into civilization, regardless of where they wanted to go?
Houston considered some way to concede Lamar's point and postpone the killing and at the same time to impress upon Seguin that justice would be done, that his word was not in doubt. He could say he was taking the issue under advisement or call for a formal investigation of the charges. He could do anything he wanted because he was the general, the highest authority in a land at war.
"Popcorn Jarvis," he said, "until such time as a formal court of inquiry can be arranged, you are hereby inducted into the Army of the Republic of Texas."
"But General," Mosely Baker started to protest. Houston wondered if Mosely had decided it was Molly who'd been violated out there. Houston couldn't help that just now, nor could he help that Seguin was probably ruffled, too.
"Hurrah," someone shouted, for something about the moment suggested an element of heroic vindication. Popcorn had just glimpsed his own specter and yet survived.
Lamar cocked his head, lips pursed midway between a smile and a thought. The mysterious private was done playing for now, Houston could see. Lamar seemed to know he had won his point, and something more. He had exposed Houston to himself.
Houston looked around and Seguin was staring down at him from his midnight stallion. Abruptly the Tejano flashed his white teeth in a dangerous smile.
"Be with God," he said to Houston in English.
Seguin and his rangers could have thundered off into the forest for the outright drama of it. Instead they left slowly, without another word.
Chapter Six
For fifteen years, ever since Mexico had opened eastern Texas to settlement, the little town of San Felipe de Austin had been the heart and soul of American propriety with its cluster of neat log cabins and its air of commerce about to happen. Here Stephen Austin had shaped his kingdom within Mexico, crafting deals with tyrants and ruling over his expatriates with a missionary's guile. Here American settlers had seen hope.
Reaching San Felipe, Houston's army found it nearly empty. The general took one look around, then ordered the town looted for supplies. The soldiers pitched in with relish. One thing led to another and soon one house, then others were on fire. Rather than try to save what the Mexicans would burn anyway, Houston pulled his army to the outskirts and they watched the entire town light up.
With the flames licking high, Houston was reminded of Washington when the British put it to the torch. He had arrived in the capital within weeks of the 1812 sacking and had felt shame and grief and outrage. This was different. He'd never much cared for Stephen Austin and his unending compromises with Mexico City. Firing San Felipe felt like a cleansing.
Houston kept his jubilation to himself, however, because some of his men had made homes there. Moses Bryan wept as if it were his uncle himself going up in flames. Bringing up the rear, Mosely Baker arrived to find his town sacked and burning and gave Houston a glare of such hatred that Houston almost
reached for a gun. Ever since Gonzales, Mosely's happy-go-lucky elan had darkened and become unpredictable, sharpening into something that had two edges and no handle. Houston had thought it reduced to worry over his lover Molly, but Mosely wasn't heartsick. His sunny expression had turned to cold night. He seemed possessed, though by what Houston couldn't say.
"You mean to burn your way to Louisiana, is that it, General?" the colonel shouted over the roar of flames. He had more to say, but then caught sight of Three-Legged Willie. Colonel Williamson was doing a strange frenzied jig upon his pegleg-crutch, laughing at the destruction.
Houston had long admired Willie's almost supernatural capacity to not just get around but always be in the thick of it. Even with that crutch strapped to his crooked leg, the lawyer could ride, talk, and dream with the best—and worst—of them, and probably would have died with his friend Travis if not for his sharper instincts. But something had shifted in him over the past few weeks, too, though in a way far different from Mosely. Willie had always had a smaller man's daring. It had twisted into a recklessness without any purpose, a delight in sheer anarchy.
"You've lost your minds," Mosely said. He pointed his finger at Houston, then cut his reins at his horse's flanks and bolted off.
After torching San Felipe, the army marched on. Next morning they woke early to the eerie glow of San Felipe still afire in the gloom. Like a lantern in a bayou, the luminous ball lit the dark western horizon.
"Look," an old man with a billy-goat beard called out to the soldiers, sweeping his hand from west to east. "The sun sets, but it rises. Dusk and dawn, all in one. Gee, gad. Scripture said it, two suns, one day. I tell you, lads. The Beast."
"Quiet down, old man," someone said. "Scripture don't say no such thing."
"The Beast," the old man warned them. "He's walking the land, sure."
"Let him come on then," shouted a young bravo. He shook his long musket in the smoke of their mess fires. "I can put one ounce of lead through either eye, you pick which one. Then I'll skin what beast it is and wear it for my sweetheart."
"But what if?" wondered some gaunt boy trembling with
sickness. He could barely stand. "Maybe this time it's come. The apocalypse and second coming. What if?" Through the mud on the boy's face, Houston could see the angry crusted spots of chicken pox.
'Tis evil walking," the old fellow muttered. "The Beast afoot. Afoot and among us."
"Where at? Where among us?"
"Don't you see him? He's here," he trembled. The old fool looked around at them with madness gleaming out through his shadowed sockets.
"Easy does it," a man quieted them with a voice of authority. It was a new voice, new to the campaign anyway. Houston knew that voice and turned to it.
As if he'd been among them all along, Tom Rusk, their newly appointed secretary of war, was standing there in rotting buckskins, his brown hair plaited and clubbed on the back of his head the way Daniel Boone used to keep his. Rusk wasn't particularly imposing with his small shoulders and solid waist, but that in itself was something to trust, a young man with no vanity and a bushelful of high intent. Houston hadn't seen him since the convention and could only guess Rusk had arrived during the night. Rusk winked at Houston, then proceeded with his little exhortation.
"We ain't the Beast afoot, but Democracy on the shoot," he said to the men. "We are the flaming sword. Why, if we want, we can light the valley of darkness all the way to the halls of Montezuma."
"There," a soldier said, "you see there, old man."
"I see what I see," the old fool called back.
"Well then, goddamn you," and someone threw a rock at the wild prophet. They catcalled at him. But he had shaken them with his omen.
Houston shook Rusk's hand good and hard. "Mr. Secretary," he said with a smile, "I am glad to see you." Here was a friend, one of the few men Houston could turn his back to without fearing a knife. Like Houston, Rusk had lost his sweetheart and come to Texas. They had similar fits o
f melancholy, too, though Rusk's fits had no escape hatches to them. Alcohol didn't work for him, and laudanum only made his moods blacker. He'd tried to kill himself twice that Houston knew
about, once that Houston had talked him out of. It was probably a matter of time before suicide took Rusk away.
"You may not be so glad once you read this." Rusk handed him a letter sealed with red wax that bore a plain square imprint. Houston had seen President Burnet's ring print before and it usually meant bad news.
"Are they taking the army away from me?"
"God no, Sam," Rusk said. "This here is more along the lines of inspiration."
Houston opened the letter. Even the president's handwriting looked pinched and lead-footed. "Sir," it read, "The enemy are laughing you to scorn. You must fight them. You must retreat no further. The country expects you to fight." It was signed. That was it.
Houston handed the letter back to Rusk. "So my retreat is not a popular thing," he said. He wondered if there was a single voice of support anywhere for what he was doing.
"The president almost put his fist through the table stamping this," Rusk told him.
"I suppose you want to take a reply?"
"Do you have one?"
"I'll have to think."
"Well don't think too long. Burnet and his government are running faster than anyone else. They were headed in the direction of New Orleans last I saw."
"When do you leave then?"
"Me?" Rusk said. "I'm not leaving. I figure you're the only one that knows what you're doing in this whole country, Sam."
"Do I?" Houston wondered.
"That's why I've come," Rusk said. "I figured you might need a friend."
Houston stopped. He looked around to be sure they had moved out of earshot. "Is there any news from General Gaines?" He asked it casually.
Rusk was surprised. "There are rumors that Gaines may be bringing up thirteen companies of the U.S. Army. They are near or upon the far side of the Sabine River," Rusk said. "But how could you know that, Sam? I only learned it an hour before departing for here."
