The Black Jacks

by Jason Manning

  Laughter rippled through the room. Houston's smile was cold.

  "Actually, I was referring to the Count de Saligny."

  A heavy silence descended upon the gathering. Houston drew a folded sheet of vellum from beneath his leopardskin vest.

  "I have here a letter bearing the signature of Mirabeau Lamar. In this letter are the details of a transaction which, had it been foisted upon the people of Texas, would have been known as the Franco-Texienne Land Bill. In it, the president promises to cede millions of acres of Texas land for the loan of one million francs."

  The Lamar partisan who had broached the subject of Charles Stewart now shot to his feet and aimed an accusing finger at Houston. "That's a dirty lie! Such a transaction was never even contemplated by the president. That letter is a manufactured piece of evidence, and the signature upon it is a forgery."

  Another legislator spoke up. "We are all well aware that the French charge d'affaires reported his room broken into and valuable documents stolen. Apparently Mr. Houston has added common thievery to his catalog of crimes."

  "I was hundreds of miles away when the event to which you refer occurred," replied Houston. "And you can't have it both ways, gentlemen. Did this letter exist, or not?" He strode to the desk of the house speaker and presented the paper. "I do not expect you will ever have evidence of this nature to prove any supposed collusion between myself and the British. I have nothing else to say, and will leave it to the people of Texas to judge."

  He turned and strode from the building, swinging his walking stick, a grim smile on his lips. In the stunned silence of the assembly he imagined he could hear a sound that was music to his ears—the hammering of the last nail into Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar's coffin lid. He had played a dangerous game, and the seeds of his flirtation with Great Britain had very nearly sprouted tares instead of flowers. Now that he felt confident that the presidency of the Republic of Texas was his for the taking, Houston knew he would have to do everything in his power to prod the United States Congress into approving annexation.

  As he stepped outside into the hot summer sunlight, the crowd of spectators flocked around him. A handful scowled darkly, but most of the people were shouting congratulations, jostling one another to get close to their hero. Houston kept moving through the press.

  "Houston! You're a damned dirty liar and a coward besides!"

  The crowd parted in frantic haste, and directly in his path Sam Houston found a man he did not know standing with feet planted wide apart, a pistol in his hand, and the look of murder on his face. Unarmed, Houston's first instinct was to duck for cover. But there was no cover, and if he dodged into the milling crowd an innocent bystander might take a bullet meant for him. In the next instant a towering rage consumed him, smothering the instinct for survival. He had come too far, for Texas and for himself, to be stopped now by an assassin. Houston rushed forward, wielding his walking stick like a sword, striking at the man's gun. The pistol discharged, and the bullet tunneled harmlessly into the ground. Again Houston struck with the cane, and the would be assassin collapsed, blood streaking the side of his face. A pair of Houston supporters pounced on him while he was down and wrestled the pistol from his grasp.

  "Hand him over to the sheriff, boys," said Houston. He stepped closer to the half-conscious gunman, whose arms were pinioned by the general's partisans. "When you see Burnet, tell him that the next time he wants me killed to try the job himself."

  The crowd cheered. The gunman was hustled away none too gently. Sam Houston walked on, realizing that once again he had cheated death. Some had said he was a man of destiny. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps the Lord God Almighty did have special plans for him. But for now Houston had only one plan—to hurry home to Margaret, to hold his wife in his arms, and to count his blessings.

  Praise God for Margaret Lea Houston! In his hour of darkest despair, when it had seemed as though there was no hope for him, or for Texas, and when he had very nearly resorted to strong spirits to drown his misery, she had given him strength, had talked him through his crisis of confidence. She had more courage and more faith in him than he had in himself.

  Another of those blessings. . . .

  One of those blessings was John Henry McAllen, whose friendship and loyalty had prompted him to take steps in a bold initiative which had resulted in Sam Houston's possession of the Lamar letter. That saved my hide, and saved Texas, too, mused Houston. He could only hope that McAllen found that young woman, Emily Torrance. A good man deserved a good woman.

  But only time would tell. . . .

  Time was taking a heavy toll on McAllen. Having personally delivered Lamar's incriminating letter into Sam Houston's hands—he could not trust anyone else with the delivery of such an important document—he had returned to Grand Cane to await word from Antonio Caldero.

  Not a day went by that he did not wonder what kind of fool he was for relying on a bandit like Caldero. Maybe Caldero felt as though he owed Houston and had said he would help without really intending to make much of an effort to locate Emily. And if Caldero did make a genuine effort, how long would he pursue the endeavor? Here was a man dedicated to one thing—the cause of keeping Texas out of the Nueces Strip—and who had played a deadly game of cat and mouse with the Rangers for years. How much time and effort would he expend in search of a Texas girl kidnapped by the Comanches?

  Every morning, McAllen awoke to an almost irrepressible urge to saddle Escatawpa and head west. He had to convince himself on a daily basis that if Caldero really was trying, then he had a much better chance of getting Emily back that way. He couldn't do Emily much good dead—which would be his likely fate if he ventured alone onto the Llano Estacado. Finally he decided to give Caldero two months. If he hadn't heard anything by then he would go on his own, come what may. Two months wasn't much time, but McAllen could not give more; if he waited much longer than that to get started he would be slowed by the onslaught of winter.

  He tried to immerse himself in plantation affairs. There was plenty of work to do, and McAllen felt as though he had neglected his home all summer long. The sugarcane was maturing fast. Soon it would be time to cut it with cane knives. Stalks stripped of their leaves would be placed in a hopper, and the rollers, turned by mules, would press the juice from the stalks. The juice would then have to be boiled to form sugar crystals.

  In the mill, or "sugar house," the raw cane juice was first placed in the largest of three kettles, la grande, where lime was mixed in to act as a flux for releasing impurities. As the liquid heated up, the foreign particles rose to the top and were removed with copper skimmers into a wooden trough. La grande's contents were then ladled into a smaller kettle, la flambeau. Here the juice continued to boil, creating more scum to be skimmed off. As the juice cooked, it thickened and fewer impurities were released.

  Finally the syrup was ready for the smallest and hottest kettle, la batterie. Here the syrup was boiled to the consistency needed for crystallization, at which time the batch was ready for "striking," removal to the cooling vats. Throughout the cooling process the syrup continued to granulate. Completely cooled, the raw sugary material called massecuite was transferred into large barrels for the final purging of molasses. What remained were brown crystals, or raw sugar, ready to be marketed. Arrangements would have to be made to transport the sugar and the molasses down the Brazos by boat.

  In addition, a large quantity of wood would need to be cut and stored for heating and cooking during the winter months. In the process, fences that needed mending would be attended to. Early corn had already been picked, and a second crop was being planted. These and a dozen other tasks demanded attention. But McAllen's problem was that Jeb had proven himself an extremely efficient overseer and quite capable of handling everything in a more than satisfactory manner. So McAllen's involvement wasn't necessary, which meant he had to motivate himself, and that wasn't easy. He had only one thing on his mind—the only thing that seemed to matter. Emily.

  Bits
and pieces of important news reached him. Major Charles Stewart was found guilty of the murder of Jonah Singletary and sentenced to hang. Many people had expected Sam Houston to intervene on the major's behalf, ironically, it was President Lamar who stepped in to save Stewart from the hangman's noose. Lamar commuted the Englishman's sentence, and then went so far as to pardon him. McAllen presumed that the president had struck a deal with Stewart, giving the Englishman his life in exchange for political ammunition in the form of details regarding the connection between Houston and Great Britain. But Lamar was flogging a dead horse. His actions demonstrated the extent of his desperation. The accusations he hurled at his opponent had no effect on public opinion. Having made his own secret deals with the French, Lamar was the pot calling the kettle black.

  Stewart, however, did not leave Texas alive. After arriving in Galveston to seek passage on a British ship, he was found dead in an alley near the wharves. The consensus was that a gang of Irish wharf rats had attacked him—the corpse had been stripped of everything of value. But McAllen had a sneaking suspicion that Leah's father might have been behind the killing. Assuming he knew that Stewart had raped his daughter, Henry Pierce would not have let the Englishman escape justice. Of course, Pierce was an important man in Galveston—important enough to get away with murder. If there was a connection, no one was going to look very hard to find it.

  The French chargé d'affaires, Saligny, was more successful than Stewart in leaving Texas. Having had all he could stomach of Bullock's pigs, the count had shot and killed one of the innkeeper's prized Berk-skires and then had to flee for his life from the dead pig's irate owner. There was more to his departure than that, McAllen was certain. The revelation of the Franco-Texienne Land Bill made Saligny's position in Texas untenable. Lamar could not afford to have anything more to do with him.

  Brax Torrance, having recovered from the amputation of his foot, disappeared from Grand Cane, and rumor had it he had gone to join the Texas Rangers. As for Yancey, McAllen never expected to see his friend again.

  Finally, in early October, McAllen's suit for divorce, on the grounds of adultery, was adjudicated and finalized.

  The very next day, Jeb came running up to the main house to give McAllen a note found pinned by a knife to the door of the sugar mill:

  I have found her. Meet me at the Caves of the Colorado in a fortnight.

  There was no signature, but then there didn't need to be.

  Within the hour McAllen was ready to go. Joshua had the horses saddled, and Bessie had put some provisions in a gunnysack. Before mounting up, McAllen handed Jeb a piece of paper. Jeb looked it over—McAllen had taught him to read. But Jeb couldn't believe he'd read it right.

  "As you can see," said McAllen, "it's been witnessed by Dr. Artemus Tice. Whether I come back or not, Jeb, you and the others are free. I've sent a copy to Robert Mills, my factor. You know him. If I die, you'll get your own section of land. If I come back, I'll pay everyone who wants to stay a percentage of what we make off the crops."

  "You'll come back, Marse John," said Jeb. "And I reckon we'll all be right here waitin'."

  McAllen nodded, climbed into the saddle on the gray hunter, and with a wave to Bessie and Roman, who stood on the porch, rode down the lane with Joshua following. Jeb joined the others on the porch and read them the letter.

  "Lawdy, lawdy," moaned Bessie. "Dat mean he don't think he be comin' home."

  "He'll come home," said old Roman, and settled resolutely into a rocking chair. "And I'm gwine sit right here till he do."

  "You a crazy old man. You gwine sit dere, day and night, for who knows how long? Bessie shook her head. "Leastways, I won't have to worry 'bout you killin' yourself by workin' in dat garden all day."

  Rocking back and forth, Roman didn't say anything, his eyes glued to the lane that led down to the river road.

  "Ol' fool," muttered Bessie, and turned to go inside. She paused at the door and glanced back. The fondness in her eyes as she gazed at the old man belied her words. She knew he would do it. He was stubborn enough, and devoted enough to Marse John, to see it through. And tonight she would come out after he was asleep and put a blanket around him and touch his weathered face and say a little prayer.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The caverns had been formed millions of years ago in an uplift of limestone. Water had done the work, leaking through cracks and crevices, dissolving the limestone; the flooding which followed heavy rains roared through these passages, widening them. Dripping water formed stalagmites, stalactites, columns, and flowstone. Blind albino fish swam in underground streams. Some of the main openings into the underground labyrinth were sinkholes ranging in size from ten to hundreds of feet across.

  The Indians of the region had always known about the caves but seldom used them, believing they were inhabited by spirits and were a gateway to the realm of the dead. Located two or three days' ride northwest of Austin, they had sometimes been used by outlaws who sought to be beyond the reach of the law but didn't care to venture too deeply into Comancheria.

  McAllen didn't have to ask anyone where to find the caves. He had come across them two years earlier, during a pursuit of Penateka raiders who had stolen some horses and burned a few cabins in the Brazos River country. He and Joshua arrived a few days early for the rendezvous with Antonio Caldero. He hadn't expected Caldero to be waiting for him—the Mexican bandit couldn't risk lingering in any one place too long, especially north of the Nueces. No, the waiting was McAllen's job. And it was a hard one.

  In one of the larger sinkholes they found a game trail, a route taken by deer and other creatures to reach the bottom, where a pool of cold springwater was available year-round. McAllen and Joshua led their horses down this steep trail and camped at one of the many entrances to the caverns. There was plenty of firewood from cedar and scrub oak trees that had been uprooted at the rim of the sinkhole and washed down to the bottom by floodwaters. A damp, cool draft wafting up from the black depths of the caves would have been a pleasant respite from summer heat, but a cold front, the first of the year, blasted through on the day of their arrival, bringing rain and chilling gusts of wind with it. All McAllen and Joshua could do was huddle in the mouth of the cave with blankets draped over their shoulders and watch the rain fall from a low gray sky.

  Exactly fourteen days from the delivery of the note to Grand Cane plantation, Caldero appeared. He was not alone. In fact, the first McAllen knew of his arrival was the sudden appearance of five bandoleros at the rim of the sinkhole.

  Caldero came down the game trail alone, on foot. McAllen went out to meet him. The bandoleros watched him like hawks, while from the mouth of the cave Joshua kept a close eye on the Mexicans, his rifle ready. McAllen had explained the situation to the half-breed, but he didn't expect Joshua to let his guard down; regardless of the circumstances, these men were still bandits, and they hated Texans. One wrong move on anyone's part and all hell would break loose.

  "Con permiso, señor," said Caldero, pausing two-thirds of the way down the game trail, and McAllen gestured for him to come the rest of the way.

  "You've found her?"

  Caldero nodded. "She is with the Quohadis, in the Canyon of the Palo Duro. Do you know of this place?"

  McAllen shook his head.

  "Not many white men do—and live to tell of it. The place is very far from here."

  "How far?"

  Caldero shrugged. "Ten days. Maybe more."

  "You mean you've never been there?"

  "Once. Many years ago."

  "Then how do you know that Emily is there?"

  "My friends, the Comancheros, tell me."

  McAllen grimaced. He did not consider Comancheros to be very reliable sources. "How can you be sure it is her?"

  "I know the Quohadis took her—it was a Quohadi arrow which you showed me. I know the Quohadis have only three white captives: a young woman, a little boy, and a little girl. She is the one. But if you do not want to go and see for you
rself. . ." Again Caldero shrugged.

  "I'll go. Just tell me how to get there."

  "Señor, I could have told you that in my letter. No, I am going with you."

  "Why would you want to do that?"

  "Because you would not get into the canyon alive."

  "But why? Why are you doing this, Caldero? We are enemies, you and I. So why are you helping me?"

  Caldero strolled past McAllen, scanning the sinkhole, looking at Joshua, at the horses over by the spring, at his men on the rimrock above, silhouetted against the sky. Finally he turned, his expression grave.

  "I will tell you. Thanks to you, Sam Houston will become president of Texas, and that is a good thing for my friends, the Comanches. It is good, too, for Mexico. It means there will be no war—at least for the time being."

  "I didn't realize you were such a peace-loving man."

  "I know there will be a war. I know that eventually the Comanches will be destroyed, and your land will spread like a plague to the west. You will even try to take Mexico. But now that Lamar is out, this will not happen right away. I will have time to prepare for the war that is coming, because, my friend, you will build your towns on the banks of the Rio del Norte over my dead body. And the Comanches, too, will have time to prepare. In a few years they will have rifles with which to fight you. They have learned a lesson, you see. And the Comancheros will sell them the rifles. Time is what your enemies need, Captain, and thanks to you they will have it." Caldero smiled at the look on McAllen's face. "You haven't thought about what you have done in that light, have you?"

  "No."

  "Well, es verdad. It is true. So you have done me a great favor, and I will repay it by helping you find the woman you love. And there is one other reason I help you. I am a romantic at heart, as Houston said. You would die for this woman, wouldn't you?"