by Texas
'But will Mexico accept you?'
'When I set foot in Vera Cruz ... I lost my leg in that city, you must remember. The people of Vera Cruz venerate me. I can handle this in a week.'
The American representatives were not fools, and before ac-
cepting such a proposal, they investigated it from all angles, but when they talked with silver-tongued Santa Anna, who knew English well enough to smother them with glibness at any difficult juncture, they convinced themselves that here was a noble patriot who wished only to end a disagreeable war on terms favorable to both sides.
A remarkable agreement was drawn up, initialed by everyone: Santa Anna would be given a huge sum in gold, with more to come when the peace treaty was signed; a boat of British registry would be provided at the port of Havana; and Commodore David Conner, commanding the United States Caribbean fleet, would be issued presidential orders directing him to assure Santa Anna's ship safe passage through the American blockade and into the port of Vera Cruz. If necessary, Commodore Conner could sink any Mexican vessels that tried to prevent the return of the hero to his native soil.
At this point Benito Garza received cryptic instructions forwarded secretly from Cuba: 'Report immediately to Vera Cruz and prepare a spectacular reception for a secret arrival.' He was not pleased with these orders, but he was prepared to report where his country needed him.
So Benito dropped other responsibilities, including his often-interrupted honeymoon, rode south along back roads where norteamericano patrols would not stumble upon him, reached Potosi, and hurried on to Vera Cruz, where secretly he organized a rabble for one of those demonstrations that flourished regularly in Mexico. He had not the slightest intimation of what was afoot, but he supposed that some general opposed to the present inept government of the country was going to make a pronouncement with a fresh new plan—fifty-third since 1821, counting those which flourished for a single heady afternoon—for saving the country. On the reasonable grounds that anything would be better than what Mexico now had, he supposed that he would support the new grito.
How astonished he was on the morning of 16 August 1846 when the latest hero prepared to save the country arrived not from some inland barracks but from the little British steamer Arab, delivered into the harbor by the American fleet itself! Even at that dramatic moment Benito did not guess the identify of the savior, and then to his great joy he saw General Santa Anna, Benemerito de la Patria, come stumping down the gangplank on his best ceremonial leg. Garza needed no prodding to start his wild cheering, but to his dismay hardly anyone watching this charade bothered to join him, and the resuscitated dictator marched into his domain in near-silence. Seven or eight men, led by Garza, shouted: 'Santa
Anna! Santa Anna!' but older men and wiser asked quietly: 'What can he be up to this time?'
Soon all knew that Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna was once again Mexico's El Supremo, with powers doubling any he had enjoyed before, and it was rumored that he himself would assume command of all armed forces, north or south. But whether he would fight, as some said, or sell out to the norteamericanos, as others predicted, no one knew.
When Benito and a score of trusted lieutenants met with Santa Anna that night, they asked bluntly: 'Excellency, what are your plans?' and he replied: 'Only one. Crush General Taylor at Saltillo. Drive General Scott back into the sea if he tries to land here in Vera Cruz.'
When the applause ended, Garza asked: 'When do we march north?' and his hero replied: 'When my nation calls me. And she will call.'
President Polk had by this rash action placed on Mexican soil the one leader who had a chance to defeat America's grandiose plans, and what was more astonishing, Polk had also provided the American dollars which could help Santa Anna turn the trick.
When word reached General Taylor that Santa Anna had returned to Mexico as supreme dictator and was assembling a massive army to bring north, the old man faced a series of difficult decisions. It had become apparent to President Polk, a Democrat and a wily one, that General Taylor, a Whig and a blunt one, was receiving in the press a flood of adulation as reward for his victories at Palo Alto, Resaca and Monterrey. With the shrewd insight which characterized Tennessee politicians like Andrew Jackson and Sam Houston, Polk foresaw that Taylor was going to use his military popularity to win the presidency in 1848, and this had to be forestalled, because Polk considered that the general would be a hopeless President.
Making a move that was both politically and militarily astute, Polk forbade Taylor to leave Monterrey lest he become trapped in the vast desert area separating Saltillo and San Luis Potosi. When Taylor's officers received the orders, they immediately spotted the error: 'My God! This keeps us from chasing the defeated Mexicans into Saltillo and crushing them there '
Persifer Cobb fired off a bitter letter to his brother:
The only good news I can report is that during this enforced idleness we have had the good sense to send all the Texans home Yes, they're all gone, and I'm a free man at last, one who can sleep well at night.
Did you know that at the height of our effort one Texas company of foot soldiers demurred at fighting as infantry, saying that every decent Texan was entitled to his horse-* Well, they took a vote. Yes, Somerset, on the eve of battle they took a vote whether to fight or not and it was 318 to 224 in favor of quitting. So they just quit. Can you imagine Hannibal, as he faced the Alps, allowing his soldiers to take a vote as to whether they wished to scale those snowy heights? That clinched matters with General Taylor, who summoned me and said: 'I want no more of your Texans. Send them home.' 1 wanted to remind him that they were not my Texans, but instead I saluted and informed Captain Garner: 'Your Rangers are dismissed. Take them home.' And what do you suppose he did? Stared at me with those icy eyes and said: 'We voted last night to quit when our second three-month enlistments were up. You're not sending us home. We're going home.' As we watched them ride off, one of my officers muttered: 'I pray that all decent Mexicans are safe in their beds,' because as I've told you, the Texans shoot at anything that moves and take no prisoners.
When one Mexican general surrendered at Monterrey he insisted upon an unusual paragraph in the papers of the agreement: 'I must be accompanied from the city by a strong escort of regular army officers lest I fall into the hands of your Texans.' 1 led him forth assisted by eleven well-armed officers who had orders to shoot to kill if the Texans tried to attack.
I was sorry, in a way, to lose Otto Macnab, not because I like him, for he is a steely-eyed killer, but because I wanted to understand how a man so young could have developed so forceful a character, judging his entire performance with me, I found him an abler tactician than Captain Garner and certainly a more controlled fighter than Panther Komax. But 1 simply could not understand his savagery. During the incident in Granada, I'm told, it was he who reloaded his four pistols twice, meaning that he may have killed a great many Mexicans, none of them well armed. When I asked him about this, he said nothing.
Rumor insists that General Taylor will ignore orders and march directly to Saltillo, daring Santa Anna to challenge him. I hope he does, but when I discussed the possibility with his assistants they alarmed me by saying: 'If he does, he'll need your Texans again. He despises them, but he knows he can't move without their scouting.' My God! They may come back!
Otto Macnab, mustered out at Monterrey on 29 September 1846, rode with Garner and Panther to Laredo, then on to San Antonio, where the other two cut east to Xavier County. 'Give them my best,' Otto said in farewell.
From San Antonio he headed north toward the German settlement at Fredericksburg, and as he rode down the side of a hill he
saw in the distance the outlines of the rude wooden house that, in his absence, the Allerkamp men had erected for their sister. It was such a surprising object of civilization that those sentiments which had so deeply affected him when he saw the light gleaming from the cabin surged back, causing him to halt his horse while he gazed at this symbol of what was good in li
fe. The powerful difference was that this was his home, his light in the wilderness, and he was so overcome by this powerful sensation of love and things civilized that he spurred his horse and raced down the rest of the hill, shouting at the top of his voice: 'Franziska! Franziska!' And when at last he saw her come to the door, wiping her hands on her apron, he thought to himself: This is what we fought for.
He spent most of these days of autumnal peace by working slavishly to improve his home. And when the Allerkamps went in to Fredericksburg on Saturdays he spent much of his time playing with the neighbors' children and teaching them games, or serving as their four-legged horse, down on his knees, while they galloped about the grass, lashing at his flanks with little twigs. Franziska, watching with pleasure as he gamboled with the children, wished that she could add to his pleasure by informing him that she was pregnant, but for the present this was not to be.
He had once told her, during their long talks when they were getting to know each other after their unusual marriage, that he had been driven to acquire the land at Fredericksburg not only because of his intense love for her, but also because he had so treasured those evenings spent talking with Martin Ascot and Betsy Belle that he had become determined to have a home of his own, 'where people could stop by and talk about what was happening.'
They did not as yet actually have such a home, on their own land, that is, because it had been deemed prudent, in view of Otto's absences as a Ranger, for everyone to delay building a Macnab house on the Macnab holdings. But during this unexpected reprieve from battle they began collecting the field stones and slabs of limestone from which a true Macnab home could one day be built.
If the Germans had the materials, the manpower and the determination to build Otto and Franziska a house, what deterred them? The Comanche. As soon as the Indians learned that the Texans were embroiled in a war with Mexico, with most white fighting men engaged below the Rio Grande, they moved daringly closer to all white settlements, so that there was a constant fear of new massacres, kidnappings and burnings. 'It would be unthinkable to leave our daughter alone on a farm two or three miles away from our protection,' Ludwig explained to Otto when the latter
wanted to start building his own home. The Comanche are becoming bold and terrible.'
The Germans had acquired extra rifles and were teaching Thekla and Franziska to reload and fire the weapons, and no Allerkamp man ever worked alone in a field. He either worked with another man, or perched his woman on a stump to guard him with a loaded rifle while he labored.
'Ernst is different,' Franziska explained to her husband one night soon after his return as they lay on their straw-mattress bed. 'We didn't want to worry you, but he actually goes out among the Comanche.'
'What?' Otto sat bolt upright.
'Yes, he knows their language now. He talks with them.'
'Why?'
'He's trying to persuade them to make a lasting peace treaty with us Germans. He tells them we're different. That we can be trusted.'
'Good God! Doesn't he know what happened at the San Antonio council house . . . the massacre?'
'He tells them that was not our fault. That with us Germans it could never happen.'
'But what about Victoria?' In his confusion, Otto rose from bed and stomped about the little room. 'The Comanche are our enemy. You didn't see my mother . . . my aunt. Franza, it was horrible.'
'Ernst says it needn't be that way any longer. Not here. Not with us Germans.'
'I better talk with Ernst,' and despite her protests and the lateness of the hour, he strode over to the other house and roused his brother-in-law, the one who called himself Uncas.
'I know all about the massacres, Otto, and I know how much you loved your two Mexican women. The Comanche are terrible, but the time comes when peace must be reached.'
'With the Comanche, never.'
'What's going on there?' Ludwig's deep voice called, and when the two young men explained they were arguing about the Comanche, he growled: 'Argue outside and let honest people sleep.'
Wrapping themselves in blankets, they went out into the October stillness, and when Ernst saw the huge golden disk of the full moon he said: 'Comanche moon, that's what they call it. It's on bright nights like this they make their attacks,' and the two men looked into the shadows, half expecting to see the savages preparing for an assault on the Allerkamp place.
'Do you honestly think that peace .. . ?' Before Otto could finish
his question, Ernst gripped his arm and said: i know that peace is possible with anyone . . . anyone. When your battles down there end, won't you have to arrange peace with the Mexicans? Of course. And we must arrange peace with the Comanche.'
In the days that followed, Franziska told her husband about an astonishing frontier drama centering upon a German immigrant whom Otto did not know. Ottfried Hans, Freiherr von Meusebach, was one of those admirable, inquisitive young noblemen whom the European countries occasionally produced. Born in a German duchy, educated in various German universities, he spoke five languages and seemed destined to follow his brother as a major diplomat, when he was dispatched to Texas to bolster the sagging German settlements in the area north of San Antonio. Instantly-charmed by the democratic freedoms of his new country, he surrendered the honorific Freiherr, took an American name, and performed notably as John O. Meusebach.
As soon as he had arrived he was visited by Ernst Allerkamp, who assured him: 'I have worked with the Comanche for two years. I know their language. I think I know their hearts. And they have told me: "Peace is possible. But only with you Germans." ' Meusebach, listening carefully, said: 'Let us talk further about this,' and when the two men found themselves in harmony on all points, they issued a simple statement: 'We think a lasting treaty of peace with the Comanche is possible.'
Frenzied discussion had followed, Franziska told Otto, with old-time Kentucky settlers warning Meusebach: 'You wasn't here when President Lamar laid down the basic rule for handlin' Indians in Texas. "Eviction or extermination!" Ain't no way white men can live aside Indians, because they ain't human like us.'
'How did Ernst take that?' Otto asked, and she replied: 'Shouted in a public meeting "Peace is possible!" and he volunteered to lead a party out to the Comanche, if anyone was brave enough to follow.'
'Anyone volunteer?'
'Meusebach.'
'The German nobleman?' and Franza said: 'Yes.'
So that was the way things stood at year's end: two young men ready for great adventure, Ernst among the Comanche, Otto back in Mexico if the army called.
The Meusebach Expedition into the heart of the Coman-cheria assembled its gear in mid-January 1847, and when Otto realized that these men really were going to plunge into enemy territory, where the risk of death by torture was great, he insisted
upon going along with his multiple weapons, but Ernst said: 'No, this is a peaceful mission,' and Meusebach agreed.
Otto, disgusted by this non-military attempt, warned: 'You'll die staked out before a fire, but don't call for the Rangers. It'll be too late.'
He was considering whether he should, to protect these headstrong Germans, gather a few men like himself and ride discreetly behind the would-be peacemakers, when he heard Franziska call from her kitchen door the single word 'Liebchen.' Their affinity through the years of their extraordinary courtship and in the early months of their marriage had become so intuitive that whenever Franza uttered the word Liebchen in a certain inflection, her husband knew that she was about to say something of importance.
'What?' he asked, turning his whole attention to her.
She blushed, hesitated, then said in a low voice: 'I'm to have a baby.' She said no more, and he refrained from jumping in the air or embracing her fervently; instead, he bowed to her and she to him, for they were people of silent moments deeply cherished.
But the moment of reverence was broken by the arrival of Panther Komax, who bellowed as he approached the cabin: 'Mac-nab! General Taylor needs us at S
altillo! Garner's taking down his best men from Company M.'
When the bearlike man saw Franziska, he whisked her up in his arms, threw her in the air, and shouted: 'How did you ever catch this one, Little Nubbin?'
'Put her down!' Otto yelled, and when he saw her safely on the ground he whispered to Komax: 'She's going to have a baby.'
Panther stepped back, surveyed the couple, and clucked his tongue: 'Fraulein Macnab, you are beautiful! Simply beautiful!' And he gave her a great hairy kiss which practically covered her face. He was the second man to have kissed her, and she was astonished at his boldness.
'Yes,' he snorted as the Allerkamp women fed him gargantuan quantities of food, 'messengers came north with news that Old Rough-and-Ready was bulldogging his way into the heart of Mexico. Without scouts. With disaster every time he moved. After six or seven routs of his dragoons—' Here he leaped to his feet and galloped about the place, imitating the American cavalry on their big horses riding fat and dumb right into Mexican ambushes. 'Hell, he knowed he needed us to do his dirty work.'
'Can't you stay the night?' Thekla asked, and he said: 'Nope, we got to join up with Garner and the others at Laredo.'
So packing was done hastily, but when Franziska went out to put Otto's gear on his waiting horse, she saw his saddle blanket and
uttered a cry: 'There's blood on your saddle.' And when Panther went to scratch the discoloration, he confirmed: 'Yep. It's blood.'
'Otto, were you wounded?' Franza asked, her face even paler than before, but Panther dissipated her fears: 'Your little man never gets wounded. He wounds other people,' and the two Rangers explained how they had captured those two little mountains at Monterrey, Federacion and Independencia, and how on the latter hill, when they attacked the Bishop's Palace, Ranger Lucas had been killed.
