by Texas
They're decent schools,' the Washington man conceded. 'Of the second category.'
'What the hell are you sayin',' Quimper asked, his face growing red and his pronunciation more Texan. The university has Stephen Weinberg, Nobel winner, and A&M has just signed up the great Norman Borlaug, also a Nobel winner for his work on grains.'
'Yes,' our visitor concluded, 'but you hire them long after they've done their best work elsewhere. It's doubtful you'll ever produce a Nobel winner of your own.'
'You Washington know-it-alls make me puke,' Quimper said, retiring from the conversation. But the rest of us accepted the challenge, and in a series of short, impassioned statements we defended the intellectual honor of our state.
Miss Cobb was most effective: 'You must remember, young man, that power is flowing into Texas at an astonishing rate. More congressmen with every census. More industry. More of whatever it is that makes America tick. You unfortunate people in the North will be spending the rest of your lives dancing to a Texas tune. You should accustom yourselves to it.'
There are rules of quality which cannot be evaded,' the editor, a graduate of Amherst and Yale, said. Texas will have the raw power, yes, but never the intellectual leadership. You'll always have to depend on the areas and the schools with higher standards.'
That's the sheerest nonsense I've heard in a long time,' Rusk grumbled. 'In the fields that matter these days, Texas is already preeminent . . . and we'll stay that way.'
'What fields?' the Washington man asked, and Rusk ticked them off: 'Petroleum, aviation, silicon chips, population growth.'
'When your oil wells dry up,' the editor said, 'you become another Arizona. Colorful, but of little relative significance.'
Rusk leaned back and looked at the young expert: 'Son, of a hundred units of oil in the ground in 1900—take any well, any field you want—how much do you suppose we've been able to pump out so far? Go ahead, guess, if you're the last word on petroleum.'
'What? Seventy percent taken out, thirty percent still underground?'
'We've taken out twenty percent. The limitations of present techniques prevent us from taking any more. So eighty percent of Texas oil, and that's a monstrous reservoir, is still hiding down there, waiting for some genius to invent a better pump, a better system of bringing it up to where we need it. And von can be sure we'll invent some way of doing just that.'
Now Quimper snapped back: 'And the man who figures it out is gonna get his own Nobel Prize '
Since the discussion had centered on me originally, 1 felt obligated to make a contribution: i wanted the Smithsonian job. Anyone would. To shepherd the material record of the nation But in a way, these two men are right. That's a museum job. The past The great struggles of the future are going to be fought out herein Texas. Even more than in California.'
The young man had excited our minds so thoroughly that Rusk suggested: 'Some of the things you say make a lot of sense. Have dinner with us.'
During the meal the visitor made two points which kept the pot of agitation bubbling: 'Texas will accrue power, that's obvious, but two deficiencies will hold you back. Because you produce no national newspaper like the New York Times or the Washington Post, you'll not command serious intellectual attention. Newsweek losing its Texas editor, that hurts the opportunities of other Texans like Barlow enormously.'
Before either Rusk or Quimper could leap to defend the young man who had left Newsweek, the editor made a humorous evaluation which ignited the basic fires of patriotism: 'And because your diet is so very heavy and unimaginative, you'll lose ground to California, which eats so sensibly.'
This was too much for Quimper: 'A good chicken-fried steak smothered in white gravy, or a big slab of barbecue with baked beans and potato salad, that's man's food. That keeps the blood circulatin'.'
'And the cholesterol raging.'
i wouldn't be surprised,' Quimper said, 'if quiche and endive salad don't destroy California, grantin' it's still there after the earthquake hits.'
As the night wore on, Professor Garza asked seriously: 'So what are the chances that our boy will land the Smithsonian job?' and our visitor said: 'Nonexistent. They'll have to have someone with more prestige, and from a more acceptable locale, but even listing Barlow was a vote of confidence. Twenty more vears, if things progress as Miss Cobb suggests, someone from Texas will be acceptable.'
'At that point,' Rusk said firmly, 'we'll be sending our young people to see Washington and New York the way we send them now to see Antwerp and Milan. Interesting historical echoes but no longer in the mainstream.'
When we convened in the morning we found that our staff had provided us with a professor from Texas Christian University, who offered a genteel antidote to the heated argument of the night before: 'I must warn you right at the start that I'm a Georgia woman who did her graduate work at South Carolina, so I'm imbued with things Southern, and the more deeply I dig into our past, the more respect I feel for Southern tradition. So please bear with me as I parade my prejudices.'
She delivered one of those papers that flowed along amiably, making subtle points whose veracity became self-evident as she marshaled her data; if the Insider man had dealt with the turbulent future, she led us seductively into a gallant past: 'When I was a student, Southern professors made it a point to avoid what they called "that unfortunate phrase the Civil War. " They claimed it was never a civil war. They said that implied that in a state like Virginia, half the families sided with the North and took arms to defend that cause, while the other half favored the South and fought for it, with blood from two members of a given family mingling as it ran down some country lane in Virginia. They argued that that did not happen, not even in fractured states like Maryland, Kentucky and Missouri. "No," they said with great emotion, "this was a war between states, Massachusetts versus Alabama. And when those Missourians who did favor the North fought their fellow Missourians who sided with the South, they did so at outside places like Vicksburg and Shiloh, never in Missouri itself." For them it was a war between sovereign states, and in our papers we had to refer to it as such. But now, for historians South and North, it's the Civil War.'
Having instructed us on that important point, she proceeded to the heart of her statement: 'While I find it impossible to describe Texas as a true Southern state, I do not ignore the profound influence that Southern mores have exerted. In 18 and 36, Texas had principally a Northern cast, as installed by people from Connecticut and Ohio who had laid over in Kentucky and Tennessee. But within the next twenty-five years, say to 18 and 61, the influence of the South became overwhelming.'
'The vote on secession,' interrupted Rusk, who was always surprising us with his command of relevant data, 'was more than three-to-one—forty-six thousand to fourteen thousand—in favor
of quitting the Union and fighting on the side of the South.'
'Far more important was the cultural domination The few Texas children who had schoolteachers tended to have Southern ones. Children able to go away to college often went to Southern ones. Books by Southern authors were purchased from Southern stores. Southern newspapers were read.'
Turning to Garza, she said: 'You won't like this, Professor, but recent studies are beginning to suggest that the Texas cowboy derived not primarily from Mexican prototypes, but from the habits of drovers coming in from the Southern states
She cited a score of challenging statistics and illustrations showing that the impact of the South on Texas custom was pervasive, but as so often happens in such discussion, three of her almost trivial observations aroused far more interest than those of a graver nature: 'Food! Here the traditions of the South dominated. The Texan's love of okra, for example. One of the world's great vegetables, not native to Texas and unknown in states to the north, but a staple in the South. One could claim that the finest contribution we made to Texas life was the introduction of okra.
'Corn bread the same. Iced tea, which is practically the national drink of Texas, especially with a
touch of mint or lemon. And I'm particularly fond, as many Texans are, of dirty rice '
'What's that?' Garza asked, and the lecturer looked at him as if he were deprived: 'You don't know that gorgeous dish 7 Rice steamed in bouillon, with chicken giblets and chopped onions and pepper? Professor Garza, you ain't lived!'
Her second point was more serious: The most lasting influence may have been the language. The famed Texas drawl is nothing but the Deep South lingo moved west. You never say business. It's bidniss. And I am very partial to the dropping of the s in words like isn 't and wasn 't: "Iddn't today glorious and wuddn't yesterday a bore?" '
It was her third assertion which generated most comment: 'I sometimes think that the major importation from the South was a sense of chivalry—a dreamlike attitude toward women. The men coming west really had read their Walter Scott. They did see themselves as avatars of the heroic age. They lived on the qui vive, always ready for a duel if their honor was in any way impugned. They had exaggerated interpretations of loyalty, and were ready to lay down their lives in obedience to those beliefs. Passionately devoted to freedom, they sacrified all to preserve it. And like champions of old, they were not afraid to defend losing causes
'Texas today is Carolina of yesterday, and in no aspect of life is this more apparent than in your attitude toward women. You
cherished us, honored us, protected us, but you also wanted us to stay to hell in our place. In no state of the Union does a woman enjoy a higher social status than in Texas. She is really revered. But in few states does she enjoy more limited freedoms. If I were, and God should be so generous, nineteen years old, with an eighteen-inch waist, flawless-skin and flashing green eyes, I'd rather live in Texas than anywhere else, because I would be appreciated. But if I were the way I actually was at that age, thirty-one-inch waist, rather soggy complexion and an I.Q. hovering near a hundred and sixty, Texas would not be my chosen residence.'
Quimper took vigorous exception to this: 'No state in the world pays greater deference to women than Texas.'
Our speaker proceeded: Texas has its own peculiar set of laws, and they stem directly from the tenets of Southern chivalry. But this also has its drawbacks. Because Texans prize freedom so highly, they refuse to burden themselves with the obligations which other less wealthy states have assumed. In public education, very tardy in establishing schools, very niggardly in paying for them. In public services, except roads, among the least generous in the nation. In health services, care for children, care for the aged, provisions for prisoners, always near the bottom.'
This was too much for Rusk and Quimper, who battled to see who would refute her first, Rusk won: 'But does not Texas stand, when all's considered, as one of the best states in the Union?' and she said: 'Unquestionably.'
Then Quimper asked: 'Wouldn't you rather be working in Texas than in Carolina?' and again she said: 'Of course.'
'Then what's this beef against chivalry? I'm proud of the way I treat women,' and she said: 'Chivalry is a man's determination of how he should treat women. It's his definition, not hers. I would like to see a somewhat juster determination of the relationship.'
'You ain't gonna like it when you get it,' Quimper warned. 'I got me a dear little daughter, comin' on sixteen. I would like nothin' better for her than to build a good life here in Texas. Maybe a cheerleader at the university. Find herself a good man, maybe a rancher or an oilman out on the firin' line. Ma'am, that's true chivalry. That's Texas.'
'I'm willing to grant that,' the speaker said, 'but I'm trying to make two points. One, the values you've just defended are essentially Southern. Two, it's easier to maintain them, Mr. Quimper, if you have nine ranches and nineteen oil wells.'
II Magnifico startled our visitor by swinging the conversation around to where we had started the night before: 'Did you know, Dr. Frobisher, that our boy here, Travis Barlow, is bein' denied a
Harvard or Chicago 7 '
i find that difficult to believe.'
'It's true. It's what we Texans have to fight against And much of the stigma comes from the fact that like you said, we adopted all those Southern rules and customs'
i suppose that's right,' she said, i sometimes see the next fiftv years as a protracted effort by the South to reestablish its leadership of the nation. We Carolinians and Virginians aren't powerful enough to do it by ourselves. So we're going to use Texas as our stalking horse. With your strength, your duplicity, we have a chance of winning.'
'Ma'am,' Quimper said, 'you've made a heap of sense tl nin'. You did us great honor in comin' here to share y< with us.' He was growing more Southern by the minute.
Til tell you something,' she said to all of us as she gat; papers. 'I stay here at TCU because I love Texas. I've nvited
back to four different schools in Carolina and Georgia Sometimes I long for that easier life, that civilized custom, but I stay here for one good reason. I want to be where the action is he skyline
of Fort Worth ... the noise, the vitality, the whe ! dealing,
the expensive shops, the good restaurants.'
Rusk interrupted this song of praise with a blunt question which any of us might have asked: 'Are you classifr Southern state?'
'Definitely not. It has none of the basic characteristics of M sippi or Virginia.'
'It's Southwestern?'
'No. It lacks the qualities of Arizona and New Mexico.'
'What is it, then?'
'Unique.' jamming her papers into her briefcase, she smiled: 'When you reach the age of forty-seven, if you have any brains, you awaken to the fact that the race is going to be over much sooner than you thought. So if I have only one life to live, only one dent to make, I want to make it where it counts, in Texas.'
797
PALO OURO CANYON 160 MILES
1869-1&74
Magazine
□ □
Bakery Guard House Quartermaster Headquarters
Camp Hope |
58 MILES
JACKSBOROUGH FORT RICHARDSON 58 MILES
Pnv>
Co.T
Suds Row
Infantry
THIS PARADE GROUND THREE TIMES AS WIDE
■
Privy □
Officers
Laundrv
Co.U
Infantry
Kitchen
Cavalry
O Flagpole
Commandant
Kitchen
Officers
□
Stables
□
□
w
HEN ULYSSES GRANT, ONE OF THE BLOODIEST GENERALS
in United States history, assumed the presidency in 1869, his fellow officers serving in the West were jubilant: 'Now we can settle with the Indians once and for all!' and they made preparations to do so.
To their astonishment, Grant initiated a thoughtful, humane and revolutionary Peace Policy, which he believed would lure the warring Indians into some kind of harmonious relationship with the white settlers who were increasingly invading their plains. His proposal had several major aspects: instead of allowing the army to govern Indian affairs, the churches of America would be invited to nominate from their congregations men of good will who would move west to the reservations, where they would be in control. Their task would be to win Indian allegiance by kindness, by distributing free food and by setting an example of Christian brotherhood. Funds would be provided from the national treasury to support the new plans. In return, all Indians would be expected to live peacefully on reservations, where they would be taught agriculture and where their children would attend schools that would Christianize them and teach them to wear respectable clothes instead of deerskin and feathers.
When Captain Hermann Wetzel, a veteran of both the Prussian army and the Civil War, and now serving with the 14th Infantry on occupation duty in Texas, read the new orders he threw them on the table: The General Grant I knew never signed such garbage,' an opinion shared by most of
the army, which saw its freedom to act diminished and its prerogatives shaved. Like Wetzel, many officers were determined to sabotage what they considered General Grant's misguided order.
The religious group most eager to supply civilian personnel for the new system was the one whose principles were most antithetical to army methods, the Quakers of Pennsylvania, one of whose major tenets was pacifism; in this Indian challenge they saw an opportunity to prove that friendly persuasion produced better results than military force. Indeed, they called themselves Friends and their church the Society of Friends. They were a small group,
concentrated mainly in Pennsylvania and New Jersey, but they had gained notoriety throughout the South for their vigorous opposition to slavery. Loyal Texans like Reuben Cobb and Yancey Quimper had characterized the Quakers as 'damned fools and troublemakers,' a view generally held throughout the state, for those who had fought against the Indians, especially against the Apache and Comanche, could not imagine how the peace-loving Quakers intended handling them: it's gonna be a shambles when Comanche like Chief Matark go up against them Bible pushers.'
One of the first men to be considered for this challenging task was a young farmer from the tiny village of Buckingham in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. His place of residence reminded people of George Fox, the founder of Quakerism, who had had powerful associations with Buckinghamshire in England. 'Earnshaw's a fine Quaker,' they said of him, so when the letter from President Grant arrived, asking the local Quakers to nominate men qualified for this critical new assignment, the elders naturally thought of Earnshaw Rusk, twenty-seven years old and unmarried: it's as if he were designated by God to carry on the good works of our founder, the saintly Fox.' Without alerting Rusk, they sent his name forward.
