by H. W. Brands
Jackson would have given this remarkable letter a closer reading had he not already received notice from Mexico City that Santa Anna had been deposed in absentia. If Jackson had shown Santa Anna’s letter to the Mexican minister in Washington, the Mexican government might well have indicted the ex-dictator for treason in seeking the detachment of Texas from Mexico. Jackson had never been a stickler for form, but in the last months of his presidency he declined to provoke Mexico by accepting Santa Anna’s unauthorized offer of mediation. Better, he judged, to work with the regime that actually ruled in Mexico City. “Until the existing Government of Mexico ask our friendly offices between the contesting parties, Mexico and Texas, we cannot interfere,” Jackson answered Santa Anna. “But should Mexico ask it, our friendly offices will, with pleasure, be afforded to restore peace and put an end to this inhuman warfare.”
Jackson wrote in the same vein to Sam Houston, now returned to Texas. He went on to advise his old friend to hold on to Santa Anna, neither freeing nor executing him.
I have seen a report that General Santa Anna was to be brought before a military court, to be tried and shot. Nothing now could tarnish the character of Texas more than such an act at this late period. It was good policy as well as humanity that spared him—it has given you possession of Goliad and the Alamo without blood or loss of the strength of your army. His person is still of much consequence to you. He is the pride of the Mexican soldiers and the favorite of the priesthood, and whilst he is in your power the priests will not furnish the supplies necessary for another campaign, nor will the regular soldier voluntarily march when reentering Texas may endanger or cost their favorite general his life. . . . Let not his blood be shed, unless it becomes necessary by an imperative act of just retaliation for Mexican massacres hereafter.
Houston agreed with Jackson regarding Santa Anna’s value but explained it slightly differently. “While Santa Anna was held a prisoner,” Houston said afterward, “his friends were afraid to invade Texas because they knew not at what moment it would cause his sacrifice. His political enemies dared not attempt a combination in Mexico for a Texas invasion, for they did not know at what moment he might be turned loose upon them.”
In terms of popular reaction, Stephen Austin’s return to Texas after six months in the United States stood in sharp and discouraging contrast to his earlier return after eighteen months in Mexico City. Then he had been hailed as a savior, the unifier who would bring together the contending parties in the struggle for Texas’s future. Now he was hardly noticed. The hero of the hour was Houston, limping on his bad leg but walking taller for the infirmity. The founder, the one who had made Houston’s victory possible by making Texas what it became, was all but forgotten amid the praise for the liberator.
Texans, most of whom by now owed nothing directly to Austin, tossed him aside casually but definitively two months after his arrival. Elections to replace provisional president Burnet with a permanent chief executive were scheduled for September. Austin, hoping to reclaim his role as paterfamilias of Texas, announced his candidacy. For several weeks he had reason for optimism, as his principal opponent was Henry Smith, who remained as controversial as when the general council impeached him. Yet at the last moment Houston entered the race, and the liberator overwhelmed the founder by a margin of nine to one.
Austin publicly congratulated Houston but privately railed at the ingratitude of those who followed the man on the horse. “Many of the old settlers who are too blind to see or understand their interest will vote for him,” Austin said of Houston as the election approached. Upon Austin’s defeat he told James Perry, “I once believed all men honest until the reverse appeared. I now think all the reverse until I see them tried.”
Austin had to sit aside while Houston took the oath of office and delivered the first inaugural by an elected Texas president. Houston was visibly moved by the occasion. After congratulating his compatriots and comrades in arms for their valor and resolve, and after warning that the work of independence was not yet finished (“We must keep all our energies alive, our army organized, disciplined, and increased agreeably to our present necessities”), he presented to the people of Texas his sword of command. An eyewitness described the feelings—“more eloquently impressive than the deepest pathos conveyed in language”—that surged through Houston as he gave up his weapon: “The President was unable to proceed further; but having firmly clinched it with both hands, as if with a farewell grasp, a tide of varied associations of ideas rushed upon him in the moment; his countenance bespoke the workings of the strongest emotions, his soul seemed to have swerved from the hypostatic union of the body, and to dwell momentarily on the glistening blade.” As Houston handed over the sword, he said, “I have worn it with some humble pretensions in defense of my country, and should the danger of my country again call for my services, I expect to resume it, and respond to that call, if needful with my blood and life.”
Austin must have reflected that against such a performance, and against the martial prowess it supposed, he had no hope to hold the love of Texans. With prescience he had written earlier that the warrior always won out over the pioneer. “A successful military chieftain is hailed with admiration and applause, and monuments perpetuate his fame. But the bloodless pioneer of the wilderness, like the corn and cotton he causes to spring where it never grew before, attracts no notice. . . . No slaughtered thousands or smoking cities attest his devotion to the cause of human happiness, and he is regarded by the mass of the world as a humble instrument to pave the way for others.” Watching Houston, Austin knew that the warrior had won and this pioneer must yield.
Houston gracefully brought Austin into his cabinet as secretary of state, but the office was hardly what Austin had hoped for and considered his due. Ill health added to his distress. “Since my return from the U.S. I have been confined much of the time with sickness and am now barely able to get about,” he told Mary Holley. Austin’s mental state reflected his condition of body. His enemies, he complained, accused him of reneging on promises. “This has mortified me very much, for I do not merit it.” He had exhausted himself in the service of Texas while others reaped the benefits of his labors. “I have no house, not a roof in all Texas, that I can call my own. The only one I had was burnt at San Felipe during the late invasion of the enemy. I make my home where the business of the country calls me. . . . I have no farm, no cotton plantation, no income, no money, no comforts. I have spent the prime of my life and worn out my constitution in trying to colonize this country.”
Another man might have grown terminally bitter at the unfairness of it all. Austin nearly did. But one thing, one final task to crown his labors in Texas, remained to give meaning to his life. A referendum conducted with the September elections revealed overwhelming support for annexation to the United States. Austin, as Texas’s chief diplomat, assumed the responsibility of guiding Texas to that safe harbor.
For assistance he again turned to Santa Anna. “Suppose that Santa Anna should go to Washington city and have an interview with the President of the U.S.,” Austin mused in early November. By now the threat of another Mexican invasion had eased, diminishing the hostage value of the general. “Santa Anna is useless to Texas so long as he is detained as a prisoner here,” Austin said. Indeed, Santa Anna had become a hazard. “Both parties in Mexico would be well satisfied if he were to be shot, and either would make hostile demonstrations against Texas if by doing so his life would be jeopardized.” On the other hand, as one who retained the respect of certain influential groups in Mexico, Santa Anna might yet serve a useful intermediary purpose. “He distinctly and positively declares that the basis on which he will act is to terminate the Texas war, because this country is lost to Mexico and consequently the true interests of the latter require that the dispute should end without more delay or more sacrifices.” The United States government could facilitate peace by encouraging Mexico to abandon claims to Texas in exchange for a monetary payment; and though the Mexi
can government would never solicit such a deal, if an American offer were delivered by a person not officially connected to either government—Santa Anna, for example—Mexico might listen. Anyway, when Santa Anna delivered the American offer to Mexico, one of two things would happen. The Mexican government would accept the offer, leading to swift annexation by the United States, or Mexico would be plunged once more into turmoil, rendering a resumption of the Texas war impossible.
Houston endorsed Austin’s scheme, and the Texas president and the secretary of state launched Santa Anna on one of the unlikelier diplomatic missions of the period. The defeated general started for Washington in the company of Colonel Almonte and an escort of Texas officers. Delighted to be out of prison and away from the angry Texans, Santa Anna enjoyed the trip immensely. High water rendered the first leg of the journey, by horseback to the Mississippi River, difficult and time-consuming. Santa Anna joked with Barnard Bee, the Texan officer in charge of the group, that they would have made faster progress by boat. From Vicksburg, Bee wrote to Houston, “General Santa Anna is in fine spirits and speaks of you often. Your kindness to him, you may be assured, will not soon be forgotten.” The party drew large crowds all along the route; gawkers typically came hating the murderous tyrant but left liking the charismatic don. One observer described him as “pleasant of countenance and speech (which is exclusively Spanish), very polite, and using stately compliments.” At Frederick, Maryland, Santa Anna met General Gaines, into whose clutches Houston had hoped to deliver him. The details of the interview have been lost; doubtless the two soldiers sized each other up.
By the time Santa Anna reached Washington, he was a celebrity. “General Andrew Jackson greeted me warmly and honored me at a dinner attended by notables of all countries,” Santa Anna remembered. On the day after the dinner, the two men—each epitomizing his era in the history of his nation—met privately. Jackson could be blunt, but he could also be diplomatic; Santa Anna was always artful. The pair danced around the issue of transferring Texas to the United States. Jackson, though knowing the wishes of Houston and Austin, couldn’t speak for Texas, while Santa Anna, despite believing that he still embodied the interests of the Mexican people, even if they didn’t realize it, couldn’t speak for Mexico. According to Santa Anna’s recollection, Jackson finally raised the issue of a transfer and an American payment. “President Jackson was keenly interested in the outcome of the war with Mexico. He told me, ‘If Mexico will recognize the independence of Texas, we will indemnify your country with six million pesos.’ ” Santa Anna demurred, saying, “To the Mexican Congress solely belongs the right to decide that question.”
In Jackson’s version it was Santa Anna who broached the issue of a transfer of Texas to the United States for a “fair consideration.” And it was Jackson who demurred. “Until Texas is acknowledged independent, we cannot receive her minister or hold any correspondence with her as a nation.” Moreover, any American dealings with Mexico must be through established channels. “We can only instruct our minister at Mexico to receive any proposition her government may make on the subject. Until we hear her views, we cannot speak to Texas.”
But Santa Anna hadn’t come all the way to Washington simply to be told that the American government wouldn’t talk to him. Jackson intimated that Mexico might wish to settle the Texas affair as part of a larger package, one including California. In exchange, Jackson was prepared to pay $3.5 million. “But before we promise anything,” Jackson added, “General Santa Anna must say that he will use his influence to suspend hostilities.”
Santa Anna’s influence was the crux of the issue. Jackson and Santa Anna both understood that the latter didn’t currently represent Mexico, but both anticipated that he might do so in the future. Santa Anna again disavowed designs on Texas. “He said he was satisfied that it was for the interest of Mexico and Texas that there should be an immediate peace between them,” wrote William Wharton, Stephen Austin’s former partner as commissioner to the United States, now serving alone in that capacity. Wharton debriefed Santa Anna after the White House meeting and summarized the Mexican general’s reasoning and remarks. “He knew from his own observation that Mexico could never conquer Texas, and that if she succeeded in temporarily overrunning the country, she could not hold it without standing garrisons of 20,000 soldiers, which Mexico could not raise, nor support if raised.” Santa Anna acknowledged that Texans might reasonably suspect his motives. But they should look beyond motives to interests. “He further said that, granting he was the perfidious and ungrateful monster he was so often represented, granting he would do nothing on account of gratitude or love for the Texians, yet that his own and his country’s interest palpably dictated his intended course of future action.” Santa Anna knew that some Texans might object (as Wharton did indeed object) to negotiations between the United States and Mexico regarding the fate of Texas. But he encouraged Texas to be flexible. “He concluded by jocularly saying that the United States had an overflowing treasury, about which there was much debate and squabbling, and he hoped that I as minister of Texas would not oppose any obstacles to his obtaining a few millions from this government for a quit claim to Texas.”
Wharton had been an early distruster of Santa Anna, and the events of the war added to his distrust. But his skepticism faded before Santa Anna’s charm. “He spoke with a great deal of feeling and apparent candour throughout,” Wharton said of the interview.
Jackson was harder to charm, but he concluded that the man who had been the foremost obstacle to Texan independence might become its indispensable agent. The president took the extraordinary step of directing an American warship to carry the general back to Mexico. “He placed at my disposal for my voyage to Vera Cruz a battleship, whose commander attended me with great respect,” Santa Anna recalled. In fact it was a frigate that took the former Mexican president home, and it wasn’t respect for Santa Anna’s person that motivated Jackson but the American president’s desire to culminate his own career of expansionism by adding Texas and perhaps California to the empire of American democracy. War makes strange bedfellows, but rarely stranger than Old Hickory and the Napoleon of the West, now allied by the odd twists of the war for Texas.
Stephen Austin would have applauded Jackson’s reinjection of Santa Anna into Mexican politics had he lived to observe it. Austin’s forty-third birthday, November 3, 1836, revealed a man who seemed far older than his years. His face was drawn, his strength exhausted. His broken finances constrained him to rent an unheated room at the back of a small house in Columbia, which served as the republic’s temporary capital. Winter began in late November that year, and each norther that pounded south set Austin coughing. A December cold became pneumonia. Opium helped him sleep but aggravated his lung condition by shortening his breath. He tried to clear his airways by sitting up; this wearied him more than ever. At times he knew where he was; at times he drifted and dreamed, perhaps of the rosy bower and the warm circle of friends he had sketched, years before, to Mary Holley. At noon on December 27 he died.
Sam Houston issued a mournful proclamation. “The Father of Texas is no more!” the president said. “The first pioneer of the wilderness has departed!” If Houston remained ambivalent about Austin, if anything persisted of the scorn he had felt for the empresario, he cast such feeling aside in the face of death. “As a testimony of respect to his high standing, undeviating moral rectitude, and as a mark of the nation’s gratitude for his untiring zeal and invaluable service, all officers civil and military are required to wear crape on the right arm for the space of thirty days.” Garrisons would fire salutes of twenty-three guns, one for each Texas county, and would hang black for the “illustrious deceased.”
C h a p t e r 2 0
Slavery and Freedom
Austin might have reflected, in his final moments, that it was a family curse to falter with the promised land in view. Moses Austin had conceived the Texas colony but succumbed before it was born; Stephen delivered Texas to the Amer
ican doorstep but died before the child was taken in.
If pneumonia—the same malady that felled his father—hadn’t killed Stephen, the fight for annexation might have. At least it would have broken his heart, for it revealed that whatever Austin’s purpose in founding a colony in Texas, others had turned the founding to their own ends. For Austin, slavery had been the price of attracting colonists to Texas, an evil currently necessary but perhaps not always so, and certainly not essential to his larger vision of putting ordinary people on the extraordinary land of Texas. But for those who fought over annexation, slavery was the crux of the issue. Texas—Austin’s Texas, Austin’s promised land of opportunity—became a symbol in American politics not of personal freedom but of chattel slavery.
John Quincy Adams never forgave Andrew Jackson for the war Old Hickory and his partisans, including Sam Houston, had waged upon Adams’s presidency. Nor did he ever accept the democratic revolution that sent the Tennesseean to the White House and himself home to Massachusetts. The rapid spread of the democratic disease was shocking; it touched even Adams’s alma mater, which awarded an honorary degree to Jackson. “I could not be present to see my Darling Harvard disgrace herself by conferring a Doctor’s degree upon a barbarian and savage who could scarcely spell his own name,” Adams told his cousin, who happened to be Harvard’s president.
