The Raven's Honor

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Back in Texas’ early years, Indians had kept settlers out of this promised land. Santa Anna’s soldiers had been just as ruthless. After the Runaway Scrape, settlers had returned to the town of Bastrop to find nothing but ashes and charred ruins.

  * * * * *

  “You’ll do no battle in Bastrop, Sam,” Margaret told him as he helped her out of the yellow carriage. “Promise me.”

  “Battle whom?” Houston asked. Night had fallen, and the town slept.

  “The citizens,” she answered.

  He laughed. “Bastrop was one of the few counties to oppose Secession, my darling. Yet you have my promise. I will battle no resident of this fine little town. Now, let us find our room in this hotel and sleep. It has been an arduous journey, and we have miles yet to go.”

  Only after Margaret had entered the hotel did Houston bite his lip.

  No, he told himself, no citizen will I fight here. But my son?

  Chapter Eight

  April 1, 1861

  Memories flooded him that morning, with neither rhyme nor reason, but firing out as random as rain.

  * * * * *

  Sleeping with the baby beside him, while Aunt Liza tended to the infant’s exhausted mother. Fathers knew nothing about handling babies, but his son had fallen asleep, and so had Houston. Now he woke up, and prayed to the Almighty that when he glanced at his son, the baby’s eyes would remain closed. Seconds later, he found himself staring into the startling blue and wide-awake eyes of a newborn. Lord, he remembered saying, you must sit on your throne and think how funny you are. But you ain’t …

  Exhausted again, but this time from the traveling on steamboats up the Mississippi, Ohio, and Cumberland Rivers, and arriving in Nashville to hear the terrible news that death hovered over Andrew Jackson. “Go,” Margaret told him, and Houston took Sam Junior with him, urging the buggy driver on with curses as they raced to the hermitage—only to meet Old Hickory’s doctor as he returned to town, and hearing the stunning news, “He was called to glory an hour ago.” Soberly, they continued to the hermitage, to be greeted by a weeping Negress. Gripping his son’s hand, he led the two-year-old down the hallway to the bedroom and opened the door. His son shivered from fright at the rare sight of seeing tears cascade down his father’s cheeks. Houston lifted the toddler up and gestured at the white-haired corpse.

  “My son,” Houston told the boy, “try to remember that you have looked upon the face of Andrew Jackson.”

  Reading the letter in Washington City and imagining the scene his wife described of Sam Junior’s governess bringing the boy into the nursery in Huntsville to see his sister for the first time.

  “You swore I was getting a brother,” Sam Junior told Margaret. “You promised.” His mother and the hired teacher and helper laughed and shook their heads.

  “We thought the way she kicked and gave me fits,” Margaret tried to explain, “she would be Andrew Jackson Houston.”

  “Well,” the almost-seven-year-old boy replied, “she ain’t no boy.”

  “No, she’s Mary William Houston, but we, I think, shall call her Mary Willie.” The boy pouted.

  “Still ain’t no boy.”

  Then, Miss O’Neal, the governess, asked Sam Junior, “Sam Junior, do you desire for us to send her back and exchange Mary Willie for something different?” And Sam shuffled his feet, frowned, and at length leaned forward to take a closer look.

  “I reckon,” he said at last, “she’ll do.”

  * * * * *

  “A hearty brat,” he remembered bragging about his first child, his first son, “robust and hearty as a Brookshire pig.” Margaret always referred to him as “my baby.”

  Yet Sam Houston Junior could no longer be called a baby.

  Leaning on his walking cane while standing on the porch of a recitation hall, Houston watched the boys—no, men—of the Bastrop Military Institute.

  “Company, right … face! By file left … march!”

  These cadets did not resemble the ragtag lot commanded by Doc Throckmorton back in Austin. They looked, acted, and marched like soldiers—but Houston tried to tell himself, Isn’t that why I wrote a check for two hundred and thirty dollars? Or was it because of the Latin, Greek, geography, mathematics, and other courses they forced these young men to study?

  On the other hand, the Bastrop Military Institute did not look impressive—barracks, recitation halls, a parade ground, and a flagpole. Houston saw only Texas’ state flag hanging limply; at least Colonel Allen had not raised that Bonnie Blue flag.

  “Company, halt!”

  They stopped with precision.

  “Front.”

  They moved in unison to face Houston.

  “General, what do you think?” Colonel Allen stepped onto the porch, and looked at young men in gray coats, blue pants, and black shakos. Bayonets affixed to muskets, and brass pinned on the uniforms gleamed in the morning sun.

  “They march fine, Colonel,” Houston answered, studying the young men. “But can they debate with erudition on the merits of Chaucer?”

  “Sergeant?” Colonel Allen called out.

  The baby-faced leader of the group needed no further prompt. Wheeling around, he barked, “Can any one of you ripstavers give General Houston a good talk about The Canterbury Tales?”

  From the ranks came a hearty reply, “As quickly as Absolon can kiss Alisoun’s ass.”

  Without grinning, Houston turned toward the commandant. “My compliments, Colonel.”

  “Thank you, sir. Would the general care to inspect the cadets?”

  He did not want to move off the porch, but pride commanded him. “Indeed, I would, Colonel.” He moved down the steps gingerly, pretending that he savored this chance to walk down the lines of young men. As he examined each musket, he complimented those cadets who kept their weapons spotless as well as those who did not. He did the same with his son, showing no favoritism, and after returning the musket to the last student, he returned to the welcomed shade of the roof.

  “You have trained them well, Colonel,” Houston said.

  Allen’s boot heels clicked and he bowed. “It is an honor to have you here, General.”

  “Might I have a few words with one of your cadets?”

  “By all means, sir. Which one interests you?”

  He scanned the boys, kept his eyes on the big one with the bent nose who knew Chaucer’s “The Miller’s Tale” and waited for the kid to crack a grin. Once that happened, Houston, feeling victorious, pointed to the strapping lad standing two cadets down. “That one looks like he should do.”

  “Cadet Houston,” the sergeant barked. “Fall out.”

  * * * * *

  The floorboards squeaked inside the recitation hall as Houston settled into a chair he pulled away from a desk. Shifting the cane from his right hand to his left, he nodded at his son.

  That tall cadet looked sharp in his uniform. He remained at attention.

  With a sigh, Houston shook his head. “If you don’t want to sit, you can at least stand at ease.”

  Sam Houston Junior barked out, “Yes, sir,” and fell at ease.

  Houston glared, and the young man quickly found a seat opposite his father. Now the old man grinned. “You always were fairly smart at some things,” he said. Pain shot through his joints, but Houston refused to grimace in front of his oldest son, yet he shifted in the hard-bottomed chair and tried to find a position that did not rack his body with pain. He nodded at the window that faced the parade grounds. “Not as many students here this morning,” he said. “Sick call?”

  “The call to arms,” Sam Junior replied. “Many have left. They say war is coming.”

  Houston sighed. “Yes,” he answered, “I suppose it is.”

  “Sir,” his son said, his voice cracking, “I would like to enlist, too.”

  Wel
l, you knew this was coming, and you are prepared, Houston thought. His head shook. “Now is the seed time of life,” he said, “and the harvest must follow. If the seed is well planted, the harvest will be in proportion to it. You enjoy the classics they teach here, I pray.”

  The boy shrugged.

  Houston sighed. “If only I had enjoyed an education of one year, I would have been happy.”

  The boy said, “In May, I will be eighteen years old.”

  “And three years later, you will be old enough to vote,” Houston said sharply.

  “I can enlist at age eighteen,” his son reminded him.

  Houston frowned. “With my permission.” He waited a moment, letting his anger—no, it was fear—subside, and tried another approach. “When it is proper, Sam, you shall go to war … but only if such is in your heart. It is every man’s duty to defend his country, but when the school session ends, your job, Son, will be dropping seeds of corn. We are not wanted, or needed, outside of Texas, yet soon we may be wanted, and needed, in Texas.”

  Tears welled in the boy’s eyes, but he fought them down.

  “Son,” Houston said, “you will find that the Houston name is not well thought of in this Confederacy.”

  The silence turned chilly.

  Change the subject, Houston told himself. “Your mother trusts you will be home after the term ends.”

  “There is talk,” his son said after a long while, “that Doctor Smith will form a company … to defend Texas.”

  Houston sagged at this news about Old Ashbel Smith, North Carolina–born patriot who had settled in Texas during the spring of 1837. Houston had bunked with the doctor, who had become surgeon general of the Republic’s army, but Smith had been more than just some sawbones. Houston had sent him to negotiate with the French and the British. He had even sent him to work out a treaty with the Comanches. Houston trusted few men more than he trusted Doc Smith. Now Smith had also joined the Confederate cause.

  “All I wish for you to do,” Houston said, his voice soft now, “is to love and revere the Union. This is my injunction not just to you, but to all my boys. Mingle it in your heart with filial love.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Houston shifted his cane and pushed himself to his feet. At best, he had fought his son to a tactical draw. At worst …? “You should return to your studies,” he said. “It is good to see you, Son. Your mother sends her love, and desires to see you as soon as the term ends.”

  “Sir?”

  Houston stopped. The boy, now standing, reached inside his blouse, and withdrew a folded piece of paper.

  “Mary Willie’s birthday is next week,” Sam Junior said, and held out the paper.

  Houston frowned. He had forgotten his daughter’s birthday.

  “Would you give this to her and send her my love?” The boy began rebuttoning his blouse.

  Houston opened the card. Margaret could draw beautiful pictures, and that was fine for a woman, he thought. But for a boy, and a student at Colonel Allen’s academy, drawing seemed silly. To laze around and sketch scenes … Idle hands. Idle minds. Yet he had to concede that Sam Junior inherited his mother’s gift. As long as Houston could remember, his oldest son had drawn this and that—once on the wall of the foyer at their home in Independence. He admired what the boy had sketched: their old plantation home in Huntsville, Raven Hill, and a young girl—Mary Willie—in front of the gazebo.

  This, Sam Junior had done from memory, and he had written a sentiment and birthday greetings below, which Houston did not read.

  Folding the card, Houston sought out a pocket to keep it safe.

  “Indeed. You have …” Try as he might, he just could not find any words of praise for a drawing. “You have a good day, Son. We will see you at Cedar Point in two months.”

  “Yes, sir.” The cadet snapped to attention, nodded his farewell, and strode out of the log cabin.

  For the longest while, Houston stood in front of the chair, looking out the open doorway at the parade ground. Those boys, cadets, young men, finished their morning drill and marched off to their various instructors to learn Greek, Latin, mathematics, geography, surveying, engineering.

  Houston felt completely and totally alone.

  Chapter Nine

  Elizabeth

  He has fallen asleep in the rocking chair by the upstairs window in their next roadside inn, The Iliad, Alexander Pope’s translation, cradled across his chest. Stirring, and suddenly cold, he remembers the last verse he read before weariness and age had finally forced him to close his eyes:

  A barren island boasts his glorious birth;

  His fame for wisdom fills the spacious earth.

  Someone spits, and he smells snuff. Margaret frowns upon all tobacco use, and Houston realizes he is being visited … again.

  Margaret sleeps under the covers, turned away from him. The woman sits at the foot of the bed. She is just as Houston always remembers her.

  Silver-streaked, coarse hair curled up in a bun, rail thin, hollow-faced, gripping the spit jar in rough, long-fingered hands. Her face is weathered, but her eyes burn full of starch. She wears a dress of blue calico, faded, frayed, and patched after so many years of washing, of working in the fields, of trying to bring up a brood of kids with a husband long dead, gone and buried in Virginia. She wears scuffed brogans.

  She lowers the jar. “Off your feed, Sam?”

  “Ma.” His voice cracks, and he loses sight of her from the tears, which roll down his cheeks as he blinks rapidly, fearing that this specter, this illusion, this dream will be gone when he can see again.

  Elizabeth Paxton Houston still sits on the inn’s bed. He sighs with relief. His wife does not stir.

  “Never could hold you down, Son. You had your own mind. Your own ambition. What troubles you now?”

  “My oldest boy,” he tells her, as if in a normal conversation with a woman now dead for decades. But this, he tells himself again, is another dream, and he is not as frightened as he had been when Crockett came calling.

  Elizabeth’s face brightens. “My oldest never give me no troubles at all.” Her grin reveals the mischievous thoughts of a younger girl. “Come to think on it, the next three wasn’t no trouble, neither. The spit jar raises; she deposits more juice. “The fifth one, now, he sure was a handful.”

  He leans forward, listens. The spirit of Crockett had frightened him, but this illusion or dream, he prays, will go on for all of eternity.

  “Couldn’t get no work done out of him,” Elizabeth Houston says. “Not in Virginy, and certainly not oncet we moved down to Tennessee. You tol’ your boy this morn’ that he needs to be droppin’ seed, but I don’t recollect you ever doin’ much in the fields. So we put you in the store, and that proved even worser. Couldn’t live with a roof over your head, it ’peared to us, but you couldn’t live with no hoe in your hand, neither. I tried scoldin’ you. I tried tannin’ your hide with a willow switch. I even tried reasonin’ with you, but you had your mind set. Often I wondered where you got ’em notions. Wasn’t like me. Wasn’t like your pa. You was your ownself. And it come to me, after this longest while, that that’s what you needed to be.”

  Her head shakes; her smile widens.

  “’Course, it took some time for the Lord to help me see that.” She spits again, wipes her mouth with the threadbare sleeve, and sighs. “Sure wished I’d learnt that sooner, because you sure aged me.”

  The wind blows through the open window. Outside, a hound howls.

  Elizabeth continues, “First, you taken off fishin’, then a-huntin’. You never cottoned to no schoolin’ till you started teachin’ chil’ren yourself. And that must’ve shocked all of Tennessee. Sure staggered me and your siblin’s. You sure was a handful, Sam.” She bursts out in laughter, then spits into the jar. “Handful? Bosh. That don’t describe the half of it. You taken up with the I
njuns. Just run off. Didn’t ask me, didn’t tell nobody, just up and tromped to the woods. I had to send your brothers after you, and you tol’ ’em that you’s just fine. We figured you’d get a-tired of livin’ with the Cherokees, but they must have given you somethin’ we sure couldn’t.”

  What they gave him, he remembers in silence, was a father. And independence. And an understanding. Yet he knows to mention that would break his mother’s heart. And he did that plenty in his early years.

  “You gots a good boy, Sam. Make a fine man. Wished I’d been alive to hold ’im in my arms.”

  “I do, too.” His mother died on Baker’s Creek in 1831. He cannot remember the date. You tend to forget those things. Most people recollect the birthdays of their parents, but even Elizabeth always told her children that she didn’t know, that she had been too young to recall or even consider the importance of such a date back when she had been born. The year? That she knew. “I was born in 1757,” she would announce, “in Rockbridge County.” Then she would wink and add, “Or so my folks claimed.”

  “You was livin’ on your own when you was younger than your son is now, Sam. You was bored on the farm. Even more bored when we put you to clerkin’. Don’t you recollect?”

  Sitting back, he frowns. “But things are different now, Ma,” he tells her. “We live in trying times.”

  “Balderdash,” she says. “It ain’t no different bein’ no parent today than it was sixty years ago or six hundred. And it won’t be no different sixty years from now or six hundred. A ma worries herself sick over her chil’ren.” She tilts her head toward the sleeping Margaret. “Your wife, she cried herself to sleep this night. Because she fears all the harm that might befall her oldest child. I done the same. I feared for all my children. Even you, ’specially you.”

  His head falls. “I must’ve been a burden.”

  “You’d come home,” she reminds him. “Clothes odorous and full of holes. You’d return to pay your respects to your hard-workin’ ma, and, Lord help me, I’d get you all fitted up so you could tromp back into ’em woods and live with ’em heathen savages. Till you come back to get yourself all duded up some more.” She laughs. “You always wanted to be stylish, and Lord knows how many hats you gone through. That boy, he likes hisself a mighty fine hat, too. He’s a lot like you, Sam. Not as tall. Nowhere nigh as big. And, thank Jesus and your wife, he don’t look that much like you, neither.”