The Raven's Honor

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “What the hell would you know of honor, son? You remember what they called you in those days? The Big Drunk. The Cherokees called you that. I did not. Ever. Even when you were.”

  “I remember.”

  “Then you come back to Washington City. Dressed as a damned savage. Arguing for your new family … which was like you slapping me in the face. But I risked my reputation, my legacy, and my presidency by inviting you to the White House. I sent you to a tailor and I paid for your new clothes.”

  “I paid you back,” Houston says softly.

  Jackson tosses the stick into the coals. “Paid me back. Bah! You gave my son’s wife an engagement ring. The very same ring you gave that hussy you married …”

  “You will not slander Eliza’s name, sir!” Houston stands, pointing the cane at his surrogate father. “No one will say anything vile about her. Even you, sir.” His voice falters. He whispers, “Even you.”

  Jackson’s eyes burn, but the venom fades. He does not apologize. Old Hickory can never say “I am sorry.” He merely moves on.

  “You and Crockett both despised me for sending the Indians away, but that was land white men and women needed.”

  “Justice Marshall thought otherwise,” Houston counters.

  “And as I told him … ‘Enforce it,’” Jackson says, his eyes deepening with anger. Then he roars, “Do you think Georgia would have let the Cherokees stay? In a land where there was gold? Sending them away from civilization saved their lives.”

  “Saved the lives,” Houston says, “of those who did not die on Nu na hi du na tlo hi lu i.” The Trail Where They Cried.

  “Now you sound like Crockett, that backstabbing fiend. My boy, I was not dealing just with John Marshall, Georgians, and Cherokees like John Ross and Major Ridge. You don’t remember John C. Calhoun and those damned nullifiers? I was saving our country. You were not in Washington City. You were not in Nashville. You, who I took under my wing, who I made into what you should have become, you who embarrassed me, who abandoned me … and not just me, but your entire race. You turned Injun … again.”

  There is nothing he can say.

  Jackson has found his cane, and uses it to push himself up. Leaning on the hickory stick, he raises his free hand and points that long, rugged finger at Houston.

  “But I forgave you, as I always did. When you came back, after you sobered up for the time being and must’ve realized that living in the wilds wasn’t quite as profitable as being governor of Tennessee, whose sponsor happens to be President of these United States, I helped you get back on your feet. I gave you a commission from the War Department. I sent you to Texas with a mission. To procure her. For our United States.”

  Houston smiles. “Or, as you have already stated … ‘to get Texas for me.’”

  “‘The finest country to its extent upon the globe.’ That is how you described her when you had crossed the Red River. Remember?”

  He will never forget. All too well he recalls those first sights of Texas, when, as that emissary of President Andrew Jackson, he came to Texas, allegedly to negotiate treaties with the Comanches, but with something else in mind. Something secret.

  “Damn you, Sam. I was willing to pay Mexico five million dollars for this patch of cactus and grass and rocks. I trusted you.”

  Houston’s head shakes. “You trusted Anthony Butler even more, though.” His eyes match Jackson’s fury, and he mocks the phantom. “Remember?”

  * * * * *

  In 1829, Jackson has appointed Butler, a scamp and double-dealing son of a bitch, United States chargé d’affaires in Mexico City. Butler wants Mexico for the United States, as does Jackson. Of course, by 1832, Jackson has sent Houston to Texas, to work on getting all that land for the United States. Yet when Mexican diplomats in Washington suspect some secret agenda by Butler, or perhaps Houston, the American President, Houston’s patriarch and loyal backer, plays his hand with Anthony Butler. He disavows Houston.

  * * * * *

  “You chose Butler, sir,” Houston says. “You abandoned me.”

  “Politics, my boy. It’s all politics. I had no choice. Even if Butler was a louse, even if he eventually failed me, too.”

  “I told you,” Houston reminds him, “that Butler might destroy a country, but would never gain one.”

  “And you said …” Jackson closes his eyes, remembering, making sure he got the words right, “you said … ‘It is probable that I may make Texas my abiding place.’” His brilliant eyes open, and Jackson gazes into horizon. “Abiding place. I do not see now why I would want this as part of my legacy.”

  “It became my legacy,” Houston tells him.

  Jackson shuffles the coals with his stick. “Your legacy … but only after San Jacinto. My boy, did you know that I predicted your victory there?”

  His voice has changed, and Houston raises his head to see a mellowed man. Jackson even smiles.

  “In Washington City, in my office, we had learned of your retreat. The Runaway Scrape. The Alamo had fallen. Crockett was dead. Santa Anna had put the prisoners at Goliad to the sword. The rebellion that we had desired in Washington City was about to become another Thessalonica.”

  Houston listens intently. He has never heard this story.

  “Lewis Cass told Mahlon Dickerson and Van Buren that you were retreating desperately to reach Louisiana and American soil. John Forsyth prayed to the Almighty that you would be delivered.” Jackson snorts. “But I know you. I made you. You can fool an ignorant Mexican like Santa Anna, and you can fool Van Buren and my cabinet, but you cannot pull the wool over the eyes of Old Hickory. I walked to the map.” Now Jackson moves past the dying fire, and approaches Houston until he towers over him. He uses the cane to draw an outline. “I find the map of Texas. I study it. I trace it, knowing where you are. Because I can see you. As well as you can see me this night. And I know you. I know you.” The cane moves like Jackson’s finger across a map. “I find the place, and I told those men in my office. ‘He will turn and fight. Sam Houston will fight the Mexican army.’” The cane slams into the earth. “There.”

  Only Jackson has turned now, and is pointing west, across the bay, toward Buffalo Bayou. Toward San Jacinto.

  “Is this what you came to tell me?” Houston asks.

  “No. I came to tell you that war breaks hearts. That your heart will be broken. But that broken hearts heal.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  July 5–August 23, 1861

  Houston trembled, suddenly cold, and drew in a deep breath. The ghost of Jackson had disappeared, if it had even actually existed. He tossed off the blanket, and moved gingerly to the fire, adding twigs and dead grass to it, watching the kindling smolder, then ignite into flames.

  Jeff raised his head.

  “It mornin’ now, Master Sam?” the slave asked in a sleepy voice.

  “In an hour,” Houston answered. “I thought we should get an early start.”

  “That suit me, sir. Let me help you, Master Sam.”

  “There is coffee and salt pork in the saddlebags, Jeff. Fetch that and the skillet. We did not eat last night, and you must be starving.”

  “I can eat, sir. I surely can eat.”

  The slave departed for the tethered horses and tack, while Houston added a few small twigs to the fire. The heat warmed him quickly, but this was Texas, on the coast, in July. He thought of Andrew Jackson, and he remembered a newspaper journalist asking him about the late President, and all that Jackson had accomplished. Now Houston repeated the words to the spirit of Jackson, or to himself.

  “‘Whether his policy was right or wrong, he built up the glory of the nation.’”

  “What that you say, Master Sam?” Jeff asked.

  “Nothing, Jeff.” He added larger sticks to the fire, and stopped, staring.

  One of those sticks, twisted and gnarled but long,
would have made a fine walking stick. It appeared to be a piece of hickory.

  * * * * *

  He grumbled as they returned from church, complaining about the preacher’s sermon, the stares he had received from those Christians who despised him and his beliefs. And the church choir? “I could sing better than them.” Houston’s face soured. “They cannot carry a tune in a bucket.”

  “You are in one of your moods.” Margaret tried to change his mood. “But smell that. Aunt Liza has a Sunday feast for us.”

  He said, “The pastor’s interpretation of Isaiah was ridiculous.”

  The door swung open, and Sam Junior stepped outside.

  Margaret gasped. Houston forgot all about Baptist preachers and congregations. He started to tear his son’s head off, but stopped himself. Hell, he should not be surprised. He had sent Sam Junior to Houston City on Friday to see to business. The boy had not returned before Sunday services, and, now, Houston understood why.

  The slaves rushed inside, taking the young children with them. Margaret paused for just a moment. Her lips quivered, and, as tears welled in her eyes, she pushed through the open doorway, with no words for her oldest boy. She’d leave that to her husband.

  When Houston stood in front of his son, he gently touched the badge pinned to the lapel of Sam Junior’s coat. In Houston City … in Galveston … everywhere he had traveled along the South Texas coast, Houston had seen many such rosettes and cockades. This one had a blue ribbon—most sported red ribbons—descending from a bronze five-point star. The Texas star. Gold letters on the ribbon read:

  THE SOUTH FOREVER

  “A Confederate rosette, I believe,” Houston said, after lowering his hand.

  “Yes, Father,” Sam Junior said.

  After a curt nod, Houston said, just for spite, “Son, that is not the proper place for a Confederate rosette. Those should be worn not on the lapel of your coat, but on the tail.”

  The boy stiffened. Houston had not been altogether joking, but now he turned serious.

  “I have seen many such emblems of triumph floating across our state. In due time, I will see them replaced by badges of sorrow.” He wet his lips, and leaned on the cane for support. Once he had done this, he asked, unable to hide the hopefulness in his voice, “Ashbel Smith?”

  “Yes, Father,” his son replied. “I enlisted in the Bayland Guards. I trained with them yesterday.”

  “Asclepius is transformed to Mars.” Yet Houston felt some hope. Ashbel Smith might be commanding a militia, but he would always be a doctor and, as Houston’s friend, would do all in his power to protect Sam Houston’s oldest child.

  “I can forbid you to go,” Houston told him. “You are just eighteen years old.”

  The boy did not blink. Houston realized how tall his son had grown, now just a couple of inches short of Houston’s towering height. Quite handsome, with firm features, and eyes that showed no fear.

  “Yes, sir,” the young man said, “but my heart pleads that you know that this is something that I must do. That I have to do.”

  What would he have done had his mother refused to sign the release paper back in 1813? His answer came quickly. Even younger, he had run away from home to live with the Cherokees. His mother must have known that he would have run away again, found another town, another recruiter, and lied about his age.

  “I told you that it is every man’s duty to defend this country,” he said, “and that I do wish my sons would do so … at the proper time.”

  “This is the proper time, Father. Word reached Galveston a few days ago of a great battle in Virginia. The Yankees are in full retreat back to Washington City.”

  He had seen the story in the Galveston Civilian:

  MANASSAS WON.

  10,000 FEDERALS KILLED.

  CONFEDERATE LOSS 3,000.

  FEDERALS ROUTED.

  SIX BATTERIES CAPTURED.

  Sam Junior must have read only the headlines. Houston remembered the sickening report of great slaughter on both sides.

  Still, he understood. “I cannot give you my blessing, Son, nor can I deny you. Best go to your mother now, Sam, and mend the heart you have broken.” His son saluted, sharply, and turned to head into the cabin. Houston stood there, feeling the heat of the summer sun, and feeling his own heart, as Andrew Jackson’s spirit had warned, crumble into a thousand pieces.

  * * * * *

  Margaret did not speak to him that day, nor much of the following day. Sam Junior had left that evening, after supper, vowing that he would write his mother every day—even if his destination for the time was no farther than Galveston—and that he hoped and prayed that he would spend the duration of the war in Texas, close to home and family.

  Houston knew better. A boy Sam’s age needed to see the elephant. Besides, the Confederates had won a victory at Manassas, Virginia, and followed that with another victory, closer to Texas, at Wilson’s Creek in Missouri. He remembered that favorite saying of Robert Walpole, an English prime minister: “Let sleeping dogs lie.” Abraham Lincoln and the Union Army would not be easily defeated.

  He busied himself over the next week, riding into Houston City, putting the slaves to work at chopping more cordwood to be sold in Galveston, and penning a letter to Senator Williamson Simpson Oldham.

  Politicians did many things necessary for democracy that were hard to stomach. Fathers did, too. Houston despised Oldham, but now he pleaded with the louse.

  Oldham had feuded with Houston all during the campaign of 1857, calling Houston an idiot, a Yankee-lover, and a traitor to the Texas cause. Now, Houston blew on the ink and lifted the paper closer.

  My son has spent two sessions at Colonel Allen’s military school in Bastrop. He is a fine scholar, with habits that are good, and he remains ardently devoted to the cause in which he is engaged, as well as to the life of a soldier.

  If you might procure him a commission as a lieutenant, or any promotion which you might deem proper, you will confer upon me an enduring obligation.

  I trust, and firmly believe, that he will never disgrace his patron.

  Your obt servant,

  Sam Houston

  “No!” the voice screamed outside his office. “No! No! No! No!”

  Placing the letter on his desk, Houston pushed himself to his feet, and moved to the door.

  Margaret stood, tears pouring down her cheeks, her face red like a beet. Aunt Martha and Aunt Liza hurried toward her, but Houston stepped out and held up his hand. The women stopped, and Houston walked toward his son, who sat in the corner, a wooden saber in his hands, his head bowed, sniffling.

  “Andrew Jackson Houston,” Houston demanded.

  The youngster raised his head, wiped his nose, and managed a “Yes, Pa.”

  “Come with me, Son.”

  When they entered the library, Houston said, “Have a seat, Andrew.”

  The boy blinked. “But that’s your chair.”

  “You’re big enough for it, I reckon.”

  The boy hurried and climbed into it, bouncing on the cowhide seat. He grinned until Houston said, “You have angered your mother.”

  “Ma didn’t call it ‘angered,’” Andrew corrected. “She said I was agger … um …”

  “Aggravating?” Houston guessed.

  “Yes, sir. That’s it. Aggravating.”

  Houston’s right hand reached out for the saber the boy held in his hand. Two or three years ago, Houston had carved it as a present for the boy. The youngster sniffed, staring at the toy, then reluctantly handed it to his father.

  “How did you aggravate your mother?” Houston already knew the answer.

  “I just told her that I want to join up, too. With Doctor Smith’s soldiers. Sam … he told me that war’s glory. I don’t know what glory is, exactly, but I think I’d like some of it, too. Sam shouldn’t get it all, I mean.”
>
  “Glory,” Houston repeated.

  “That’s what Sam told me.”

  Houston sighed.

  “I mean … Sam joined up,” Andrew said. “Why can’t I?”

  “Sam is eighteen years old,” Houston said. “You are but five.”

  “That ain’t so,” the boy snapped. “I’m seven.”

  “You’re …” Realizing that Andrew was right, Houston shook his head, wondering how two years had passed without his noticing.

  “Can’t I be with Sam in the army, Pa?” The tears started again. “Can’t I?”

  Houston said, “Then who would defend us?”

  “Huh?”

  “Come with me, Andrew.” Houston helped the seven-year-old out of the chair. Hand in hand they walked out of the library, down the open hallway between the two cabins of Ben Lomond and to the beach, where Houston pointed across the bay.

  “What do you see, Andrew?” Houston asked.

  The boy shielded his eyes from the sun. “Gulls. Some boats. They’s casting nets. There’s a pelican!”

  “Over yonder,” Houston said, “is Galveston. Where your brother drills with his fellow soldiers. And beyond that, the Gulf of Mexico. And out there are ships. Warships … of …” The next words came tougher than he had imagined. “Of … our … enemy.”

  “Really?”

  Houston nodded.

  “They’s that close?”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “Sam, of course, will not be in Galveston forever. Soon he will be marched to wherever the Confederacy needs him. That will leave no one to protect us from the Yankees, Andrew. That is why we ask that you stay with us.”

  “Golly.”

  “Yes, golly, indeed.”

  He stared at the shimmering water. A fish jumped. A gull dived.

  “Can we fish, Pa?” Andrew asked.

  “I would like that very much, but we left the poles and buckets at the house.”

  “I can get them, Pa. Is that all right?”

  He smiled. “Yes, but you must promise me not to aggravate your mother any more. And do not tell her that you stay here to fight the enemy when they arrive. This we must keep to ourselves, to keep the citizens from panic. Do you understand?”