The Raven's Honor

by Johnny D. Boggs

  The windowpanes rattled. Another ship had fired another shell.

  “Been to Galveston lately, General?” Stokes asked as he combed what was left of Houston’s mane.

  “Not in months,” he answered.

  “No reason to go. Hardly anyone left, except for green Confederate troops. They’ve hauled all the guns off, except for one big one at Fort Point. Army up and left. The island, I mean.”

  “It could not be defended anyway,” Houston said. Another cannon boomed. He frowned. Back in the summer, the South Carolina had bombed Galveston and the North Battery. Men, women, and even children had rushed out onto the beach to watch the show—until a shell blew a man to bits and wounded three others. He did not want to think about war now.

  “Don’t you find it odd, Perry?” he asked.

  “What do you mean, General?”

  “That the citizens here find my demise to be of enough significance that flags are lowered, but no one bothers to bring ham and cake to my wife and family, no newspaper editor sends a reporter to learn the particulars of my death, or to jot down a quote from my widow, or even learn of my funeral arrangements.”

  The brush whisked across the back of Houston’s neck.

  “Folks got a lot on their mind, I reckon,” the barber said.

  * * * * *

  Back at Ben Lomond, Houston retired to his library with the letters he had gotten at the Houston City post office, leaving Jeff alone with Margaret as she instructed the slave on something to do with the flower garden. Aunt Liza had vegetable soup cooking in the kitchen, but the aroma did nothing for Houston.

  He opened the first letter, read a few lines, discarded it. He placed a bill atop The Iliad. He started on the next letter with excitement and perhaps a little anxiety when Margaret screamed.

  After the buggy ride to Houston City and back, he had to use the crutch—not even a cane would help on days like this—and limped outside, moving as fast as his aching bones and overworked lungs could carry him. Andrew Jackson and Temple hurried from the back yard, but Houston growled at both, “Stay here!” He told the slaves Lewis and Joshua the same, and stepped onto the porch.

  Jeff stood in the garden holding some trimmings and a pair of shears. Margaret had buried her head into the shoulder of some tramp, a scarecrow in rags, pale, bearded, filthy. The stranger held a crutch, too.

  Instantly, Houston’s heart exploded and tears blinded him. He gripped the column for support, and muttered a name, inaudible at first. When his crutch clattered onto the porch floor, Jeff saw him. The young slave raced across the garden, trampling plants, but Houston recovered and raised his hand. Jeff stopped.

  “Sam!” Houston said, and his son looked up over his sobbing mother’s shoulder.

  Sam Houston Junior grinned, and Houston no longer needed the crutch. He stumbled down the steps, and hurried to the garden. Margaret pulled away, and father and son embraced.

  “All morning,” Houston whispered, “all day … something told me … that you would return to us … that you would come home.”

  * * * * *

  The boy ate. The boy slept. Houston let him.

  As dawn broke on October 4, eight Federal warships arrived at Galveston Bay. The Confederate artillery opened fire. The Yankees quickly silenced the Rebel guns, and the Confederate navy, at least in these parts, consisted of a handful of old river steamboats with bales of cotton instead of armor. “Cotton-clads,” folks called them. Cotton-armored, decrepit ships against a federal flotilla of ironclads, forty-four-pounders, mortar schooners, and transport ships. Houston wondered what had taken the Yankees so long.

  * * * * *

  “The Runaway Scrape again,” Houston whispered, watching men, women, children, carts, horses, mules plod down the road in front of his house.

  “I should get to Houston City, too,” Sam Junior told him. “I remain a soldier.”

  “In good time,” Houston said.

  “But, Father, if there is to be a battle …”

  “What battle, Son? Our army has withdrawn to Houston City. And you are not fit for guard duty, let alone battle.” He saw the rebellion in his son’s eyes, so he found a different approach. “In time, you will return to the field. But for the moment, your job is to eat and sleep and watch. We need you to help us move.”

  Two of the slaves hauled chests to one of the wagons.

  “I find it hard to believe,” Sam Junior said, “that you are leaving Ben Lomond.”

  Houston chuckled. “Before you came home, I told Lewis and Joshua to go chop some cordwood. Lewis told me … ‘Mister Sam, there ain’t no more wood to chop.’ I barked some unkind remarks at his ignorance, and stepped outside. And saw that he was right. Even Sam Houston has to make a living, Son. We are going home. Home. Home at last.”

  * * * * *

  For three days, they caravaned north. Through Presswood on Caney Creek, following the paths through the thick forests, Dry Creek, the Little Caney, to the Dallas Pike. The second Runaway Scrape, which never really came close to that horrible journey, had long faded before they crossed Shepherd Creek and came into Huntsville.

  “Turn here.” He wrapped his cane against the wall of the yellow barouche, finding it difficult to contain his grin, and squeezed Margaret’s hand. A youthful exuberance overwhelmed him. He felt damned near giddy, one reason he had let Sam Junior ride in the black buggy. He wanted to be with Margaret. He wanted to show her their new home first.

  “Quickly,” he ordered, and leaned back.

  “It is not Raven Wood,” he told her, “but wait until you see it.”

  The mules snorted, and Joshua, driving the carriage, pulled on the lines.

  “We’re here, Mister Sam,” the slave said. “At least, I reckon we’s here.”

  Sam pushed through the door, saw the home, and turned back, to help Margaret out of the wagon.

  “There!” He wheeled around, took his crutch, and hobbled a few paces toward the house he had rented from Dr. Rufus Bailey, president of Austin College. Though short of breath, he beamed with pleasure.

  “Oh,” Margaret whispered, “my … word …”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  March 2, 1863

  No matter what Margaret said, he loved the damned house. Although called Buena Vista, folks around Huntsville had nicknamed it the “Steamboat House,” and indeed, it resembled a sternwheeler in dry dock, narrow and long with twin turrets by the massive front staircase, galleries on either side, stained-glass windows, and outside stairways connecting the decks. Dr. Bailey had the home built for his son and daughter-in-law for a wedding place, but the girl wouldn’t live there. She hated it. So did Margaret, but she must have seen how much pleasure the hideous monstrosity gave her husband. At least, she conceded, the rent came cheap.

  This morning, he felt like hell—again—but dressed and made his way down the outside staircase.

  “You need me to help you, Mister Sam?” Jeff asked from underneath the upstairs balcony.

  “No.” Houston grumbled and coughed, though he knew he could use all the help he could get. He turned seventy years old this day, and he felt like seven thousand. Halfway down the stairs, he stopped to catch his breath. He felt Jeff standing a few steps behind him, but the slave said nothing. He was just waiting for Houston to fall.

  On that morning, Sam Houston scored another victory. He made it down in one piece.

  “My crutch, Jeff.” He held out his hand and took the crutch Jeff had carried down the steps.

  “Where are they?” Houston asked.

  “The spring, sir,” Jeff answered. “You want me to drive you, Mister Sam?”

  “No. I’ll walk.” After a few rods, Houston stopped, resting in the shade of crepe myrtles and fig trees. The spring lay perhaps a block from the Steamboat House, but he would never make it to the oak tree just a few yards away. “
Yes. Yes, Jeff, fetch the surrey.” He made up an excuse. “These are important visitors, and we should not keep them waiting.”

  * * * * *

  Usually, Houston entertained guests at the Steamboat House, but for all her Christian upbringing and charity, Margaret felt uneasy when Indians came calling. Maybe she remembered the horror stories of the Red Stick War, or what the Cherokees had called Houston after he had resigned his governorship in Tennessee—the Big Drunk. She might have feared that Houston would revert to his wilder days, rollicking in the wilds with his Cherokee friends.

  Billy Blount was no Cherokee. Blount was chief of the Alabama Indians, who had joined with the Coushattas and now lived on four thousand acres in the East Texas forests known as the Big Thicket. Houston had gotten that land deeded to the Indians.

  After a warm greeting, Blount introduced his companions, and they passed the pipe while sitting at the spring’s edge. The Alabamas and Coushattas were no different than the Cherokees, and quite a few politicians, in one regard. They talked about other things—the weather, the forests, the hunting, their children, and the stories they still loved to laugh about—before bringing up business. Houston’s chest and head no longer hurt. Indian tobacco tasted sweet. He could not recall when he had last shared a pipe with his friends. Eventually, though, Blount came to the point. Houston listened with intent.

  From newspaper reports, the Confederacy appeared to be winning most battles. Even back in October, Confederate General John Magruder led his command and reclaimed Galveston, sending Union ships back into the Gulf of Mexico and many Yankee prisoners to Huntsville, where they were locked into the state prison. Yet Houston saw the gloom in the faces of men and women he met, and the Union blockade remained strong.

  And there was the Conscription Act, passed by President Jefferson Davis and the Confederate congress less than a year ago. White males between eighteen and thirty-five years old were to enlist in military service for a three-year term. Oh, the rich ones could hire a substitute, and Houston had toyed with that idea for Sam Junior, eager to return to service with the Second Texas.

  “How many of your men have been conscripted into the army?” Houston asked Blount.

  “Many,” the Indian answered.

  Houston found Jeff. “Return to the house. Bring back paper, pen, and ink. And an envelope.”

  “They take our young men far, far away,” Blount said in Cherokee. “It is not our war to fight.”

  Nor is it mine, Houston thought. “Your brother Sam Houston shall send a letter to the Confederate War Department. The law says white men can be conscripted. It says nothing about our red brothers. If they listen, your young warriors will be home.”

  “Surely,” Blount said, “they will listen to the Raven.”

  Houston felt his blood bubbling. “They have not listened to the Raven in many moons, my friend,” he said, “but they will listen this time … else they shall rue the day.”

  * * * * *

  After he had mailed the post and returned home, he struggled up the steps, thinking, All I am good for these days is writing letters. Letters that get no answers. Inside, removing his new hat—blue velvet with gold embroidery—Houston heard the pattering of feet as his young children came to wish him a happy birthday. He smelled lemon cake and coffee. Margaret and Aunt Liza would make him eat a slice, but all he really wanted was coffee, and little of that. Still, he let his boys, Temple and Andrew Jackson, hug him and guide him to the parlor. Margaret smiled warmly, and Temple begged him to eat the cake.

  “Let me sit down, children,” he said, and sank into the old wooden rocker. The presents came first, a new cane carved by Joshua, a scarf, a pair of boots, books. He loved the books. He hated the cane, but knew he would need it.

  “Where is Sam?” he asked, after nibbling some cake and sipping coffee. He frowned. Even coffee did not rest well in his stomach.

  “Father.” The voice came from the hallway, and boot steps pounded as Sam Junior made his way into the room. Houston frowned. Margaret moaned. Having recovered from his wound at Shiloh, Sam Junior wore a new Confederate uniform. The boy who had returned after a prisoner exchange, resembling a skeleton, had put the weight back on. His limp had vanished. His belt of shiny black leather held a saber and a Navy Colt.

  Yet Sam Junior could not stay at attention. He ripped an envelope from the inside pocket of his blouse and thrust it toward Houston.

  “Father … my commission … I’m a …” his grin widened, “a lieutenant!”

  Margaret had to steady herself, but Houston nodded.

  Houston looked at the letter, nodding and thinking, Sometimes they do listen to me. “Your orders intrigue me, Son.”

  As the smile faded, his son shook his head. “I don’t know about those orders. I’m to go on a geology expedition. In Mexico. I thought …”

  “Shavetail lieutenants do not question orders.” Houston grinned. Margaret’s face lifted, the tears disappeared from her eyes, which closed as she bowed her head in a prayer of thanks.

  “You have seen the elephant,” Houston told his son, “but now you will learn that there is more to war than fighting. I warrant Rip Ford and others are thinking of a quick path to some Mexican port. The blockade strangles us. We cannot ship cotton to England from Texas. This is a mission of the utmost urgency.”

  “Geology?” his son asked.

  “Geology is a science. Roads are not built without an understanding of the terrain. And Texas cotton growers need a fast route to a Mexican port. This is an important assignment, Lieutenant.”

  The smile returned, even wider, and Houston handed the commission and orders back to his son.

  “I’m too full of cake and coffee to stand, and I’ve had quite the busy day for a seventy-year-old war horse. But allow me to be the first to salute you, Lieutenant Houston.”

  He raised his right hand to that receding hairline, and watched his son snap to attention and return a sharp salute.

  Margaret cleared her throat. “You will write to us?” she asked hopefully.

  “Of course.”

  “And,” Houston said, “send some drawings of what Mexico looks like.”

  The boy accepted congratulations from his siblings and the Houston slaves.

  “When do you report to Brownsville?” Houston asked.

  “Oh, my.” He spun on his heels. “I must pack.” With Andrew Jackson and Temple saying, “Let us help, Sam,” Lieutenant Sam Houston Junior left the parlor, trailed by his first command, as his father settled back into his chair.

  His appetite had returned. Reaching to the plate on the side table, he broke off another bite of cake.

  A moment later, Margaret settled onto the footstool in front of her husband. The other children, home for Houston’s birthday, excused themselves, leaving their parents alone.

  “You have been busy,” Margaret said, “haven’t you?”

  He found the coffee cold but satisfying, and washed down his cake.

  “I called in some debts,” he admitted.

  “For my sake?”

  He shook his head. “For ours.” After another sip, he returned the cup to its saucer. “Sam has tasted battle. That is enough for him, for you, for me. Let him see Mexican rocks for the rest of this horrible war.”

  Rising, Margaret brushed away new tears. Leaning over, gently touching Houston’s shoulder, she kissed his forehead. “I love you, Sam Houston,” she whispered.

  “Many have questioned your judgment,” he said.

  “I never did, though.” She straightened. “I must go. Sam will leave without extra socks or unmentionables. Oh, what stories he will have to tell us when he returns from Mexico.”

  Suddenly then, Houston found himself alone, saddened. His oldest son, his pride and joy, would be leaving for Mexico, away from the horrors of war. Houston had done his job. He had maneuvered Li
eutenant Sam Houston Junior out of harm’s way. But he also knew that he would never see his son again.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  April 6, 1863

  This Monday morning, that nagging cough returned. Houston felt chilled, and he briefly thought that death would not be such a bad thing. He also remembered the prediction made two days earlier by an attorney in town.

  “Old friend,” Woody McKay had said with a warm smile, “Sam Houston shall never die.”

  McKay’s joke had come after he had helped Houston finish his last will and testament. Houston had picked McKay not because he was a great attorney but because McKay had always been loyal to the Union, and loyal to Sam Houston, and he also knew how to keep his mouth shut. He also made pretty good catfish stew that smelled delicious, but Houston’s stomach was not agreeable.

  No, he thought while descending the stairs into the spring afternoon. The people of Texas will not let Sam Houston die. Or even retire. Margaret had sent Jeff off to Herbert Jordan’s gristmill on the edge of town, so Joshua helped Houston down the steps. The black buggy waited. Houston knew he would need Joshua’s help to get inside it, too. He offered no protest.

  “Don’t get old, Joshua,” he told the slave as he gripped the edge of the surrey to catch his breath.

  “Aunt Martha say … ‘Don’t it beat the alternative?’”

  “When you reach seventy years, my friend,” Houston said, “you wonder.”

  “You hush up. Let me boost you up. There. You comfortable, Mister Sam? Where we off to first this fine mornin’?”

  Yes. Where to first? Margaret had scolded him, in a pleasant voice, over breakfast, or what seemed to be breakfast these days for Houston: half a piece of toast, black coffee, some foul-tasting medicines Dr. Warren Walkup kept sending to the Steamboat House—charging Confederate prices no less. “You are retired, my darling,” Margaret had told him. “Why don’t you act like you are retired?”

  “Texas needs me,” he had answered.