“He is no doctor,” Houston conceded. “Nor is he Indian. He cannot even speak Cherokee. He is a slave, I warrant, either having bought his freedom or escaped. Mostly, he is a charlatan.” Seeing the blank look on Jeff’s face, Houston explained, “A counterfeit. A fraud. A pretender.”
“Then why you let him work on you so and spend money for that bottled water you’re drinkin’, Mister Sam?”
Houston set the drained bottle on his bedside table. “You believe anything when you ache as I do, Jeff.” He opened a letter from Margaret, read it twice, and then asked to see the newspapers Jeff had bought in town.
Houston saw the headline, and what little color remained in his face, faded. “God help us now. Vicksburg has fallen.”
* * * * *
They checked out the next day, and began the three-day journey home. Feverish and light-headed, Houston ordered Jeff to take him to the state penitentiary first, to make sure the Union prisoners of war had no needs, before returning to the Steamboat House.
“Sure is good to be back home, Mister Sam,” Jeff told him as he helped Houston to the ground. “You feelin’ any better, sir?”
“Jeff,” he said hoarsely, “I will not last fifteen days.”
Margaret hurried outside, stopping short and bringing a hand to cover her mouth.
“Sam,” she whispered.
He stared at the towering steps that led to the upper deck and his bedroom. He had lost weight, resembled a ghost, and facing those stairs drained him of all willpower.
“Joshua.” Margaret recovered from the appalling sight of her husband’s condition. “Help General Houston to the front room on the ground floor. It is the coolest room in the entire house. Lewis, you and Jeff bring a couch from the parlor. And tell Aunt Liza to bring soup and hot tea for the general.”
She followed Joshua and her husband, who moved weakly. The young Houston boys raced through the house, but Margaret stopped them from leaping onto their father. When Pearl stepped out the door, Margaret told her to find Dr. Walkup and bring him back immediately.
By the time Houston reached the room, Lewis and Jeff had dragged the couch in. Joshua eased the old man down, and Aunt Martha placed a pillow under his head. Lewis pulled off Houston’s boots. Margaret sat on the edge of the sofa and gripped her husband’s waxy hand. She nodded at Temple and Andrew Jackson and beckoned them to her.
“Is Pa going to be all right?” Andrew asked.
“It is up to the Lord,” she answered honestly.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
July 9–26, 1863
When Warren Walkup said there was nothing he could do, Margaret sent for other doctors—Pleasant Kittrell, an old friend of Houston, and J. W. Markham, who said that Houston had pneumonia. Unsatisfied, she summoned Ashbel Smith, who stayed four days.
“Doctor Markham was right,” Smith told Margaret underneath the oak tree in the front yard. Having recovered from his wounds at Shiloh, Dr. Smith had returned with what remained of his Bayland Guards to the Texas coast. “Pneumonia, and a bad case. At Sam’s age …” His head shook.
“He has moments,” Margaret said. “Why, when Doctor Markham suggested that Sam have brandy, he raised his head off the pillow and said … ‘By thunder, I am a teetotaler.’”
Smith’s face warmed. “You reformed him, Margaret.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “But, Margaret, even Sam Houston cannot live forever.”
She stiffened. “He cannot …” Her voice broke.
“It is out of our hands, Margaret.”
* * * * *
She sent for the daughters. She gave a letter to Ashbel Smith to expedite to Sam Junior somewhere in Mexico. Oddly, she thought it might be better if her oldest son did not return until … until … after. At least one of her children could remember Sam Houston alive.
* * * * *
Jeff sat on a stool by the sofa, fanning Houston to keep him cool, to shoo away the flies. The slave rarely left his master’s side.
* * * * *
Nannie, Maggie, Mary Willie, and Nettie arrived from Baylor University in Independence. From the parlor, Nannie played the Steinway piano Houston had given her for her sixteenth birthday—mostly hymns, at her father’s request. Once, Houston asked her to play his favorite song.
“What is that, Father?” Nannie asked.
He answered in Cherokee and fell asleep.
* * * * *
Maggie and Mary Willie recited poetry when he was lucid—Burns and Longfellow, mostly, Lord Byron on occasion. Mary Willie relieved Jeff, fanning her father while humming “The Indian’s Prayer,” “Sit by the Summer Sea,” “Will You Come to the Bower?” and—but she could not finish, “The Dying Soldier,” which her father requested.
* * * * *
His eyes opened to find Temple sitting on Margaret’s lap in Houston’s old rocking chair beside the couch. Margaret had fallen asleep, but the boy remained wide awake.
Jeff was on the stool, but had stopped waving the fan.
“Papa,” Temple whispered.
Houston smiled.
“They moved your buggy to the barn,” the boy said. “And they turned Horse-Horse loose in the corral.”
Houston swallowed.
“They say you won’t ride Horse-Horse or go off in the buggy no more, Papa.” Tears filled the boy’s eyes, and Houston reached for his youngest child, but could not keep his arm up.
Somehow, Houston smiled. Months had passed since he had even tried to ride Old Pete or any saddle horse, relying on the comfort of the top buggy or the faded yellow barouche. He wet his lips and said, “I might just fool them, Temple.” With a wink, he drifted back into a deep sleep.
* * * * *
His wounds leaked badly. His nights rarely passed peacefully.
On a Sunday afternoon, he woke to find Nettie and Mary Willie beside him, and Andrew Jackson Houston playing jacks on the floor.
“Pa,” Nettie said.
His mind seemed clear that day. “My pretty little flock of girls,” he said. His voice was dry, and Nettie filled a cup with water from a pitcher, and Mary Willie raised his head to help him drink.
“I not a girl, Pa,” Andrew said.
He swallowed, feeling the relief of the cool water, and Mary Willie laid his head gently back atop the pillow.
“No, but you are pretty.”
“Boys can’t be pretty, Pa.”
He smiled, but suddenly Andrew buried his head in his father’s chest and began sobbing. Tears cascaded down the cheeks of the girls, too. Houston ran his fingers through Andrew’s head and whispered, “Boys don’t cry, either, Son.”
“You cried,” the boy sobbed. “I … heard you …”
“I’m a man full grown.”
“Pa,” Nettie wailed.
Mary Willie sniffled. “We don’t want … you … to die.”
“Listen.” He tried to raise his head, but couldn’t. Mary Willie helped pull Andrew off Houston’s chest.
“You know what folks have told me?” Houston asked. “More than once, I think. They said … ‘Sam Houston can never die.’” He forced a smile. “They were right.” He managed to place his hand on Andrew’s chest. “I will always be with you.” He looked at Nettie, then Mary Willie. “With all of you. Whenever you need me … just call my name. I shall answer.”
“Promise?” Andrew pleaded.
But Houston had fallen back into a deep sleep.
* * * * *
Sometimes he spoke with clarity. Other days he mumbled in unintelligible English or a tongue no one recognized. Cherokee? Who could tell?
On good days, he recalled stories from his childhood, his time in Washington City—as when back in 1832 he tracked down Congressman William Stanbery, who had questioned Houston’s character in a letter published in the National Intelligencer, and beat that rascal
with a hickory cane. He could recall his days as a senator or with President Andrew Jackson or debating his rivals in the Republic of Texas.
* * * * *
He told Temple, “I don’t know who you are, but you are a handsome little cuss.”
Temple cried himself to sleep that night.
The next morning, Houston had his youngest son crawl into the sofa with him, and he opened The Iliad and read several pages before he wore himself out, and slept.
* * * * *
“Mother is coming from Independence,” Margaret told him one morning.
“I bet this time she doesn’t bring that damned old casket,” he barked. “Because she thinks I’ll steal it.” He turned away. “I can’t believe that old windbag is going to outlast me.”
There had been days when he was not the Sam Houston Margaret had known, not even the Sam Houston who drank himself into drunken stupors. This might have been the worst, even more so than when he had barked at Aunt Martha, “You call this supper fit to eat? This is the worst meal I’ve ever had. What do folks say when they visit and you feed them such hog and hominy?”
When Margaret broke into tears, Houston reached up—with help from Joshua and Jeff—and pulled her into his arms.
“I am sorry,” he whispered. “Please, forgive me. Please do not cry. I raise my Ebenezer because … I am … frightened.”
* * * * *
On a few mornings, he spoke as the old Sam Houston, with wit, with charm. He doted on his young sons. He showered his daughters with compliments and kisses.
Mostly, he slept.
* * * * *
Others came to see the warrior—Judge Joab Banton … Anthony Branch … J. Carroll Smith … Judge A. B. Wiley … Colonel Robert Hays. Sometimes he was alert; more often, though, he tossed and turned in fitful sleep. The nights often proved the worst.
“Oh, my country!” he sang out in the middle of the night. “My country … my country.”
Margaret tensed, closed the Bible, and reached for him, fearing this would be the end. Jeff fanned him all through the night. Sam Houston refused to die.
* * * * *
Margaret fell asleep at dawn, with Jeff waving the fan. At some point, exhaustion overcame Jeff, who dozed and dropped the fan on Houston’s face.
Jeff jerked awake. So did Margaret. They blinked, surprised to find Houston awake and, apparently, cognizant.
“I’m sorry Mister Sam.” Jeff grabbed the fan and started waving it, but Houston shook his head.
The sun crept through the leaves of the trees. It was just past dawn.
“Margaret …” His voice, though just a whisper, seemed strong. “You and that boy get some rest. There’s no use in both of you breaking yourselves down.”
A short while later, Houston again dropped into a deep sleep. Margaret gathered herself, told the kitchen slaves what to make for breakfast, dinner, and supper, and quickly tracked down Joshua.
“Go to Austin College and fetch the Reverend McKinney,” she told him.
The slave’s eyes widened.
“Tell him to hurry. Then tell Doctor Markham to please come here.”
* * * * *
President of Austin College in Huntsville, the Reverend Samuel McKinney was Presbyterian. As a lifelong Alabama Baptist, Margaret frowned upon many aspects of the faith, but Houston and the minister had become friends over the years. Besides, the Reverend Rufus Burleson, who had baptized Houston back in 1854, could not leave Waco University for the time being but promised to keep the family in his nightly prayers. Robert Griggs, Margaret’s own minister at the First Baptist Church, was visiting a daughter in Dallas.
Houston roused again when the minister knelt on the floor and began a prayer. The preacher did not even realize the old man had awakened until he ended his prayer.
“Amen,” Houston said.
McKinney lifted his head. “Aye,” he said in an Irish brogue, “the devil has awakened, I fear.”
“You preaching to Indians, Parson?” Houston asked. “Or some backwoods settler?”
With a smile, the minister reached over and squeezed Houston’s shoulder. “Seeing it’s Sam Houston, I’d say I preach to both. Indian. And backwoodsman. In one body.”
Houston closed his eyes, and muttered something in Cherokee.
The reverend leaned closer. He whispered into Houston’s ear, “Brother Sam … death is near. Are you right with God?”
At first, Houston did not answer. He began slipping into a deeper sleep. His eyes did not open, but after a few seconds, his lips moved. McKinney put his ear above Houston’s lips.
“All is well,” Houston said, his voice barely audible. “All is well.”
Dr. Markham arrived forty minutes later. “He is in a coma,” he told Margaret in the kitchen. “Keep the reverend nearby. Have your children gather. The time is at hand.”
It was July 26.
Chapter Thirty
Oo-loo-te-ka
In the past, the ghostly but all too real visitors came to see him. In the Green Room. In an East Texas inn or South Texas campsite. On a rowboat. Wherever. This time, Houston finds himself not inside the Steamboat House, but on the banks of a river. An island, he understands, on the Hiwassee River in Tennessee. He fills his lungs with air, and cherishes wonderful scents from his boyhood: wood and tobacco smoke, roasting venison, pine sap, smoked fish. He recognizes the wooden structure before him.
It is the Town House, circular with a conical roof, covered with tree bark. The door, always on the left, opens, and a figure steps out. Comforted by the sight of the tall man, Houston smiles. Then, he cries. The man before him is Oo-loo-te-ka, known to the whites as John Jolly, whose Cherokee name means Man-Who-Beats-His-Own-Drum, but who Houston has always called agidoda. My father.
“Osiyo,” his father says in Cherokee.
“’Siyo.” Houston returns the greeting.
“I welcome you home, Son.” Houston and Oo-loo-te-ka enter the Town House, where his Cherokee father fills the bowl of his pipe, saying, “You have come far.”
“Yes,” Houston agrees.
They pray to Unetlanv. Oo-loo-te-ka lights the pipe and takes seven puffs before passing it to Houston, who draws in the smoke seven times as well.
“You always come to us when you are in need, Son,” the Cherokee says.
Houston nods. “Yes. First when I was a child.”
* * * * *
Cherished memories race past him. Picking strawberries and peaches. Digging up sweet potatoes. Afternoons of a ne-jo-di, a game of stickball; cornstalk shooting; hunting; fishing. Sitting underneath a tree and reading The Iliad.
* * * * *
“I gave you your name,” Oo-loo-te-ka says.
“Co-lo-neh,” Houston whispers.
“The Raven,” Oo-loo-te-ka says, “to us means good luck.”
“Which I desperately needed,” Houston says.
“The Raven often wanders, too,” Oo-loo-te-ka says.
“And I wandered away from you, Father.”
His father whispers, “Things change.”
“I changed.” More tears stream down his face.
“No. You had a star to follow.” He points. “I knew the star to be that of destiny. And I knew you would return to us, for we are your people. You are a white man by birth, but a Cherokee by heart.”
* * * * *
He remembers his return to these great people, when he helped negotiate the treaty that would send Oo-loo-te-ka and others to the country west of Arkansas. He has always told himself that he saved the Cherokees, or at least Oo-loo-te-ka, by doing this. But sometimes he wishes that he had fought against the army, against his own people. At least Oo-loo-te-ka led his group west years before Jackson instrumented his most shameful act, sending the Cherokees on Nu na hi du na tlo hi lu i, the Trail Where The
y Cried.
* * * * *
“And my heart rejoiced when you came back to me.” Oo-loo-te-ka bobs excitedly. “The steamboat arrived and the moon had risen. I knew you were coming. Unetlanv had told me.”
* * * * *
That memory is not one he cherishes. The last of the steamboats he has taken since leaving Nashville, the Facility, docks, and Houston sees the lights of torches. Drunk, shamed, he staggers into the light, hearing the Cherokee women whispering his name, and hearing his Cherokee father say … “My Son, eleven winters have passed since we last met, but my heart has wondered often where you were. We have heard that a dark cloud fell on the white path you walked, and when it fell in your way, you turned to my lodge. I am glad of it. It was done by Unetlanv. And we need you.”
He will need them, too, although in those first years, he needs the whiskey more.
* * * * *
“I had been hurt,” Houston tells his father.
“She was a dark spirit,” Oo-loo-te-ka tells him. “We would have killed her had she been Cherokee.”
Houston frowns, but even he cannot tell his Cherokee father not to speak ill of Eliza. He pictures another woman.
Oo-loo-te-ka reads his mind. “You think of Tiana.”
Houston always called her Hina. Almost as tall as Houston himself, beautiful, hair so black it shines. He can never forget this daughter of a Scottish trader named Hellfire Jack Rogers and a Cherokee woman.
“I hurt her,” Houston admits. “I hurt you. Remember. I was no longer the Raven. I had become the Big Drunk.”
* * * * *
That name fits him better than the Raven. Yet he weds Tiana. They open what he names Wigwam Neosho. He drinks himself into stupors. He drinks to forget all about Eliza … politics … Jackson … the wounds from Horseshoe Bend that never heal … everything. He drinks to kill himself. But he cannot die.
* * * * *
Another memory causes him to bury his head in his hands. He doesn’t even remember even why he did it, but he had slapped his Cherokee father. “I’m … sorry …” he sobs without any control. “I don’t know why … I hit you.”
“It was the whiskey,” his father says.
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