by Jason Vail
Austin lay the manifesto of the American rebellion on the table before Jackson with an air of triumph. Jackson stared at it, holding the corners down with his palms. His lips twitched as if they wanted to mouth the words as he read. It was a long time before he spoke. When he looked up, his eyes had softened with wonder, and there might even have been a glisten of a tear. But I was probably mistaken about that.
“Where did you get this?” Jackson demanded. I was surprised by his Scots accent; there was only a trace, mind you, but I could plainly make it out. I thought he had been born in America, and I learned later that was true, but of Scottish parents.
“We liberated it,” Austin said. “From Banastre Tarleton.”
“Tarleton had it,” Jackson said with some wonder. He shot a hard look at Austin. “Liberated it, you say?”
Austin nodded.
Jackson’s lips curled in a humorless smile. “Does he know?”
Austin nodded again.
“Good,” Jackson said with satisfaction. “You didn’t happen to kill him in the bargain, did you?”
“Regrettably not,” Crockett said. “But Mister Harper here dunked him in the English Channel. It was cold.”
“Too bad he didn’t drown,” Jackson said, giving Willie a flinty inspection. He rolled up the manifesto. “Thank you, Stephen. This is greatly appreciated. It’s a wonderful prize.”
Austin seemed about to burst with pride, although I am not so sure that Jackson cared as much for the paper as for the muskets. Austin said, “I’ve — I’ve one other thing to present to the Committee.”
Jackson seemed more interested in returning to the matter that had convulsed the Committee, but he indulged Austin one more time. “Very well. What is it?”
Austin put another paper on the table. “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting this. For your review and possible use.”
Upside down, I could not read what he had written. But I could make out the heading “Declaration of Independence” in large writing across the top.
“I think it’s time,” Austin added, “that the Committee consider this step.”
“We have just been talking about that, now that our arms have finally arrived,” Jackson said. He shot that flinty look around the room. “There are some here who dissent from the suggestion that we should be free and able to determine our destiny for ourselves. Some,” he said sharply, “believe that it is not legal for us to leave the Empire.”
This provoked a murmur that threatened to break out into more squabbling, and someone at the far wall said loudly, “Law don’t mean nothing where freedom’s concerned!”
Jackson quelled the growing clamor with a raised hand. “This is an important document, Mister Austin,” he said suddenly going formal. He seemed to think a moment. Then he said, “We must refer this to subcommittee.” He rattled off a few names and held out the declaration to one of those he named. “I send this to you for your consideration. Please report your findings on the morrow. Mister Austin, I also appoint you an ad hoc member of the subcommittee. Please serve as their scrivener, should that be necessary, if you don’t mind.”
If I had thought that Austin would burst before, it was nothing compared to his swell of pride now. “I should be honored, sir.”
“My pleasure, sir,” Jackson said. “Gentlemen,” he said speaking to the crowd, “I think our business can await the report of the committee. I suggest we adjourn until tomorrow, unless anyone has other business.”
There seemed to be none, and the Committee adjourned, although most of them stayed for the beer which only seemed free because the government was paying for it.
Someone gave me a chair, which I was grateful for, as I was fatigued from standing. I sank into it at Jackson’s table and accepted a beer, wishing it was whiskey, even though it was well before lunch.
“To a successful voyage,” Jackson said, raising his tankard to me. “Or I should say voyages.” We drank, and he said, “Well, Captain, what do you think of our little assembly?”
“It’s not exactly Parliament.”
“No, but it will do. It will do nicely.” He chuckled. “Democracy is a messy business, you know.”
“Seems so from the papers.”
“Even more messy than they know or care to understand. Messy and difficult. I’d have more luck herding cats. But it’s necessary.”
“Seems a waste of time. More efficient to have a king, if you asked me.”
Jackson frowned. “More efficient? I don’t think so. It only seems efficient because some potentate can make things happen with a snap of his fingers. But more likely than not the potentate is wrong, and will cause harm with his choices. Not that he cares, since he doesn’t immediately feel the pain.” He leaned forward and tapped the table with a long finger. “Government is not about efficiency,” he said. “Government is about the dispersal of power so that it cannot be gathered in the hands of a few, who would use it for their personal benefit and that of their faction rather than the benefit of all.”
“That is an odd notion. What about equality? The French believed the purpose of government was to achieve that, or at least they thought so.”
“And look how that turned out: rampant murder of anyone labeled an enemy of the people, mob rule, and eventually the dictator. Now they have a king and only the pamphleteers clamor for equality.”
“Democracies are weak and as prone to tyranny as any dictator — look at the example of Socrates.”
“I think of that all the time,” Jackson said. “There has to be a way to make it work, or we are all lost and will be slaves to those in power.”
“And what of the slaves here already? Will they remain so under this democracy of yours?”
Jackson looked uncomfortable. “That is another knotty problem. But I need everyone pulling as one if this country is to survive. We are surrounded by hostile empires eager to gobble us up. We cannot resist them if riven by dissention over that issue.” He smiled thinly. “You’re an Englishman. Surely you don’t believe that all men are created equal?”
“Well, perhaps they are, though it is true that the world doles out unequal portions to us all. Still, it seems wrong.”
He sighed, eyes flying around the room as if he was concerned now that our conversation might be overheard, even in the general uproar. “I cannot argue with that. And I have owned men myself.”
“How do you justify it then?”
He thought for a while. I expected the politician’s glib lie to emerge from the struggle. Instead he said, “The urge for profit and power makes it easy for a man to convince himself that his acts are righteous.”
He looked me straight in the eye, and I knew it was a confession of his own weakness and as true a thing as I was ever likely to hear from anyone.
“So what will you do about it?” I asked.
His eyes drifted away, his expression almost sad. “I don’t know. Men will fight to keep what they think is theirs, even if they have no moral right to it.”
“I am glad it is not my problem. I have another that I hope you will address.”
“And that is?” he asked cautiously with the air of a man used to having others come to him with their hands out.
“It is about our investment.”
“Ah.”
“She has been sorely damaged by our meeting with a Spanish frigate and requires repairs.”
“So you need money.”
“Well, yes.”
“Right now, as I’m sure you realize, money is short.”
“Surely you could spare a little.”
“At the moment we need an army more urgently than a navy. I am afraid the Wasp will have to wait.”
“And if I repair her at my own expense?” I asked rashly, for I did not have the funds, nor any idea how to get them in a wasteland where banks were unknown and all the available cash had probably been sucked up by the government. “Will you surrender some of your shares?”
Jackson steepled his fingers. “I wi
ll consider it. But it is not my decision alone, you understand. I must consult my partners.”
I nodded. We drank together. A woman came to the table, an anxious look on her face.
“General,” she said, “I need a favor.”
“Excuse me, Captain,” Jackson said. “The lady requires my attention.”
Chapter 31
Jacksonville, Texas
2 March 1821
The subcommittee reported the results of its work to the whole body the following afternoon. The members had been up most of the night struggling over Austin’s draft, but from the beaming expression on his face when the chairman presented the declaration, it appeared that the committee had not done much damage to it, as is usually the case when a gang attempts to author something. The chairman read it out to the assembly, even though most of them could read, because there was only one copy. I was surprised how attentively the body listened. I once witnessed a similar scene in Parliament and there the members had ignored the speaker, walking about, talking among themselves, one member on the back benches even surreptitiously eating a sandwich bit by stolen bit out of his coat pocket. Here there were only coughs and sniffles and not the slightest undercurrent of side conversation.
“Well,” the subcommittee chairman said when he finished. “That’s it.”
Some of the histories record that the assembly gave a cheer and the document was approved by approbation. Sadly, that was not the case. There was a moment of silence, then one member after another clamored to have a look at the thing for himself, and several hours of bitter wrangling followed over this phrase and that, which Austin and the members of the drafting committee beat back with strenuous counter-arguments. A few amendations were made here and there to cool feelings, but the ringing phrases that Austin had cribbed from the earlier document yet was so proud of survived. Then the draft was sent out to be recopied. It was almost nine o’clock before the clerk returned, Jackson put the declaration to a vote, and it passed unanimously and everybody signed it.
One idiot painted a picture that is now ridiculously famous of the moment showing Jackson standing on the doorstep of the tavern holding the declaration above his head to a jubilant crowd of people in the street in the full light of day. But I’m here to tell you it was well after dark and the only creature I saw outside, for I was near the doorway, was a dog sniffing at a hitching post. Now that Texas and the Free States occupy much of the continent, the Sons and Daughters of the Revolution like to think it did not have such humble origins. I cannot imagine a more humble birth for a country than that: a group in homespun gathered in the common room of a tavern whose roof leaked when it bothered to rain voting on the declaration as if it was an ordinance about street paving for all the celebration it elicited among them, having a round of beers, and then heading straight home because they had to go to work the next day.
And yet these simple fellows had just dedicated their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor just as much as my friends aboard Wasp to a cause that has turned out to be far greater than any of us ever anticipated.
Jackson waited until only Crockett, Austin, Harper and I remained. We filed out to the street together. Jackson lit his pipe and asked me, “You don’t happen to have any experience drilling infantry, do you?”
“I’m a sailor,” I said. “What would I know about that?”
“David tells me that you have an interest in land warfare.”
“Only an academic one. I’m more likely to lead an army off a cliff than to victory.”
He sighed. “Our scouts report that two Spanish armies are camped at the Nueses.”
I had no idea what that was, but Crockett nodded, and at the look on my face, he said, “It’s a river south of here. Marks our southern boundry. What’s holding them up?” he asked anxiously.
“Waiting for their artillery to arrive apparently,” Jackson said with odd dryness. He went on to me, “I need a proper drill master.”
“I could do it!” Crockett said.
“You’re a good company commander, David,” Jackson said patiently. “But you’re self-taught like all of us, and you have no experience maneuvering battalions and regiments on the field. It’s different.” He turned back to me. “I have a month to train an army. The only other prospect I have is another Englishman looking for work. But he’s a cavalryman, and a drunk and womanizer. I’ll probably have to send him off to San Antonio before some outraged husband kills him.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“I’m the fucking general. I can’t do everything.”
“Well, you may have to do this,” I said.
“Yes,” he said grimly. “I may.”
He clearly wasn’t in a good mood, but impulsively I asked, “Have you given any further consideration to our discussion yesterday?”
“About the Wasp? No. I’ll let you know when I’ve made up my mind. Good night, gentlemen.” He left us there to find our way to our accommodations, another shack on the high ground overlooking Buffalo Bayou.
We stumbled along in the dark, for there was no moon, taking only one wrong turn. Although there was a fire going in the pot-bellied stove inside, we stood on the little bluffs overlooking the Bayou, smoking our pipes, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Down the road a woman laughed — there is no more musical sound — and I wished for a moment that she were mine. But I did not believe then that I would have such pleasure again, or that I deserved it. The toy horse found its way to my hand and I thumbed its little wheels, thinking of Wasp lying grievously wounded in Galvestown harbor.
Austin must have read my mind. He said, “You know, Paul, there’s that schooner.”
I nodded. We had seen the schooner we’d taken at anchor in the harbor when we came in the other day. She had run for cover as we engaged the Neptuno.
Austin said, “I think we should be able to sell her.”
“Even here?”
“Yes, for a good enough price. We can use the money to repair the Wasp. There should be no need to rely on the General’s generosity.”
“We could, couldn’t we,” I said, pocketing the toy horse.
“I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.”
So we turned to the hovel that immodestly called itself the Statler Hotel, our hearts full of hope for the future.
Epilogue
Lone Star Rising: A Short History of the Republic of Texas and the Free States of America
by Victor D. Lautenberg
After his dunking in the English Channel, Baron Tarleton caught pneumonia and died on January 4, 1821, his prodigious strength failing in the end. He was sixty-six. As a life peer, he did not pass on his title to his son, Richard Tarleton. While that was a source of some bitterness to the younger Tarleton, not to mention the animosity he felt throughout his life toward Texas for the death of his father, the lack of a title enabled him to enter politics, where he did quite well for himself, unfortunately for Texas.
Galvestown, Texas
March 1881
Shortly after Independence Day, I read in one of the Jacksonville papers that William Harper had died in New Orleans. The paper had the decency to run an obituary, but it was short and omitted most of the details of his career.
Not long afterward, a package arrived for me in the post. It was a long, narrow box, and when one of my grandsons, the one who became a banker and constantly pesters me about my unhealthy habits, opened it, we were astonished to find it contained a small sword. I recognized the thing immediately despite the passage of so many years: it was the weapon Willie had taken from Vasquez that morning long ago.
It was the sort of article one gives to his sons as a family heirloom, not to an old comrade. It came with a note written in Willie’s hand. All the note said was, “Paul, you’ll know what to do with this. Willie”
I’d know, indeed. Not right away, I’ll have to say. I pondered this for quite a while before it came to me one afternoon when my banker grandson, seeing me sitting in the ga
rden with that old sword on my lap, remarked, “You know, pawpaw, that thing’s probably worth a lot of money.” In addition to my health, the boy often worried about my financial condition. Of course: Willie was afraid the sword would be sold, and he didn’t want that.
There was only one thing to do. “Brett,” I told the boy, “book me a passage to Jacksonville for tomorrow.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” he asked.
“Damn it, boy, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think I was up to it.”
He went away, got my ticket, and the next afternoon I was striding up Congress Avenue to the National Museum.
A few people still remember who I am and I did not have to wait long to see the curator. “What can I do for you, Admiral?” he asked.
I brought out the sword. The curator looked at it politely. “What is this?” he asked. He was obviously not a connoisseur of steel, but practically nobody is these days now that only the cavalry carries swords and even those fellows hardly use them except for decoration or cutting wood.
“William Harper captured it during the fight with the Neptuno.”
“The fight with the Neptuno,” the curator muttered. “I don’t recall that.”
“Never mind. I want it displayed with the banner Crockett seized on the Victoria Rosa. Just say that it was captured from the Spanish. Doesn’t matter where. But the sign must say that it was taken in single combat by William Harper, master of Wasp, understand?”
“Well, I suppose so.” The curator’s fingers hovered over the sword as he now understood it to be an heirloom of the independence war.
“If it doesn’t, I’ll have your head,” I said.
He blinked at that. I don’t know if I could have his job, but he didn’t know that, and it was fun to say.
“Of course, Admiral,” he said.
“I’ll have it in writing as a condition of the gift.”
“I’ll get the general counsel in here right away,” he said.
“In perpetuity,” I said.
“What?”
