by James Haley
Houston laughed lowly and grew reflective. “Yes, but long before then. I was thirteen when my father died, and my mother moved the family to Maryville in Tennessee, right on the border of the Cherokee Nation. I did not feel that I was cut out to be a plow boy and stock clerk, so I ran away when I was sixteen. I had many friends among the Cherokees, and I lived among them for three years. I was adopted by their chief, who gave me the name of the Raven, which is a totem of their religion that signifies good fortune, but also wandering. Eventually I returned home to go to work and pay debts I had accumulated. Then I joined the Army. I advanced to the rank of lieutenant, and I came to the notice of General Jackson, who took me onto his staff after I was thrice wounded fighting the Creeks in the Battle of Horseshoe Bend. After I recovered, he made me the federal agent to those Cherokees with whom I had lived. Then General Jackson made me responsible for moving them west to the Indian Territory. That was a wrong thing to do and a wrong policy, but that was not something that a junior officer tells to a general. Captain Putnam, have you yet had the occasion of feeling compelled to obey an order you did not agree with?”
“Yes, as I did even in coming to Texas.” Bliven pursed his lips. “Sir.”
Houston laughed again, deep and chesty. “I appreciate that. I was still quite young, and I guess I was a little afraid of Jackson. He can be rather overpowering, and those were the orders he gave me.”
“Could you not have resigned?”
“Yes, but I had come to love those people as my own family. If I had resigned, they would have been removed by someone who cared nothing for them, and they would have suffered the terrible consequences that we have seen be endured by others in recent years, the Chickasaws and the Choctaws—and, yes, the Seminoles—including the deaths of hundreds. By staying, I was able to rather conspire, you might say, with the Tennessee governor, who added state money to my own budget to make sure those Indians had adequate food and clothing for their journey.” Houston sighed deeply. “So my name is still attached to a wrong policy that would have been infinitely worse and caused far more suffering if I had resigned for the sake of my precious little conscience.”
It had been decades since Bliven Putnam at forty-seven had felt so taken to school. “I understand, sir,” he said quietly.
“Wiley Thompson was a good American, but he could be a fool. The two are not mutually exclusive. But, anyway, when I left Tennessee, I went to the Indian Territory and was welcomed by those same Cherokees who took me in when I was a boy. It was a salve to my conscience to learn after ten years that they did not blame me for what had happened to them. But now, gentlemen, it has been alleged that when I take to reminiscing, I can keep people all night, and we do not have all night. Putnam, you have been seconded to the Republic of Texas Navy—never mind whether it yet officially exists—to protect our coast while we attempt to deal with the dictator on land. You may read this, it concerns you.”
President’s House
Washington, Dist. of Columbia
Much Esteemed Sir:
This letter will introduce you to Captain Bliven Putnam, of Connecticut, in command of the warship, stricken from our list but still eminently serviceable for your needs, to assist you in your struggle for freedom. Putnam proved his valor as a young midshipman during the Barbary War, again as a Lieut. Commdt. in the War of 1812, and on other missions of importance and delicacy to the country.
It is no mystery to you, sir, as we have spoken of this since 1832, that Texas at some date must separate from Mexico, and her American population join themselves once more to their mother country. The rise of Santi Anna as a murderous despot, while surely to be deplored by all humanity, is the perfect circumstance for them to rise up. For political reasons at home, and for diplomatic reasons abroad, I cannot be seen to aid you. But while he will invade by land, he must be supplied by sea, and this may prove his undoing.
Now, Houston, I am relying on your Cherokee wiles. Putnam is dear to us, one of the best we have. Do not let his name or nationality be known. Putnam, the ship, and provisions for a cruise of six months, I send you. Once he gets to New Orleans, he will be in Texian service (for all that anyone must know). Your agent there must raise him a crew of volunteers, and use him as best you can. If he is captured, he must share the fate of yourself or any other Texian, may God forbid, who are captured by that rabid wolf, Santi Anna. And now for God’s sake, burn this letter.
Yours sir, with great esteem and respect,
Andrew Jackson, Presdt.
Genl. Sam Houston
In camp
Bliven felt his face flush as he read it. He could well imagine that Jackson had given a general order to help the Texas cause and left the doing of it to the navy secretary and his minions. But that Jackson himself, that figure upon whom Bliven had expended so much contempt, actually knew his name and selected him for this duty was fresh evidence of how he had underestimated him. Bliven’s face betrayed the tiniest of smiles. “I notice that once you read it you did not burn the letter, General. There sits a candle, already lit.”
Houston shook his head emphatically and pointed at him. “Nor will I do it, until the revolution succeeds. The great object, if God favors us, is to free Texas from Mexico and, if God further favors us, to join her to the United States. If we succeed, there will be time enough to destroy this letter. But if we fail, and if I am captured, then I will see that this letter falls into the dictator’s hands before I am shot. He will declare war on the United States, which war he must lose, badly, and Texas will be annexed just the same. That must be accomplished whether any of us survive the battle day.”
“Suddenly I perceive the depth of your earnestness,” said Bliven.
“Well, keep it to yourself. For now it serves my purpose for people to think I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Putnam rose and regarded the map spread over the camp table. “No, sir, General,” he said, pointing at the crooked inky line that was the Sabine River. “It seems to me you know precisely what you are doing. Once the Mexicans invade and come east, if you can get Santa Anna to follow you to the Sabine, General Gaines is west of Natchitoches with a large force of infantry. If you can get within his striking distance, he will cross into Texas and settle the issue once and for all.”
Bliven and Sam could almost see the color drain from Houston’s face as his eyes shot open, accentuating their cutting, brilliant blue. Almost before Bliven finished speaking, Houston flew to his feet, snapping shut the tent flap, and lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. “God damn it, Captain Putnam! There are not five men in the United States who know what you just told me. How in all echoing hell have you come to know the very depth of all our intriguing so carefully kept secret?”
“I am sorry, General.” Bliven held up his hands defensively. “At the time I reached New Orleans, volunteers were actively being whipped up to organize and march to Fort Jesup. It was commonly discussed.”
“God damn!” Houston breathed. “I had no idea. If one of my soldiers told me what you just told me, I would have him shot before risking that General Gaines’s name be attached to this campaign in any connection. Do you understand my meaning?”
Bliven and Sam exchanged looks, their eyes wide. “Our lips are sealed, General. No one will learn of it from us. But how can it matter now? If hundreds, even thousands of volunteers are joining, how can it be a secret?”
“Putnam, men are volunteering all across the United States. That is no secret. These men in Louisiana believe they are part of that movement; as far as they know they are just coming to Texas to fight. What no one knows is that for these men there is a plan behind it, and if Santa Anna caught one breath of it, he would never place himself within striking distance of the American army.”
“Very well, I understand.”
“Now, this probably won’t mean anything to you, but I am engaging Santa Anna wit
h the strategy of Fabius.”
“Wait!” Bliven thought fast, trying to remember. “Quintus Fabius, who refused to fight Hannibal and his elephants head-on after they crossed the Alps?”
Houston leaned back in shock. “I underestimated you, Captain Putnam.”
“I have always loved history.”
“Yes. And if you remember, the Roman Senate grew disgusted with his retreat, removed him from command, and installed some braggart who said he would fight, and Hannibal slaughtered the Roman army at the Battle of Cannae. Gentlemen, I run that exact risk with the fools who are governing Texas. I cannot allow there to be a Texian Cannae. No one, and I mean no one, must know that I have planned for events beyond the forecast of the village idiots on the Permanent Council. It is imperative that they be allowed to think they are directing me. An election will shortly be held for a new convention to assemble on the first of March, at which independence will be declared and an interim government organized. I do not much believe that Santa Anna can invade before then, but I cannot depend on it, and I need you to guard our coast as much as one ship can do.”
“And you have the San Felipe.”
Houston huffed. “A ship and a half, then. The four we have bought are not here yet.”
“Well, then,” said Bliven, “you will be pleased to hear of our first action. We were only a day out of New Orleans when, with Mr. Bandy’s assurance that our commission was good as of that moment—”
“I will guarantee that,” said Houston.
“—we overhauled an American trading brig. Under his most vigorous protest, we inspected his cargo and found him to be carrying forty-eight cases of rifled muskets of the latest design, plus pistols, powder, and bulk lead for melting into balls, bound for Matamoros. Under color that he was sailing in your war zone”—Bliven shook his head—“our war zone, we confiscated his cargo, and he returned in a rage back to New Orleans. The factors and the insurance companies are sure to be equally put out.”
“But he did not know your true identity, am I correct?” said Houston.
“Only that we were a Texas warship, but he expressed his certainty that Texas could never float such a vessel of her own resources.”
“That’s all right, as long as he had no certain information. What did you do with all these arms?”
“They are in my hold until we learn from you whether you have some secure arsenal in which to store them until you need them.”
“Where is your ship now?”
“I sent her back out for a month under my second lieutenant to continue the hunt. I did not want her anchored off Velasco all this time, raising questions.”
“Well done,” Houston said softly, “well done. This is all good to hear. There is the Stone Fort here in Nacogdoches, but that is too far inland to effect a clean transfer. In the forward areas there are only two stone fortifications that could serve as an arsenal, at Goliad and at the Alamo in San Antonio. They are in our power at present, but we have nowhere near enough men to hold them in the face of an invasion. To deposit such a cache of arms there would be as good as to hand them to Santa Anna in the end. However, I do not want them on your ship indefinitely, I want them at hand for after our volunteer army has come together.” He studied his map. “Galveston,” he said at last. “It is at the opposite end of the country and must be the last place that Santa Anna can reach if he overruns us. It is an island and protected by the lagoon. It cannot be assaulted except by boats. I will assign a new customs collector to that port and have him prepare a warehouse to receive these weapons, with enough men to guard them. When you get back on your ship, you will go to Galveston and confer with the customs collector. I will see to it that he is expecting you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bliven. “That is how we shall proceed.”
Houston leaned back in his chair. “Well, this has been satisfying to sort out. However, I am afraid, gentlemen, that what we have discussed to this point is but half of the intrigue that we must employ. After Galveston, once you put to sea, you must stay there for the duration of the conflict. Do not touch our shore again except to save your lives, and if you do so, you must disappear into the brush and make your best ways home.”
“I don’t understand, General,” said Bliven.
“Well, it’s like this. There is newly in Texas an unpleasant little man, one Robert Potter, formerly of North Carolina. I have reason to doubt his loyalty to our cause, and of his enmity to me personally there can be no doubt. He is campaigning to be a delegate to the coming convention, at which he expects himself to be made secretary of the navy.”
“Potter?” Bliven shook his head slowly. “That name is distantly familiar to me.”
“He was formerly in the navy of the United States; never made any great shakes. He had some connection to John Paul Jones; seems like maybe he was one of the boys who boarded with him while they studied.”
Bliven snapped his fingers. “Of course! I was on the board of promotions that denied him advancement. According to his captain, he was a shirker and a troublemaker, and a constant duelist. He must hold the record for length of service as a midshipman without becoming a lieutenant.”
Houston harrumphed in a suddenly jovial and avuncular way. “I did not know that, but I am not surprised.”
“And the word was there was no counting the bastards he may have left in dockside stews around the world. One of his superior officers characterized him as ever first in line to claim his shore leave, first in line to boast of his conquests, and, at sea, the first to excuse himself from duty.”
Sam Houston seemed to relax in the comfort of exchanging dirt on a man he hated so viscerally. “Well, then, that would be a rich irony, considering his career since that time.”
“I know nothing of him since he resigned from the service.”
“Oh, my God.” Houston shook his head. “He ran for Congress in North Carolina, but the state election commission disallowed the vote on account of the violence of his partisans. Anyone who spoke against him wound up beaten by a roadside.”
“Good Lord! How then does such a man design himself to become the secretary of your navy?”
Houston leaned back and laughed, in enough lamplight for his teeth to show white and his eyes their brilliant blue. “Well, boys, the likelihood is that at the convention he will be the only man present who has ever served on a ship at all! He is a persuasive talker, and I have no doubt he will secure the appointment he seeks.”
Sam had been taking all this in. “At the time I came to Texas, I had to have a judge swear to my good character and industry.”
“Ha!” barked Houston. “Then you did come early! Once the squatters came in their thousands, such nice stipulations were left far, far behind. Potter came one jump ahead of the law back in North Carolina. It seems there was an elderly minister of the holy gospel whom Potter maimed on the charge that he had violated Potter’s wife.”
“Good God! You mean he—”
“Castrated him like a steer. The shame of it was the charge was not only untrue, it was probably impossible owing to the man’s age and infirmities. But rather than admit the mistake, Potter then charged his wife with lying with a seventeen-year-old boy, and he maimed him as well. Then, when the law came for him, he sloped for Texas, where he is beyond the reach of American justice.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Bliven.
“You judged him well when you denied him advancement. He would have made the worst commander since Captain Bligh.”
“Lord, what kind of country are you going to have out here?”
“Crude, at first,” said Houston. “All new countries are, at first. Well, boys”—he clapped his open hands onto his knees—“is this where we can leave it? You get yourselves back to Velasco, and when you meet your ship, sail her to Galveston and unload your armaments at the customshouse. They will probably have a further instruction for yo
u from me.”
Sam and Bliven stood to go, and Houston came around the table and shook hands with them. “Captain, you asked me earlier why I did not resign rather than accept the assignment of removing my Cherokees to the West. Shall I ask why you did not resign rather than allow yourself to be sent into our fray?”
“Well, in all candor, as my boat came down the Mississippi, I did not know what my orders would be, and I was in truth considering to resign, because I suspected that the administration—”
“By which you mean General Jackson?”
“—yes, sir—was involving me in some fantastical scheme in which I would not want my name involved. But I had never seen the West before, and I had never seen New Orleans before, and although I am no partisan of Jackson’s, there is no gainsaying that he was responsible for keeping them in the United States. That stayed my hand until I could learn more. And having now traveled through your country, I am content to play out the hand, for the people I have met here deserve to be brought into the United States. Only I would take it as a great favor, when we deliver your arms to Galveston, to find a Texas service commission waiting for me there so I will feel less like a pirate. In my time I have fought enough pirates to be somewhat sensitive upon the subject.”
Houston opened the tent flap. “Done. Sentry, find these gentlemen something to eat and a place to bed down.”
They turned to follow, but stopped when they heard Houston bark after them, “Wait!”
He leaned close to the sentry and mumbled, “Hell, let them have some of my peaches.”
7
Titania
Supper consisted of beans cooked with pork and onions, and fried chunks of more pork, served on pewter plates with two-tined camp forks. As they were finishing, the volunteer that Houston had spoken to rolled onto each of their plates two halves of a preserved peach. Unlike most canned food, peaches kept much of their flavor and texture and had just a hint of the spices they were preserved with.
