The Black Jacks (25 page)

Matters got worse. Burnet negotiated a treaty with the captured Santa Anna in which the self-styled Napoleon of the West promised to persuade the Mexican assembly to recognize the independence of Texas in exchange for his release. Members of Burnet's own cabinet were incensed and refused to sign on; Santa Anna's words, they declared, were as worthless as a three-legged mule. Burnet stubbornly went ahead and put Santa Anna aboard the Texas man-o'-war
Invincible,
bound for Mexico. Unfortunately for Santa Anna—and Burnet—Thomas Jefferson Green and over two hundred North Carolina volunteers arrived in Velasco at that moment. Green boarded the
Invincible,
shackled Santa Anna, and dragged him unceremoniously back onto Texas soil. Burnet lost the trust of the Texas Army and the Texas people as a result of this incident. He blamed Houston and accused the hero of San Jacinto of conspiring against him. The army was ready to throw Burnet out, but Houston kept them in line. Though he had been shoddily treated by Burnet, Houston refused to countenance mutiny.

During Houston's term as the republic's first elected president, Burnet had constantly heckled him and ridiculed his policies, particularly in regards to making peace with the Indians. Now Burnet was Lamar's vice president. He spent most of his time in Galveston. Singletary was certain he would become Lamar's chief hatchet man in the upcoming campaign. Already he was sharpening his claws on Houston's hide with those articles in the Houston
Telegraph and Texas Register,
under the pseudonym of Publius.

"If memory serves," said Singletary, "Burnet once challenged Houston to a duel. It will be interesting to see what happens this time around."

"They are both quick-tempered men," observed Lamar, nodding.

"Houston would be a fool to allow himself to be baited into an affair of honor. Live or die, he would lose. After the Goodrich-Laurens business, dueling is greatly out of favor here."

Lamar smiled. "I'm sure you will do your part, sir, to make sure Mr. Houston loses. Now, if you will excuse me . . ." He and Wingate and the two bodyguards proceeded down Congress Avenue. Singletary, though, wasn't so easily dispensed with. He fell in step alongside the president.

"You seem to be afraid of me," said the newspaperman.

That stopped Lamar in his tracks. "What makes you think so?"

"The
City Gazette
has consistently supported your policies, Mr. President."

"Yes, yes. That's true."

"You might say I have dipped my poison pen in the blood of your enemies."

"Quite so," conceded Lamar. "But why? I do not perceive your motives, sir. If you have convictions, political or otherwise, they are concealed from me, and everyone else. If you do not know why a man is doing something for you today, then how can you be sure he won't turn on you tomorrow?"

Singletary pursed his lips. "Hmm. I see your point." He touched the brim of his hat. "I'll detain you no longer, Mr. President. Good day."

Lamar watched the
City Gazette
editor angle across the wide, dusty expanse of Congress, a lanky, narrow-shouldered man clad in austere black attire who walked with an ungainly, bent-kneed stride.

"A strange fellow," Lamar murmured to Wingate. "I have felt the sting of his acid wit a time or two, and I do not relish it on a regular, or public, basis. And yet I cannot help but feel that Singletary, in some form or fashion, will in the end do me harm."

"Maybe somebody will kill him," said Wingate. "He's been a burr under many a man's saddle."

Lamar gave the Ranger captain a curious look and walked on.

As he had hoped, Albert Sydney Johnston, general of the Army of Texas, was in his office in the dogtrot shanty of weathered clapboard which served as the republic's War Department. The burly, fair-haired soldier was hunched over a cluttered desk, perusing a document which Lamar immediately recognized, since he had penned it only yesterday. Johnston fastened his cold blue eyes on Lamar.

"I have here your authorization to conduct a campaign against the Comanche Indians," rasped Johnston. "I would find it humorous, sir, except that I have no sense of humor."

"So you cannot do it, is that what you're saying, General?"

"With all due respect, just how the hell could I? I have a couple of hundred poorly equipped men scattered in outposts from one end of Texas to the other. My artillery consists of a few old rusting six-pounders. As for personal weapons, my men have nothing to compare with the Colt Patersons which the government saw fit to provide the Ranger companies."

"I quite understand," said Lamar smoothly. "Sadly, in these hard times, the money simply isn't there to meet all the army's needs."

Johnston sighed and sat back in his chair. A man of action, he disliked riding a desk, and he put Lamar in mind of a caged tiger. "Under the circumstances," he said, "a campaign such as you suggest is out of the question."

"But we can't very well let the savages go unpunished, now, can we?"

"I've had reports that militia companies bloodied the hostiles at Plum Creek. And, according to rumor, John Henry McAllen and the Black Jacks have been nipping at the heels of a war party all the way from the Brazos River to the Colorado. The Comanches didn't get away scot-free. My advice is to leave well enough alone."

"I can't do that," said Lamar bluntly. "Houston will say I am guilty twice over—once for inciting the Comanches to war with a policy that resulted in the Council House debacle, and again for being unable to protect the frontier."

"Then send the Rangers."

"Perhaps I will have to do just that." Lamar acted as though the thought hadn't occurred to him, and Johnston hated him for the charade. He knew perfectly well what Lamar was up to. From the first, the president had known the regular army was in no condition to conduct a campaign against the Comanches. His own policies had rendered Johnston's department virtually impotent. Now, though, he had an excuse for sending his hired killers out after the hostiles—the army had been unwilling to take on the job.

Johnston decided he ought not make it too easy for Lamar. Rising, he leaned forward and planted big fists on the desk. "Sir, I repeat. My advice is to leave it alone. The Comanches have had their fun. Some of us expected a raid after the Council House fight—though, admittedly, not one of this scope. We'll have no more trouble from the Indians until next spring. They've got to head west and hunt the buffalo and get ready for winter. Concentrate on your reelection and leave the Comanche problem for later."

"The political aspects are what move me to press the attack against the savages," replied Lamar. "The people will appreciate our vigor. And they know we must deal with the Comanche menace before we can realize our destiny and stake a claim to New Mexico and, yes, even California. No, General Johnston. There is no time to waste."

"Well, sir, you're the politician." Johnston didn't sound convinced by Lamar's line of reasoning.

Lamar turned promptly to Wingate. "I will need a good man to lead two or three Ranger companies, whatever can be spared from frontier defense, to strike deep into Comancheria, to attack the Indians wherever they are found, to destroy their villages—in short, to teach them a lesson they will never forget. I suspect you are the man I am looking for, Captain. Am I correct?"

Wingate's eyes were ablaze. This was what he had long dreamed of—carte blanche to carry out a campaign of extermination against the red devils who had murdered his kin and cost him his arm.

"Damn right," he replied.

Chapter Twenty-four

In the course of his daily perambulation through Austin, Jonah Singletary always tried to drop by the Bullock Hotel. Anyone who was anybody usually stayed at Bullock's while visiting the Texas capital, and a person could learn many useful tidbits of information if he lingered with eyes and ears open in the lobby or on the porch.

As he turned the corner off Congress Avenue and onto Pecan Street, the sight which greeted him caused Singletary to stop sharply and take a backward step. On the porch of the Bullock Hotel sat three people. Of the two he recognized, one was Saligny, the French chargé d'affaires. The other was Leah Pierce McAllen. It was ironic, mused Singletary, that Mrs. McAllen now sat in the very chair, located at the east end of the porch, where her husband had spent a few days a couple of months ago, prior to the Council House incident, when he was in Austin acting as Houston's spy. But she was not with her husband today; beside her sat a young gentleman in a perfectly tailored gray shooting coat. He was sipping a sangaree as he conversed with Saligny, while Mrs. McAllen pouted over a mint julep. She was obviously bored to death. No, more than that—she was miffed, thought Singletary, probably because Saligny and the young gentleman were engrossed in their earnest discussion and paying her not the least attention, even though she looked absolutely radiant in an emerald-green dress of satin-embellished tarlatan with matching parasol and a brimmed straw hat adorned with a green satin ribbon and a sprig of flowers. Ringlets of golden hair caressed her delicate neck.

Singletary wondered if he should pass over Bullock's today. He was fairly certain that Leah McAllen would be less than pleased to see him, after what he had written about her previous adventures in Austin with a couple of young Texas blades. But his curiosity got the better of him. What was she doing here? Who was the handsome young stranger, and what were he and the French chargé d'affaires discussing? Singletary decided to brazen it out, even though a little voice in his head issued a shrill warning of potential danger.

Singletary noticed that when Leah McAllen recognized him her delectable body went rigid. The
City Gazette's
editor approached the porch, touched the brim of his hat, and smiled at her—not too sardonically, he hoped.

"Good morning, Mrs. McAllen. Your beauty immeasurably enhances our fair city. To what does Austin owe the honor of your presence?"

"Mr. Singletary." She did not deign to answer his query; in fact, she was just barely civil in her greeting.

"Good morning, Count," said Singletary, turning his attention to Saligny. "Beautiful morning, isn't it? Enjoying the first absinthe of the day, I see."

Saligny was a florid, bewhiskered man who wore a somewhat old-fashioned clawhammer coat and doeskin trousers. A snowy handkerchief was tucked just so into his left sleeve, and his apricot-colored cravat was exquisitely arranged. A fastidious and courtly chevalier, Saligny fairly reeked of lilac water.

"M'sieu
Saligny!
Bonjour, mon ami!"
Whether he really was or not, Saligny always appeared to be delighted to meet a person. He held aloft the tumbler of green liquid which he had been sipping. "Would you care to partake of this nectar?"

"Thank you, no. I never developed a liking for the flavor of licorice." Singletary nodded to the stranger. "Good morning, sir. I don't believe I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance. I am Jonah Singletary, editor of the Austin
City Gazette."

"Charles Stewart. Major, Royal Scots Fusiliers."

"Well, well! An Englishman, a Frenchman, and a Southern belle—one would hardly know that we are on the very brink of an uncharted wilderness, now, would one?"

Singletary glanced at each of them in turn. Leah McAllen was looking at him as though he were an unmentionable something a man might track into the house on his boot heel. Stewart was peering at him with a cool curiosity, while Saligny acted like a man who had something to hide. Obviously not one of them was going to invite him to sit down, as he had hoped. Singletary again touched the brim of his hat to the lady and nodded to the gentlemen.

"Good day to you all, then."

He moved on to the porch steps and took a chair at the other end. As he sat down, a tall, scrawny, muscular pig scooted out the front door of the hotel, preceding the establishment's owner. The pig started toward Mrs. McAllen and her two companions, but Saligny cried out
"Mon Dieu!"
in complete disgust, and the pig snorted and bolted down the steps to disappear beneath the porch, squeezing between two pieces of whitewashed lattice. Wearing a look of utter revulsion, Saligny raised his feet as though he were afraid the pig might stick its bristly snout up through the weathered planks of the floor. Singletary was amused. Bullock was not. He eyed Saligny the way the Frenchman had eyed the pig. A brawny man with a mop of rust-colored hair, he looked like a lumberjack rather than an innkeeper.

"M'sieu
Bullock," said Saligny, exasperated, "must you let your filthy beasts run loose?"

"That's a Berkshire pig, Count," drawled Bullock. "You have any idea how much he's worth?"

"I would not give a single franc for him unless he was being served on a platter with an apple in his mouth."

Bullock grunted, shifting a wad of Kentucky burley from one cheek to the other. He noticed Singletary then.

"Hello, Jonah," he said without enthusiasm. "Want something to wet your whistle? Some hemlock, perhaps? Or a dash of snake venom?"

Singletary just smiled. Bullock was a diehard Houston man, so he had little nice to say about the
City Gazette
or its distinguished editor.

"Just a cup of spring water, with some ice, if such is available."

Bullock spat a stream of brown tobacco juice in a ten-foot arc over the porch railing and onto the street. He went back inside and a moment later returned with Singletary's water.

"Tell me, Jonah, what are you going to do when the Old Chief becomes president again?"

"I fully intend to enjoy my allotment of three score and ten, but I doubt I shall live long enough to see that day."

Bullock's grin was mirthless."You can print all the lies you want about Sam Houston—and I'm sure you'll do just that. Won't make a penny's worth of difference, though, in the long run. Folks know they'll be better off with Lamar out of office. He's come near to bankrupting the country. I keep a stack of his redback dollars in the two-holer. That's all they're good for. Now he's gone and got the Comanches riled and good people are dead on account of it. We're going to elect Sam Houston, and then you'll be eating a lot of crow." With a look of smug satisfaction on his face, Bullock went back inside.