The Black Jacks (31 page)

"Of course they will. And Her Majesty's government will not be pleased when one of its heroes is hanged by a Texas rope." Houston sighed.

Tice had a sudden thought, and it alarmed him. "You're not thinking of intervening on Stewart's behalf, are you, General?"

Houston paced back and forth, scowling in silence for a full minute. The doctor's anxiety doubled by the second; the general was in some ways a mirror image of his mentor, Andrew Jackson. Both men had a history of engaging in reckless escapades regardless of the consequences. Tice was afraid Houston might be concocting some incredible scheme to break Stewart out of jail and smuggle him across Texas to a berth on a homeward-bound British ship. What was worse, Houston would probably ask McAllen and his Black Jacks to undertake such a desperate mission. Would John Henry go along? Would his loyalty to Sam Houston take precedence over common sense? Tice fairly cringed at the thought. If so, more than Houston's political career would be destroyed.

"No," said Houston finally—to Tice's vast relief. "We can't do anything for Stewart. He's jumped into the frying pan and now he's got to cook on his own. But he may expect my help. And there is no way of knowing what he might do or say to save himself once he realizes we'll do nothing to save him."

"You mean go to Lamar?" asked McAllen. "Tell the president anything he wants to hear about you and Great Britain?"

"Not even Lamar can help him now," said Tice.

"That depends on how desperate Lamar is," said McAllen. "But Stewart has his pride."

"The truth is, my problems in this case are nothing compared to yours, John Henry," said Houston. "I am truly sorry this happened. I feel at least partly responsible."

"Don't concern yourself, General."

"I suppose you'll be going to Austin."

McAllen nodded. "Do you have a message you'd like for me to relay to Major Stewart?"

Houston sighed. "No. Just see what you can do. I leave it in your hands."

Once they had returned to their room, McAllen took pen and paper and wrote a quick letter which he then let Tice read.

"This authorizes me to draw on your funds held by Robert Mills of Brazoria," said Tice, puzzled.

"My factor. I want you to hire Benjamin Sturgis, the freighter. He'll need several wagons. I want him to go to the plantation and load up everything that belongs to Leah and carry it to her father's house in Galveston. That includes all the furniture in her bedroom, and have them take the piano in the downstairs parlor."

With a nod Tice folded and pocketed the letter. "So it has finally come to this."

"I should have done it a long time ago, Artemus. But pride got in my way. I refused to admit failure."

"After all that has happened, no blame could possibly attach itself to you."

"I blame myself, for many things. Most of all for putting myself in the position where I could not reciprocate the feelings Emily had for me."

"Has. The feelings she has for you, John Henry."

McAllen moodily stroked the scar on his cheek. "I pray to God you're right. That she is still alive."

It was raining when McAllen rode into Austin, the first of the September rains which heralded the end of a long Texas summer. The gray, dismal day suited his mood perfectly. He went first to the Bullock Hotel. This was where he expected to find Leah.

"Glad to see you again, Captain," said Bullock. A Houston partisan, the hotel owner knew McAllen to be one of the Old Chief's most trusted lieutenants. "I only wish it was under better circumstances. If there is anything I can do for you while you're in town . . ."

"There might be," replied McAllen. "But for now I would like to see my wife."

Bullock told him that Leah was upstairs and gave him the room number. "She's hardly come out of that room since . . . well, since the murder."

When McAllen knocked on the door there was no sound from within the room. He knocked a second time.

"Leah? It's John Henry."

She threw open the door and the light in her eyes was something he had not seen since their first days together.

"John Henry!" She wrapped her arms around his neck, held him close, and cried softly. He did not hold her, but neither did he push her away—he simply waited until the flood of tears had subsided. He felt sorry for her and warned himself not to play the fool out of sympathy. In spite of himself, in spite of all she had done, he still cared for her. It wasn't love. That had died a long time ago. He tried to harden his heart.

Leah stepped back finally, brushing the last tears from her face, and he studied the bruises that were just now beginning to fade.

"Did Stewart do that to you?"

She nodded. "He . . . he took me, John Henry. Against my will. I'm not telling you this because I want sympathy. I deserve everything that happened to me—and everything that is going to happen."

McAllen thought,
She has more than an inkling of what I'm about to do.
This beautiful, wayward, hopelessly flawed woman-child! Had she really learned her lesson? McAllen's resolve was shaken.

"I didn't dare come home," she continued. "I didn't know if . . . if you would want me to."

"When you go home," he said softly, "it will not be to Grand Cane. Your things are on their way to Galveston, Leah."

She gasped, as though he had struck her; his words hurt worse than a physical blow. McAllen expected her to start crying again, but she fooled him, showed him more character than he thought she possessed.

"I don't blame you," she said, and managed a trembling smile. "I've been a terrible wife, haven't I? I'm so sorry for all the pain I've caused you. I do love you, John Henry. I never realized how much until these last few days. I—"

"It's too late, Leah."

"Why didn't you stop me?" she cried.

"Stop you? How?"

"You knew. You saw. This . . . this thing between me and Stewart. You saw it happening, right in front of you, at Grand Cane. But you didn't lift a finger to stop it. Is that because you didn't care?"

"I guess you could say it was a cure, of sorts."

"You gave me the rope and let me hang myself," she said resentfully.

"Maybe so."

"Will they execute him?"

He knew she meant Stewart. "Yes. They will."

"He deserves to hang."

Not, mused McAllen, because he had murdered Jonah Singletary, but because of what he had done to her. That was what Leah meant.

She turned away from him, went to the chair by the window, sank into it, and gazed out at the rain tap-tap-tapping on the weeping panes of glass.

"What will become of me?" she asked in a small, lost voice.

"You'll survive."

"No one loves me. All I ever wanted was to be loved."

McAllen shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips. Her words cut across the grain of his compassion. She was feeling sorry for herself. In some ways Leah McAllen—no, make that Leah Pierce—would never change. She was still concerned only with herself.

She glanced across the room at him. "Did you find the Torrance girl?"

"Not yet."

"You're in love with her, aren't you?"

"I hardly know her."

"That doesn't make any difference. That's not how love works, is it?"

"I'm no expert on the subject."

"Well, I hope you find her. I hope you find . . . happiness."

McAllen wondered if she was sincere. "Go home to Galveston, Leah. I'll arrange for a carriage to take you. And I'll take care of your bill here."

He turned and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Settling down in a chair on the hotel porch, he lit a cigar and let Bullock bring him a shot of good Tennessee sour mash. The whiskey restored him.

The hotelkeeper sat down beside him. "This business with the Englishman doesn't do General Houston any good. Singletary painted a pretty picture of Stewart as a British agent, and of Houston as Her Majesty's pawn. If you didn't know better you'd think the Union Jack would be flying over the Texas capitol if Houston won the election." Bullock shook his head. "That major's a damned fool. Especially for confiding in Saligny."

"Why do you say that?"

"The French want Lamar to win. Simple as that, Captain. They don't like it that Britain has so much influence in Mexico, and they sure don't want the British to get a toehold in Texas. Stewart should have known the count was no ally. How do you think Singletary found out about the connection between Houston and Stewart? It was Saligny, that's how."

"Saligny still rooms here, doesn't he?"

Bullock grinned. "Yes. He's got this notion he's going to build a grand legation right here in Austin. I wish he'd hurry up and build it and move in. My pigs flat out don't like the man."

"There
is
something you can do for me," said McAllen. "If you don't want any part of it, though, I'll understand."

Bullock shrugged, trying to pretend he wasn't intrigued. "Won't know till I hear what you have in mind."

"I want you to let me into Saligny's room."

"What are you after, Captain?"

"I'm not sure. Some kind of hard evidence that links Lamar with the French."

"Want to turn the tables on the president, is that it?"

"That would be nice."

"Come back in an hour," said Bullock, consulting his keywinder. "Saligny always takes a walk before dinner. He says the exercise titillates his appetite." The innkeeper smirked. "I might like the man more if he didn't talk so damn funny."

McAllen finished his whiskey and stood up. "I'll be back."

He and Joshua walked their horses the short distance to Austin's jail. When McAllen entered the sheriff's office the lawman looked up in alarm.

"You aint come to kill him, I hope."

"I just want to talk to him."

The sheriff breathed an audible sigh of relief. "After he left his mark on Mrs. McAllen I was afraid you'd have it in mind to cheat the hangman." He unlocked the cellblock door and gestured for McAllen to enter. "Your word's good enough for me, Captain, so I won't ask for those Colt pistols."

McAllen nodded his thanks. The sheriff shut and latched the door behind him. Stewart's cell was the first in a row of four strap-iron cages. The cellblock was dark, hot, and smelled bad. The man in the cell next to Stewart's was sprawled carelessly on his narrow bunk, snoring. Stewart was pacing, three strides one way, three back, his head down, hands clasped behind him. When he noticed McAllen he stopped and stared, just as alarmed as the sheriff had been. Then he recovered his composure and took his eyes off McAllen's Colt Patersons and smiled coldly.

"Hello, Captain."

"Major."

"I presume Sam Houston sent you."

McAllen nodded. "More or less."

"I knew it. I knew he wouldn't let them hang me."

"Oh, you'll hang, Major. Have no doubt on that score."

Stewart's smile faltered; only by dint of great effort did he manage to keep it in place.

"I was only doing your job, McAllen. Defending your wife's honor."

McAllen struggled to keep his temper from boiling over. "Were you defending her honor when you raped her, you bastard?"

"She's lying if that's what she told you. I didn't have to take what I wanted—she gave it freely. From what I've heard, she's done that before."

McAllen realized his fists were tightly clenched. He unclenched them. "She has her faults. We all do."

"My execution will not please Her Majesty's government."

"There's nothing General Houston can do about it, Major, even if he wanted to."

"As I recall, Santa Anna was set free—and how many Texas deaths was he responsible for? But I won't beg for mercy. I suppose I misjudged your general. So be it. If your purpose in coming here was to inform me that I would get no help from him, then I thank you, and you may go."

Stewart turned his back.

"I'm just sorry I won't be here to see you hang," said McAllen.

"I always wanted to be a pirate, you know. And pirates never die in their sleep, do they?"

McAllen left the cellblock.

Bullock was waiting for him on the porch of the hotel. "Saligny just turned the corner, Captain. Come on."

Once in the Frenchman's room, McAllen worked quickly while Bullock stood watch in the hall outside. If Saligny returned earlier than expected from his constitutional, Bullock would alert McAllen, who would have to escape by the window. But it didn't take McAllen long at all to find what he was looking for. A diary, with morocco leather binding and a clasp lock, had been stashed under Saligny's mattress. The lock did not stymie McAllen; he used a pearl-handled letter opener from Saligny's escritoire to break the lock. Hastily scanning the diary's contents, McAllen found it was written, naturally, entirely in French. But in the very back was a folded sheet of vellum—a letter bearing the signature of Mirabeau B. Lamar. McAllen read the letter once and then, in disbelief, read it a second time. Pocketing the letter, he left the room and handed the diary to Bullock.

"Can you get rid of this for me?"

Bullock asked no questions. He took the diary. "My pigs," he said, "will eat anything."

Chapter Thirty-one

"Mr. Houston is recognized."

The Texas House of Representatives, gathered in the one-room clapboard building on Capitol Square in Austin, fell silent. The windows had been thrown open, not only to let some air into the stuffy, smoke-shrouded confines of the room but also to allow the citizens congregated outside to hear what was going on. This was common practice, as the building could scarcely accommodate the representatives, much less a gallery of spectators. Every window was crowded—an inordinate number of people had come today to hear Sam Houston speak. Accusations had been hurled at the new representative from San Augustine in weeks past; the Lamar faction had charged the hero of San Jacinto with conspiring to sell Texas out to the British. Now at last Houston was prepared to respond to these charges.

"Gentlemen," said Houston gravely, "in days past I have been accused of being a drunkard, a coward, and a traitor. Some idle paragraphs have found their way into the newspapers, to which I give an occasional perusal—though I may truly say that you can seldom find either Scripture or Gospel in the editorials. I do not blame the editors themselves. They suffer only from a misguided zeal. The source of these calumnies, however—a man well known to all of you—is motivated by more than ideology. He opposes me out of pure spite, and I hold him strictly accountable. You know the person of whom I speak. David G. Burnet is the scoundrel, and I answer his charge of treason with one anecdote.