The Black Jacks
Jason Manning
Copyright © 2015, Jason Manning
LESSONS OF WAR—
AMERICAN STYLE
McAllen had promised the visiting English Major Stewart that he soon would see what war on the frontier was like—and now that promise had come perilously true. There were just McAllen, his right-hand man Joshua, and Stewart by themselves, far from the other Black Jack troopers, when they ran into the Comanche band.
Outnumbered by seven to one, McAllen gave no thought of running. Dismounting, he drew one of the Colt revolvers from his belt and began firing. He held on to his mount's bridle, using the gray hunter as a shield, knowing a Comanche warrior would hesitate to kill such a splendid prize.
Major Stewart stayed in the saddle. Drawing his saber, he charged into the Indian horde.
This, though, was not a European battlefield. His saber dripping blood from a kill, Stewart was hit in turn by a war club and dropped in his crimson uniform to the Texas dust among the yelling Comanches. As they closed in for the kill, McAllen knew he had no choice but to take on odds that no frontier fighter would want to choose. He moved out of cover, his guns blazing.
One by one the Indians fell, until McAllen heard his Colts click empty—he knew his bullets and probably his luck had run out. . . .
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I am indebted to the following works in the writing of this noveclass="underline" William Bollaert's Texas, W. Eugene Hollon, ed.; The Raven, Marquis James; Star of Destiny: The Private Life of Sam and Margaret Houston, Madge Thornall Roberts; Plantation Life in Texas, Elizabeth Silverthorne; Sam Houston, John Hoyt Williams; and Comanche Bondage, Carl Coke Rister.
I am also indebted to Kenneth Roberts and Paul Wellman, whose historical fiction inspired me as a boy, and greatly influence my work today.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter One
Patience had never been Sam Houston's long suit. As he stood on the porch of the weathered one-room cabin on Cedar Point and gazed bleakly through the evergreens at the shimmering blue expanse of Galveston Bay, he wore without realizing it a ferocious scowl on his craggy face. He was a man of action, predisposed by nature to tackle problems quickly and aggressively, and today trials and tribulations beset him at every turn. Yet here he stood, forced by circumstances to bide his time, powerless to act.
Restless, he stamped his feet and pulled the brightly colored Indian blanket closer about his brawny shoulders. This infernal weather didn't help matters. Texas weather was notoriously unpredictable, but never more so than in the month of February. Following two balmy weeks of false spring, when the redbuds began to decorate the woodlands with splashes of pink and the dogwoods put on their new buds, a blue norther had blown in yesterday, all gray and raw.
Though the sun was out today, the wind was still strong out of the north, and the chill caused him pain in the ankle which had been shattered by a musket ball at the Battle of San Jacinto. A pair of prominent Louisiana physicians—one of whom was his old benefactor, Dr. Ker, who had treated the grave wounds he'd received at Horseshoe Bend while fighting Creek Indians with ol' Andy Jackson—removed twenty bone fragments from his leg a month after the victory at San Jacinto. But by that time many weeks had passed without his having received proper medicine or even so much as a poultice, and Houston was today resigned to the fact that his ankle would never be wholly recuperated.
If only he could have a drink! A nip of Old Nash would smooth his troubled brow! But no. He had promised his beloved Margaret that he would abstain. An old Texas formula of orange bitters helped some, but it was really a poor substitute for genuine Oh Be Joyful. Still, his fiancée had made him swear, and a man's word was his bond. But, by the eternal, it was damnably hard to do the right thing sometimes!
His body servant, Esau, came out onto the porch. "You want I should bring you some orange bitters, Marse Sam?"
"No."
"Some hot coffee, then? It be almighty brisk out here."
Houston glowered. "By God, no, Esau. What I need are a few brave men to rescue the Republic of Texas from certain destruction."
Esau blinked and went back inside. The Old Chief was in one of his earthshaking moods, and at such times it was wise to leave him be.
With a sigh, Houston moved to an old rocking chair at the end of the porch. The Telegraph and Texas Register, dated February 18, 1840, was anchored against the caprice of wind by a hickory can sporting a staghorn handle. Houston picked up the newspaper and cane and sat down. Sitting in the rocking chair made him feel old and useless. His blue eyes swept the tree-covered point of land which he had purchased three years ago. He had planned a summer cottage at land's end, where the breeze off the bay would keep the heat, mosquitoes, and black "eyebreaker" gnats under control. He would name the place Raven's Moor. Unfortunately, he lacked adequate funds to start construction. All he had now was his law practice. Ordinarily, fraudulent land claims and old Spanish grants made Texas real estate a bonanza for lawyers, but the republic was in such severe economic doldrums that precious few clients could pay an attorney's fees in cash. And besides, Houston readily admitted that he was, at best, an indifferent lawyer. His preference was politics. But soon he would have a wife to support. . . .