Margaret swore to keep the information a profound secret. She was completely satisfied with her new husband's explanation, and Houston knew instinctively that he could trust her to take his secret to the grave.
At the wedding reception, some of Margaret's friends sang an ode in honor of Houston, which they had authored, and which they performed to the tune of "The Old Oaken Bucket." The last verse went thus:
"Our Washington's name has been hallowed in story
A founder of Freedom's retreat in the West.
Another has risen to share in his glory—
The Texian Patriot, our honored guest!"
Texian patriot? Returning to the hotel room window to gaze once more at Marion's bustling streets, Sam Houston shook his head. The comparison to George Washington was flattering, to be sure, but Houston wondered if even a man of Washington's caliber could save Texas now.
There was only one thing to do. He would run for president. Lamar must be deposed. Many of Houston's friends had been pressuring him to announce, but he had not done so. His courtship of Margaret Lea had occupied him. But now he made up his mind that as soon as he returned to Texas he would do what his friends wanted. What had to be done.
Chapter Ten
Sam Houston knew he could not leave for Texas right away. The town of Marion had organized a public dinner for this afternoon, to be held in an oak grove near the Baptist church, and he was the guest of honor. As such he would be called upon to make an oration.
He had not prepared a speech; he would have to address the crowd in an extemporaneous fashion. He understood that Major Townes, an old friend of Margaret's father, would pay tribute to the new Mrs. Houston. The old gentleman had courteously presented Houston with a copy of the toast in advance: "I presume our honored guest will not deny, in spite of all his victories in the field of battle, that he has been compelled to trail his banner and bow a suppliant knee before our town's fairest woman. I give you therefore, gentlemen, the conqueress of the conqueror, Mrs. Margaret Houston."
Houston smiled. With Margaret at his side he would prevail in Texas. She gave him confidence and hope.
Tomorrow there would be another fete thrown in their honor, and then, on the day following, they would travel to Mobile by carriage, thence to New Orleans by steamer, where, if all went according to schedule, they would secure a berth on the steamship New York, bound for Galveston. The New York was justly famous for its opulence—mahogany and marble staterooms, and windows of painted glass representing the Texas arms. They said that even the table china bore a blue devil in the center of each plate with a depiction of the New York at sea with a Texas eagle hovering above her. Houston could ill afford passage for two on such a floating palace, but he thought it was the least he could do for Margaret, since she would have to live in virtual poverty once they arrived in Texas.
A few minutes later, Houston's bride returned from shopping for a suitable traveling outfit with her friend Sarah Kittrell Goree, who had been matron of honor at the wedding. Margaret showed her husband the blue serge dress and new bonnet she had purchased, and Houston tried to act interested, but she saw right through him immediately, and when she asked him what was wrong he showed her McAllen's letter. He watched her closely while she read it, and marveled again how fortunate he was that such an intelligent and lovely young woman had consented to sharing the rest of her life with him.
"I have decided," he told her, when she was finished, "to run for president. I will have to begin campaigning as soon as we arrive in Texas."
"Of course, dear," she replied promptly. "If you feel that is what you must do, I will help you to the best of my ability, and support you with all my heart and soul."
"It will be . . . difficult for you. My political enemies will say many harsh things about me. And they may target you as well. Texas politics is a cruel and dirty game."
"My brother is a politician, remember? I have an inkling what it's all about. Besides, how bad can it be? Surely not worse than all the venom and bile being hurled by Whigs and Democrats alike in the present campaign for the presidency of these United States."
Houston was familiar with the current American political scene. With the nomination of Old Tippecanoe, William Henry Harrison, the Whig Party was making a strong bid for the White House. Democrat Martin Van Buren presently resided at the Executive Mansion. But the severe depression which had rocked the economy threatened Van Buren's hopes for a second term. So did the Whig campaign. Though his loyalty lay with the Democratic Party of Andrew Jackson, Houston had to give the Whigs credit: traditionally the party of the banker and the merchant and the well-to-do planter, the Whigs had launched a remarkably vibrant and effective attempt to woo the farmer and the laborer to their cause with an ingenious "log cabin and hard cider" campaign. Conventions, parades, barbecues, and fireworks were organized by Tippecanoe Clubs on the state and local levels. Orators ranging in style and representation from Daniel Webster and Hugh Legare to Davy Crockett and John Bear, the "Buckeye Blacksmith," traveled around the country stumping for "Old Tip" and casting aspersions on the Van Buren administration. The Whig "slangwhangers" held nothing back in the mud they hurled at the president—or "Van Ruin," as they liked to call him. The 1828 election, in which the National Republicans had called Andrew Jackson a murderer and adulterer, had been bad—so bad that Old Hickory believed to this day that the vile slanders of his political opponents had caused the death of his beloved wife, Rachel—but for sheer mean spiritedness Houston had seen nothing like the current contest.
"All I can promise you, my darling," he replied, "is that it will not be pleasant. And if I should prevail, there will be no financial reward for the service I render to the republic."
Margaret tilted her head slightly and her eyes, serene and wise beyond their years, studied his troubled features. "That doesn't matter to me, Mr. Houston," she declared. "Your destiny is entwined with the destiny of Texas, and now mine is inseparable from yours. I will be right there with you through good times and hard, and you will not hear a solitary word of complaint pass my lips."
Houston put his arms around her and held her close. "With you by my side, how could I fail?" he said.
Eight hundred miles away, at the Quohadi village deep in the trackless, windswept plains of West Texas, Gray Wolf came to stand before the skin lodge of Spotted Tail, the husband of Snow Dancer's sister. He was clad in a buffalo robe painted with the symbol of the sun's rays. Upon his head was a feather warbonnet. In his arms he cradled his infant son, in the papoose which his dead wife had so lovingly adorned with beadwork.
He was expected, for it had all been arranged, and Snow Dancer's sister emerged with a tremulous smile to take the baby from the war chief. He did not look at her, or at the child. He could not bear to do so, for both his son and his sister-in-law reminded him too much of Snow Dancer, and it was all he could do to maintain his gravely impassive facade.