Of more interest to Stewart, since he had tangled with Malaysian pirates during his sojourn in the Orient, was the fact that Galveston Island had long been a haunt for Caribbean freebooters, the most notorious being Jean Laffite. After being routed out of his Barrataria stronghold on the eve of the Battle of New Orleans, Laffite had established a new base here under the Spanish and then Mexican flags, calling it Campeche. Laffite had remained for half a dozen years before being "cleared out" a second time. Rumor had it that he had gone next to Yucatán, reputedly dying there of natural causes.
Stewart was of the opinion that he had been born a century too late, else he, too, would have been a pirate, roaming the Seven Seas in search of loot, and giving Laffite some competition. As a lad growing up in Celbridge, twelve miles west of Dublin, he'd often pretended to be Sir Francis Drake, whom he considered something of a pirate regardless of his knighthood. The Spaniards had certainly thought so! In three years of raiding 'round the world in the Golden Hind, Drake had returned to London with the holds of his stout ship brimming with stolen Spanish treasure. Queen Elizabeth's cut of the booty had been 163,000 British pounds. Stewart had always aspired to that kind of life—daring exploits, fabulous wealth, a knighthood, and death in an exotic land. He disliked Merry Olde England with a passion, and so had made the world his oyster.
When the Anglo-American colonists came to Galveston they had found a low, nearly treeless island covered with long rank grass. Snakes and alligators populated the bayous—in fact, the Mexicans had nicknamed the island Punta de los Culebras, or Snake Island. In 1837 there had been only seven ramshackle houses on the island; now there was a bustling port city with a few splendid mansions. On any given day one was likely to see thirty or forty sailing ships flying the flags of a dozen different countries in the harbor.
As the Chalmette neared the wharf, Stewart returned to his stateroom. He was a slender, fair-haired man of thirty years. His rakish—one might say, piratical—features were dark from his recent posting in the South Pacific and East Indies. He was dressed in a natty dove-gray "shooting coat" and spotless white trousers; his scarlet uniform was packed neatly away in one of the two carpetbags which he called upon a steward—a curly-headed, rosy-cheeked Irish lad to carry off the steamer as soon as she had docked. The captain stood at the top of the gangplank to bid his passengers farewell, and Stewart paused to pay his respects and ask a question.
"I am to be met by a man who does not know me," said Stewart, "just as I do not know him by sight. If you are acquainted with a Dr. Ashbel Smith, would you do me the favor of pointing him out to me?"
"Why, certainly I know Dr. Smith." The captain scanned the small crowd gathered on the wharf. "Yes, there he is. The young man sporting the dark beard, wearing the brown broadcloth. There."
Stewart spotted the man at whom the captain was pointing. "My thanks, sir."
"Enjoy your visit to Texas, Major." The captain had enjoyed Stewart's company during the voyage, having invited his distinguished British passenger to dine with him, and Stewart had regaled him with tales of exploits in faraway lands. "We don't have any Chinese warlords or Malaysian pirates to contend with here, but I don't think you'll have too many dull moments in Texas." An astute judge of men, the Chalmette's skipper had Stewart pegged.
"I pray you are correct on that score, Captain. Good day to you."
"And to you, Major."
Stewart followed his bags down the gangplank and approached Ashbel Smith. "I believe I am your man, Doctor."
Smith was startled. "I confess, I was looking for the uniform."
"I thought it wiser not to advertise myself, as I understand there exists in some quarters of Texas an aversion to all things British."
Smith nodded. "Most Texans are transplanted Southerners, sir, and many Southrons consider all Englishmen abolitionists. Then, too, it is widely believed that British money props up the Mexican Republic and, as no doubt you are aware, we've had some trouble with Mexico of late. But, having said that, I welcome you to Texas, Major, on behalf of General Houston."
"He left word in New Orleans that he would not be able to meet me in person. An affair of the heart, I take it."
"If everything went according to plan, he is as we speak a married man." Smith took charge of one of Stewart's carpetbags. "I hope you don't mind a short walk. The Tremont Hotel is only a few blocks away."
"I am glad for the opportunity to stretch my legs on solid ground."
They passed between a pair of warehouses, crossed Church Street near the Customs House, and angled across Market Place. Stewart paid keen attention to the sights and sounds of Galveston. A variety of people crossed his path: planters in wide hats and nicely tailored broadcloth suits, long-haired Creoles in dungarees, Irish immigrants with that distinctive brogue Stewart knew so well from his youth, barefoot Negro laborers, young ladies in lace and crinoline, protecting their honey-and-cream complexions with parasols and bonnets. Stewart paid particular attention to the latter, as he had an eye for the well-turned ankle. He fully intended to make a romantic conquest here, as he had done in every port-of-call. It was a tradition of sorts with him, and, after all, traditions were for keeping.
The Tremont Hotel was the finest hostelry Galveston had to offer, and the room Ashbel Smith had purchased for him suited Stewart completely. "I suppose you've seen much better in your travels," said Smith.
"And much worse," replied Stewart. "I once spent six months in a rat-infested bamboo hut in China."
At dinner in the restaurant downstairs, Stewart told Smith about his life.
"My father was Colonel the Honorable George Stewart, one of the sixth Lord Stewart's ten sons. He was reputedly the strongest and most handsome man in the army. He fought in the American revolt. By his first wife, a soldier's daughter, he had two sons and a daughter, but his entire family, save for the infant daughter, died of the yellow fever in New York, and my father caught the disease. He was put aboard a ship bound for England, more dead than alive. His superior, Sir Henry Clinton, did not expect him to survive, and sold his commission so that his surviving daughter would not be penniless.
"But my father recovered, only to find that he no longer had a commission or a career. He rejoined the army as an ensign, and married a woman older than he, Lady Laura Banebrook, the daughter of a duke, and my mother. She was widely believed to be the most beautiful woman in London. King George III even proposed to her when she was but sixteen years of age. But my mother rejected the royal advance and married Sir Thomas Banebrook instead. Banebrook was a sporting man. Racehorses were his passion, and he paid so little attention to his bride that she resorted to engaging in several affairs. Eventually he divorced her, which explains why she married a penniless soldier like my father, when otherwise she could have had her pick of eligible bachelors."
"But I thought you said your father was the son of a lord."
"A fortune does not always accompany title, Doctor. And remember, my father had nine brothers."
"Oh, I see." Smith thought he could understand Lord Stewart's dilemma. Where titles are concerned, Smith mused, I am the surgeon general of the Army of the Republic of Texas, and what has it garnered me by way of financial gain?
"When I was quite young," continued Stewart, "my father was posted in Ireland. He had fought American and French revolutionaries, and now he found himself fighting the Irish variety. The 'Irish Problem' always flared up when England was at war with another country. They threatened trouble during your American revolution, and Parliament gave them free trade and a free parliament to keep them quiet. Then, when Napoleon was trying to seize Europe, Irish radicals led by Wolfe Tone sought French aid. A French expeditionary force actually landed on Irish soil. But the rebels were defeated at Vinegar Hill and the French soldiers went home. Still, some years alter, Catholic rebels and Protestant militia were continuing to commit outrages one upon the other, and my father's regiment was sent in to keep the peace." Stewart smiled. "In spite of it all, I fondly remember my childhood in Ireland."