"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.
"When the convention of March 1836 was in session, who was it that rose in opposition to the Declaration of Independence? Who was it that advised those who called upon him for advice on the course they should take not to participate in the noble struggle for liberty upon which we had embarked? In his travels during those fateful days, this man called at a house located on Old River, and the fellow who lived there asked him what would happen if the members of the convention were so rash as to declare independence from Mexico. And who do you think it was that replied, 'If they do, and were I General Santa Anna, I would destroy every man, woman, and child west of the Sabine who could jabber English.' This, then was David Burnet's holy love of country. These are no idle charges I make today. Men are living who will attest to the truth of them, and to Burnet's eternal infamy and disgrace. Burnet prates about the faults of other men, while the blot of foul, unmitigated treason rests upon his own shoulders! I tell you now that David Burnet is a political brawler and canting hypocrite, whom the waters of Jordan could never cleanse of moral leprosy."
This drew a loud response from both within and without the assembly. Shouts of anger battled with exclamations of enthusiastic approval. Sam Houston stood as unmoved as a rock in the eye of this storm until the speaker of the house could quiet the solons and the citizens with a vigorous hammering of his gavel.
Houston continued. "The man who cannot act when his country demands action, regardless of threatened danger, deserves execration deeper and louder than the approbation my country has bestowed upon me, and I should be a traitor indeed if I did not risk all for her. I believe that the president who is employed by the people should preserve his oath inviolate. He should not be a blot upon your interests or carry poison to the fountainhead. He must not import strangers, to put them in high places, and include them in the highest councils of state, whose very actions savor of iniquity, and stink to the nostrils of the Almighty."
"Your reference is to Major Charles Stewart, I presume," sneered another member of the assembly, a Lamar man. "He will be put in a high place soon enough—a gallows. That is, however, as high as he shall ever go, in this life or the next."
Laughter rippled through the room. Houston's smile was cold.
"Actually, I was referring to the Count de Saligny."
A heavy silence descended upon the gathering. Houston drew a folded sheet of vellum from beneath his leopardskin vest.
"I have here a letter bearing the signature of Mirabeau Lamar. In this letter are the details of a transaction which, had it been foisted upon the people of Texas, would have been known as the Franco-Texienne Land Bill. In it, the president promises to cede millions of acres of Texas land for the loan of one million francs."
The Lamar partisan who had broached the subject of Charles Stewart now shot to his feet and aimed an accusing finger at Houston. "That's a dirty lie! Such a transaction was never even contemplated by the president. That letter is a manufactured piece of evidence, and the signature upon it is a forgery."
Another legislator spoke up. "We are all well aware that the French charge d'affaires reported his room broken into and valuable documents stolen. Apparently Mr. Houston has added common thievery to his catalog of crimes."
"I was hundreds of miles away when the event to which you refer occurred," replied Houston. "And you can't have it both ways, gentlemen. Did this letter exist, or not?" He strode to the desk of the house speaker and presented the paper. "I do not expect you will ever have evidence of this nature to prove any supposed collusion between myself and the British. I have nothing else to say, and will leave it to the people of Texas to judge."
He turned and strode from the building, swinging his walking stick, a grim smile on his lips. In the stunned silence of the assembly he imagined he could hear a sound that was music to his ears—the hammering of the last nail into Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar's coffin lid. He had played a dangerous game, and the seeds of his flirtation with Great Britain had very nearly sprouted tares instead of flowers. Now that he felt confident that the presidency of the Republic of Texas was his for the taking, Houston knew he would have to do everything in his power to prod the United States Congress into approving annexation.
As he stepped outside into the hot summer sunlight, the crowd of spectators flocked around him. A handful scowled darkly, but most of the people were shouting congratulations, jostling one another to get close to their hero. Houston kept moving through the press.
"Houston! You're a damned dirty liar and a coward besides!"
The crowd parted in frantic haste, and directly in his path Sam Houston found a man he did not know standing with feet planted wide apart, a pistol in his hand, and the look of murder on his face. Unarmed, Houston's first instinct was to duck for cover. But there was no cover, and if he dodged into the milling crowd an innocent bystander might take a bullet meant for him. In the next instant a towering rage consumed him, smothering the instinct for survival. He had come too far, for Texas and for himself, to be stopped now by an assassin. Houston rushed forward, wielding his walking stick like a sword, striking at the man's gun. The pistol discharged, and the bullet tunneled harmlessly into the ground. Again Houston struck with the cane, and the would be assassin collapsed, blood streaking the side of his face. A pair of Houston supporters pounced on him while he was down and wrestled the pistol from his grasp.
"Hand him over to the sheriff, boys," said Houston. He stepped closer to the half-conscious gunman, whose arms were pinioned by the general's partisans. "When you see Burnet, tell him that the next time he wants me killed to try the job himself."
The crowd cheered. The gunman was hustled away none too gently. Sam Houston walked on, realizing that once again he had cheated death. Some had said he was a man of destiny. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps the Lord God Almighty did have special plans for him. But for now Houston had only one plan—to hurry home to Margaret, to hold his wife in his arms, and to count his blessings.
Praise God for Margaret Lea Houston! In his hour of darkest despair, when it had seemed as though there was no hope for him, or for Texas, and when he had very nearly resorted to strong spirits to drown his misery, she had given him strength, had talked him through his crisis of confidence. She had more courage and more faith in him than he had in himself.