Houston stood at the window of his room in the Lafayette Hotel in Marion, Alabama. Had anyone been present to study his face they would have thought him on the verge of exploding into a towering rage. John Henry McAllen's letter had arrived today. It was crumpled in Houston's white-knuckled fist.
The Council House fight had occurred five weeks ago, and McAllen's letter was not the first Houston had heard of the affair. But McAllen had provided a great deal more information than the sketchy newspaper items previously available to him. Papers east of the Mississippi did not think much of the whole business—just another scrape between settlers and hostiles on the untamed Texas frontier. But Houston knew how much was at stake. The future of Texas hung in the balance. By the eternal, Mirabeau Lamar ought to be drawn and quartered! What a debacle!
By the eternal. Houston smiled. How many times had he heard his mentor, his idol, and his friend, Andrew Jackson, roar those words when riled? Old Hickory had gone into retirement at his plantation near Nashville, Tennessee, after eight glorious and tumultuous years as president of these United States, an old man whose rail-thin body was worn out by seventy-three years of travail, but whose mind was still sharp as saber steel.
These United States? Houston shook his head. A mental slip. Despite his best effort, Texas remained an independent republic. Annexation had eluded him. And that was a shame, because Texas needed to become part of the United States. There was ample cause to wonder if she would long survive on her own.
A magnificent destiny had aligned Sam Houston's life with Jackson's, and as he stood there gazing down at the street from his hotel window, Houston reminisced. Virginia-born forty-seven years ago, he had moved to Tennessee with his mother and siblings following the death of his father. Farm work was distasteful to him, and he had run away from home to live among the Cherokee Indians for three years. Adopted by Chief Oo-loo-te-ka, he was called The Raven. Later, to pay his debts, he was forced to find work as a schoolteacher, though in large measure he was himself an unlettered backwoodsman.
Then, in 1813, Regular Army recruiters had come to Maryville, Tennessee, where Houston was teaching. By taking a silver dollar from the drumhead, Houston had pledged himself to military service. His mother gave him a musket and his father's ring, the one inscribed with the word HONOR . She had enjoined him never to disgrace the family name. "I had rather all my sons should fill one honorable grave than that one of them should turn his back to save his life. My door is open to brave men. It is eternally shut to cowards."
With the rank of ensign, Houston had distinguished himself at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend. Twice wounded, once by arrow, the second time by musket ball, his heroics came to the attention of General Jackson himself. The shoulder wound was still a running sore to this day, and bothered him with nearly as much consistency as the ankle more recently shattered at San Jacinto.
Following military service, Houston had become a lawyer and entered Tennessee politics with Andrew Jackson as his sponsor. Before long, Jackson was president, and Houston was governor of Tennessee. The Raven's future shined with almost blinding intensity.
But then he married Eliza Allen. He was thirty-five, she nineteen and unsure of her feelings. Emotionally still a child, and terribly naive, Eliza was woefully unprepared for the role of a wife, and three months after their marriage the Houstons separated.
Frowning, Sam Houston turned from the window and proceeded to pace the room. Those days had been the most bleak and bitter of his life. He had resigned the governorship and sought refuge among his old friends the Cherokees, forsaking a promising future. Sic transit gloria mundi! Fame was indeed fleeting. A thousand rumors were circulated; his political enemies claimed he had acted in an
The Council House fight had occurred five weeks ago, and McAllen's letter was not the first Houston had heard of the affair. But McAllen had provided a great deal more information than the sketchy newspaper items previously available to him. Papers east of the Mississippi did not think much of the whole business—just another scrape between settlers and hostiles on the untamed Texas frontier. But Houston knew how much was at stake. The future of Texas hung in the balance. By the eternal, Mirabeau Lamar ought to be drawn and quartered! What a debacle!
By the eternal. Houston smiled. How many times had he heard his mentor, his idol, and his friend, Andrew Jackson, roar those words when riled? Old Hickory had gone into retirement at his plantation near Nashville, Tennessee, after eight glorious and tumultuous years as president of these United States, an old man whose rail-thin body was worn out by seventy-three years of travail, but whose mind was still sharp as saber steel.
These United States? Houston shook his head. A mental slip. Despite his best effort, Texas remained an independent republic. Annexation had eluded him. And that was a shame, because Texas needed to become part of the United States. There was ample cause to wonder if she would long survive on her own.
A magnificent destiny had aligned Sam Houston's life with Jackson's, and as he stood there gazing down at the street from his hotel window, Houston reminisced. Virginia-born forty-seven years ago, he had moved to Tennessee with his mother and siblings following the death of his father. Farm work was distasteful to him, and he had run away from home to live among the Cherokee Indians for three years. Adopted by Chief Oo-loo-te-ka, he was called The Raven. Later, to pay his debts, he was forced to find work as a schoolteacher, though in large measure he was himself an unlettered backwoodsman.
Then, in 1813, Regular Army recruiters had come to Maryville, Tennessee, where Houston was teaching. By taking a silver dollar from the drumhead, Houston had pledged himself to military service. His mother gave him a musket and his father's ring, the one inscribed with the word HONOR . She had enjoined him never to disgrace the family name. "I had rather all my sons should fill one honorable grave than that one of them should turn his back to save his life. My door is open to brave men. It is eternally shut to cowards."
With the rank of ensign, Houston had distinguished himself at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend. Twice wounded, once by arrow, the second time by musket ball, his heroics came to the attention of General Jackson himself. The shoulder wound was still a running sore to this day, and bothered him with nearly as much consistency as the ankle more recently shattered at San Jacinto.
Following military service, Houston had become a lawyer and entered Tennessee politics with Andrew Jackson as his sponsor. Before long, Jackson was president, and Houston was governor of Tennessee. The Raven's future shined with almost blinding intensity.
But then he married Eliza Allen. He was thirty-five, she nineteen and unsure of her feelings. Emotionally still a child, and terribly naive, Eliza was woefully unprepared for the role of a wife, and three months after their marriage the Houstons separated.
Frowning, Sam Houston turned from the window and proceeded to pace the room. Those days had been the most bleak and bitter of his life. He had resigned the governorship and sought refuge among his old friends the Cherokees, forsaking a promising future. Sic transit gloria mundi! Fame was indeed fleeting. A thousand rumors were circulated; his political enemies claimed he had acted in an
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