Texas by James A. Michener
It would be preposterous to claim that Mean Moses was in any way attached to Bathtub Bertha; he bred all cows indiscriminately and in a good year he could handle about two dozen, but it did seem, year after year, that he did his best job with Bathtub, for the speckled cow produced an unbroken chain of excellent calves, often twins, and it seemed likely that when Moses died, one of her young bulls would take his place as king of the herd. At any rate, when Moses lost Bathtub and his other cows it was not in the breeding season, so he felt no impetus to join them, but as the season changed he began to feel mighty urges, and when visceral feelings took charge he was impelled to act.
Sniffing the air for scent of his cows, he lowed softly and started in a straight line toward them. Down steep ravines and up their sides he plowed ahead, across arroyos damp from recent rains, and up to the first line of barbed wire he came. Pausing not a moment, he walked right through the three tough strands, pushing them ahead of him till his power pulled loose the posts, making them fall useless.
Ignoring the gashes the barbs had inflicted across his chest, he plowed on, and when he reached the second fence, he went through it as easily as the first. Finally he came to where the three concentric fences protected the valuable bulls, and here, close to where his cows were, he simply knocked down the barbed wire, disregarded the wounds that were now pumping blood, and looked for the master bull who had usurped his cows. Head lowered, mighty horns parallel to the earth, he gave a loud bellow and charged.
‘Boss! Boss!’ González shouted as he cantered in next morning with the rising sun.
‘What is it?’ Earnshaw asked, slipping into his trousers.
‘Something awful!’
The Mexican deemed it best not to explain during the ride out to the tank, and when Earnshaw reached the fences he had so carefully constructed he stopped aghast. Some titanic beast had simply walked through them, laying barbs and posts alike in the dust. It had then apparently turned around and walked back, leaving a trail of blood but taking all the Longhorn cows with it.
‘What happened?’
‘Mean Moses.’
And then Earnshaw spotted the real tragedy, for in a corner of the corral, his side ripped open in a bloody mess, lay the wounded Hereford for which Earnshaw had paid $180. Trembling, Rusk hurried back to town, where he informed his wife: ‘Thy bull has gored my bull.’
Emma, who appreciated the increase in her herd which her husband had supervised, was distraught at the damage to Earnshaw’s prize English bull, but when she saw the leveled fences and realized the power which had thrown them down, that primitive power of the open range of which she had once been a part, she exulted.
‘Let Mean Moses go, Earnshaw. He was meant to be free.’ So, because of her stubborn defense of her stubborn bull, one corner of Texas was able to keep alive the Longhorn strain. When Mean Moses died, she selected his replacement, a fine young bull sired by Moses out of Bathtub Bertha. This Mean Moses II proved to be almost as good a bull as his father, and in time VII, XII and XIX of other bloodlines would be recognized as the premier bulls of their breed. Emma Larkin’s love for the integrity of her animals had ensured that.
On a cold, blustery morning in March, Banker Weatherby sent one of his five clerks to fetch Earnshaw Rusk, and when the summons came, the Quaker had a moment of queasiness. For some time now he had suspected that Clyde Weatherby had taken the railroad funds the Fort Garner merchants contributed and the acres which he, Rusk, had thrown into the kitty, and had spent them not on opinion-makers in the Wichita Falls-Abilene area but on himself, and he supposed that Weatherby was now either going to confess his malfeasance or ask for more funds. He’ll not get another cent from me, Rusk swore as he crossed the area leading to the bank.
But when he walked into Weatherby’s office, Rusk found that Simpson was there, the saloon keeper, Fordson and three others, and when all were seated, the banker threw a map before them and shouted: ‘We’ve done it! I promised you a railroad, and we’re getting one.’
The details as he explained them were complicated beyond the comprehension of ordinary men, and both Rusk and Simpson lost the trail early, but it was a standard Texas operation: ‘Five different railroads are involved. From the F.W.&D.C. in the north, a spur will come south to be built by a new line, the Wichita Standard. From Abilene north will come a second spur, also built by a new line, the Abilene Major. What will unite them? A third spur built by us, the Fort Garner United Railway. President? Your humble servant. Secretary? Earnshaw Rusk.’
The men cheered, then they danced, then some wept and others sent out for beer and champagne. The five clerks were invited in to hear the good news, and they danced too. Rusk sent for his wife, and others did the same, and soon it seemed that an entire town was dancing and shouting and celebrating the fact that it had been saved.
‘The railroad’s coming!’ men shouted, and some set forth on horseback to inform ranchers whose support had helped achieve this miracle. At the height of the festivities, Weatherby was still trying to explain to the directors of Fort Garner United how the complexities would be resolved: ‘When we get our line built, we’ll sell out to Abilene Major, which will then join with Wichita Standard. Then they’ll both sell to F.W.&D.C, which I’m assured has arranged to sell out completely to a huge new line to be called Colorado and Southern, and I know for a fact that Burlington System will some day buy that. So we’ll wind up with baskets full of Burlington stock.’
It was a standard Texas operation, but no one was listening.
Emma had assumed that when her husband finally got his railroad he would relax, but Earnshaw was the kind of Pennsylvania Quaker who had to be engaged in a crusade of some kind or he did not feel alive. Now, in his fifties, with a railroad under his belt, he was determined that Larkin, as the county seat of Larkin County, should have a courthouse of distinction, and he channeled all his considerable efforts to that end.
As secretary of a functioning railroad, he carried a pass which entitled him to ride free across the face of Texas, and he found boyish delight in traipsing from one county to the next inspecting courthouses. On these pilgrimages he began to identify a group of excellent buildings obviously designed by the same daring, poetic architect whose thumbprint was unmistakable, and he wrote to his wife:
No one can tell me his name, but he builds a courthouse which looks like the embodiment of law. He likes towers and turrets, and so do I. He likes clean, heavy lines, and as a Quaker trained in severity, so do I. And he displays a wonderful sense of color, which is remarkable in that he works in stone. He is the only man in Texas qualified to build our courthouse, which I want to be a memorial to thy heroic family.
At the town of Waxahachie, where the finest courthouse in Texas was under construction, a marvelous medieval poem in stone and vivid colors, he learned that the architect’s name was James Riely Gordon, and he found that this genius was then working at Victoria, the distinguished city in the southern part of the state, so he made the long trip there and met the great man. To his surprise, Gordon was only thirty-one, but so masterful in his courtly manner, for he had been born in Virginia and had acquired a stately style in both speech and appearance, that he dominated any situation of which he was a part. He liked Rusk immediately, for he saw in the serious Quaker the kind of man he respected, straightforward and dependable.
Yes, he would be interested in building his next courthouse in Larkin County because he wanted a real showcase in the West. Yes, he believed he could do it on a reasonable budget. Yes, he would try to preserve the existing stone buildings about the old parade ground. But when he saw the cramped dimensions on the plan Rusk showed him, he protested: ‘Sir, I could not fit one of my courthouses into that cramped space. My courthouses need room to display their glories.’ And with this, he jabbed at the commander’s quarters, the flagpole, and the infantry quarters of Company U on the other side: ‘Too constricted. To be effective, a courthouse needs space.’
Rusk, not noted for laug
‘You mean …’ With a quick pencil the architect drew a sketch representing Fort Garner as Rusk was describing it, with the splendid parade ground spaciously fitted among the stone buildings, but before he could react to this new vision, Rusk spread before him six photographs showing the handsome stonework in the houses and the infantry quarters.
Gordon was enchanted: ‘You mean, I would have all this space and these fine buildings as a background?’
‘That’s why I’ve sought you, sir. We have a noble site awaiting your brilliance.’
‘I’ll do it!’ Gordon cried, and he made immediate plans to follow Rusk west to meet with the officials of Larkin County, but before Earnshaw departed, Gordon warned him: ‘I shall design the courthouse. You shall pay for it. Before I reach Fort Garner, I want all the finances arranged and assured. I refuse to work in the dark.’
‘How much will you need?’
‘I was working on some ideas last night. Not less than eighty thousand dollars.’
‘I don’t have it now, but by the time you reach us, it’ll be there.’
All the way home, Rusk sweated over how he was going to persuade the authorities of Larkin County to finance his latest dream: Goodness, they’ll never approve eighty thousand dollars. Bascomb County next door built their courthouse for under nine thousand.
By the time he neared Fort Garner he realized that the only thing to do was to convene the community leaders and confess that in an excess of enthusiasm he had committed them to this large debt, and when he faced them in Editor Fordson’s office, he began to tremble, but as soon as he outlined the problem, he received surprising support from Banker Weatherby, who would be expected to find the money: ‘The state of Texas, having in mind communities just like ours, has passed a law enabling us to borrow funds for the construction of county courthouses.’
‘Oh! I would never want to borrow money again,’ Rusk said.
‘Not borrow in the old sense. We pass a bond issue. The entire community borrows. The state provides the funds.’
‘Would I have to sign any papers?’
‘Damnit, man. This is a new system. The public signs. The public gets a fine new courthouse. And we all prosper.’
Weatherby proved to be the staunchest supporter of the bond drive for the new courthouse and the best explicator of the Texas that was coming: ‘Let us build good things now so that our children who follow will have a stronger base from which to do their building.’ At one public meeting Frank Yeager, now a rancher with his own land, loudly protested that Larkin County could save money by using one of the old fort buildings as its courthouse, and Weatherby astonished Rusk by whispering: ‘Ride herd on that horse’s ass,’ and Earnshaw rose to do so.
‘Frank!’ he argued. ‘That’s a little stable suited to a little town lost on the edge of the plains.’
‘What are we?’ Yeager asked, and Rusk replied: ‘Little today, but not tomorrow. I want a noble building symbolizing our potential greatness. I want to fill the imaginations of our people.’ After he had silenced Yeager, he addressed the citizens of Larkin County: ‘I want something worthy of the new Texas.’
He had ten days before the architect was due to arrive, and he spent them in tireless persuasion, a tall, gaunt figure moving everywhere, talking with everyone, always with a sheaf of figures in his pocket, always with the bursting enthusiasm necessary to launch any civic enterprise of importance. On the ninth day he and Weatherby had the money guaranteed, and on the tenth day he slept until two in the afternoon.
The visit of James Riely Gordon to the frontier town was almost a disaster, for the austere young architect, one of the most opinionated men in Texas history and its foremost artist, went directly to his room, speaking to no one, not even Rusk. He ate alone and went to bed. In the morning he wished to see no one, and in the afternoon he stalked solemnly about the old parade ground, checking the buildings, satisfying himself that the stone houses were in good repair.
He also ate his evening meal alone, and at seven in the evening he deigned to appear before the local leaders. His appearance created a sensation, for he stepped primly before these hardened frontiersmen dressed in a black frock coat, striped trousers and creamy white vest. He wore a stiff collar three inches high, from which appeared almost magically a fawn-colored cravat adorned by a huge diamond stickpin. The lapels of both his coat and vest were piped with silk grosgrain fabric of a slightly different color.
He had a big, square head, a vanishing hairline which he masked by training his forelocks to cover a huge amount of otherwise bare skin, and he wore pince-nez glasses that accentuated his hauteur. He was the most inappropriate person to address a group of frontier ranchers, and had a vote been taken at that moment, Gordon would have been shipped back to San Antonio, where he kept his offices.
But when he began to speak, the tremendous authority he had acquired through travel, study, contemplation and actual building manifested itself, and his audience sat in rapt attention:
‘You have a magnificent site here on the plains. This old fort is a treasure, a memorial of heroic days. Its simple stone buildings form a dignified framework for whatever I do, and I would be proud to be a part of your achievement.
‘I have studied every penny, especially the difficulty of bringing materials here from a distance, and I believe I can build what you will want for seventy-nine thousand dollars, but if you insist on making any wild changes, the cost will be much higher. Have you found ways to get the money?’
Satisfied that the funds were available, he astonished the hard-headed county leaders by telling them, not asking them, what the new courthouse was to be:
‘It is essential, gentlemen, that we maintain a clear image of what a great courthouse ought to be, and I desire to build none that are not great. It must have four characteristics, and these must be visible to all. To the criminal who is brought here for trial, it must represent the majesty of the law, awesome and unassailable. To the responsible citizen who comes here seeking justice, it must represent stability and fairness and the continuity of life. To the elected officials working here, especially the judges, it must remind them of the heavy responsibility they share for keeping the system honorable and forward-moving; I want every official who enters his office in the morning to think: “I am part of a dignified tradition, reaching back to the time of Hammurabi and Leviticus.” And to the town and the county and the state, the courthouse must be a thing of beauty. It must rise high and stand for something. And it must grow better as years and decades and centuries pass.’
And then, as if to prove his point, he asked Earnshaw to fetch the large package from his room, and when an easel was provided, he stunned his audience with a beautifully executed watercolor he had completed earlier. It showed the courthouse he would build at the center of the old fort.
First of all, it was beautiful, a work of recognizable art. Second, it was both magisterially heavy and delicately proportioned. Third, it was a kaleidoscope of color, utilizing three types of stone locally available, but stressing a brilliant red sandstone, alternating with layers of a milky-white limestone. Fourth, it had the most fantastic collection of ornamentation an artist could have devised: miniature turrets, balustrades, soaring arches four stories up, Moorish towers at all corners, arched galleries open to the air, fenestrations, clock towers, and perched upon the top, a kind of red-and-white-stone wedding cake, five tiers high and ending in a many-turreted, many-spired tower, from which rose a master spire nineteen feet tall.
Ornate, gaudy, flamboyant, ridiculously overornamented, it was also grand in design and noble in spirit. It was a courthouse ideally suited to the Texas spirit, and it and its fifteen majestic sisters could be built only in Texas. But it was Frank Yeager’s comment which best summarized it: ‘A building like that, it would s
Each of the officials had changes he wanted made, with Rusk expressing a strong desire for four dominating turrets at the compass points. Gordon listened to each recommendation as if it were coming from Vitruvius, but when the critic stopped speaking and Gordon stopped nodding his head in agreement, the architect patiently explained why the suggestion, excellent though it might be in spirit, could not be accommodated, and as the evening wore on, it became apparent that James Riely Gordon was going to build the courthouse he wanted, for he was convinced that when it was done the citizens would want it, too. At the end of the long evening, with him standing beside his watercolor, his pince-nez still jamming his nose, the ranchers were beginning to speak of ‘our courthouse’ and ‘our architect.’
The construction of the Larkin County Courthouse was the wonder of the age, and one aspect caused nervous comment. To complete the stonework professionally, Gordon had to transfer to the town the team of skilled Italian stonemasons he had brought to Texas to work on his other civic buildings, and these men did not exactly fit into the rugged frontier pattern. For one thing, they were Catholics and insisted upon having a priest visit them regularly. For another, they preferred their traditional food style and could not adjust to the Larkin County diet of greasy steaks smothered in rich gravy. But worst of all, as lonely men working constantly in one small Texas town after another, they clumsily sought female companionship, and this was resented by the local women and men alike.
There was one stonecarver much appreciated by Gordon, who assigned him the more difficult ornamental tasks. His name was Luigi Esposito, but he was called by his Texan co-workers Weegee, and this Weegee, unmarried and twenty-seven, fell in love with a charming and graceful young woman, Mabel Fister, who worked for the county judge, who had his temporary offices in one of the old cavalry barracks. Weegee saw her night and morn ing, a fine girl, he thought, and soon his day revolved about her appearances. He could anticipate when she would come to work, when she would leave the judge’s office and on what errands. Whenever she appeared, he would stop work and stare at her until the last movement of her ankle carried her away.