Texas by James A. Michener
‘One or two men fleeing their wives, a handful escaping unjust debts, and that’s about it. I’d judge Texas to be one of the most moral states in Christendom.’
When Finlay demurred, the salesman grew angry, a tactic which worked along the frontier, where men appreciated harsh opinions firmly stated: ‘Damn it all, Macnab, if you’re so lily-livered, write to Stephen Austin hisself and ask him,’ and he wrote out for Finlay directions as to how to address the founder of the American settlements in Texas. That night Macnab drafted his letter:
Bell’s Tavern
Cincinnati, Ohio
27 January 1829
Dear Mr. Austin,
My son Otto, aged seven, and I are contemplating a permanent remove to Texas and feel great solicitude about the nature of the population which will inhabit your country. We have been informed that you permit no one to settle within the limits of your colony unless able to produce vouchers of good moral character. This we can do, from Ireland of the north, from Baltimore and from this town, and we should like to live among other settlers of equal repute.
We are, however, much disturbed by rumors current here that only the worst venture into Texas and that our prisons are filled with persons of low character who swear that as soon as they are turned out they will head for Texas, for they say that it is a territory in which a man with ideas and courage can make a go of it, by which they mean that criminals thrive in your colony.
My son and I are part of a responsible crowd gathered here willing to try our fortune in Texas, and we are awaiting the return of a Mr.
Kane who left us last September to explore your country. If he gives a good report, we shall want to join you, but in a letter from the east bank of the Sabine River dispatched in October he warned us: ‘Tomorrow I shall cross over into Texas. Pray for me, because I am told that no man is safe west of the Sabine.’ What are the facts?
We are also apprehensive about becoming citizens of Mexico, for we hear that it is a country ruled by brigands who have a revolution twice a year. Again, Sir, we are desirous of true information.
Respectfully yours,
Finlay Macnab
Presbyterian
Remembering the lawyer’s warning that the scrip carried no guarantee that Mexico was bound to honor it, Finlay wanted to ask Austin for clarification, but the salesman protested: ‘You wouldn’t want to worry an important man with a trivial matter like that!’ So the question was not posed.
In the weeks following the posting of this letter Macnab interrogated many travelers regarding Texas and received conflicting reports. Said a Georgia man: ‘A noble land. More salubrious than either Alabama or Mississippi. Ideal for the propagation of slaves, and high-spirited. I’ve never had a regretful thought since establishing my plantation there.’
But an Arkansas woman who had fled the colony for the civilization of Cincinnati groaned: ‘Texas no more! They call where me and my man lived a town. No stores, no schools, no church with a steeple, and no cloth for sewin’. My old man and me had a race to see who could get out the fastest, and I won.’
But then came a response from Stephen Austin himself:
San Felipe de Austin,
Coahuila-y-Tejas
20 April 1829
Dear Mr. Macnab,
Your letter of 27 January reached me yesterday and I now put aside all other occupations to answer the sensible enquiries you make relative to this country.
You express an understandable solicitude as to the kind of settler who will inhabit Texas. In 1823 when I returned from Mexico City to proceed with settlement of my colony, I found that certain criminals had infiltrated and I immediately adopted measures to drive them away.
I forced them to cross back over the Sabine River, but from sanctuary in Louisiana they conducted raids into Texas, and what was worse, they lied about our colony, circulating every species of falsehood their ingenuity could invent. They were joined by others of their kind who had come to the Sabine, hoping to invade our colony, and there they sit in their bitterness, circulating lies about us.
I can assure you, Mr. Macnab, that the citizens of Texas are just as responsible and law-abiding as those of New Orleans or Cincinnati, and that ruffians will never be allowed in this colony. The settlers already here are greatly superior to those of any new country or frontier that I have ever seen and would lose nothing in comparison with those of any southern or western state. They are, in my judgment, the best men and women who have ever settled a frontier.
You say you are apprehensive about living under the Government of Mexico. Let me assure you that the policy which Mexico has uniformly pursued toward us has been that of a kind, liberal and indulgent parent. Favors and privileges have been showered upon us to such an extent that some among us have doubted their reality, so generous have they been. The present ruler of Mexico is a man to be trusted, and the Constitution of 1824, under which he rules, is just and liberal, and in no way inferior to the constitutions of your various states. I can foresee no possible trouble that you might have with the Government of Mexico, which is now stable and far-sighted, and of which I am proud to be a citizen.
The minor disturbances which do sometimes arise down in Mexico never affect us here. We stay clear and have nothing to do with them. All that is required in Texas is to work hard and maintain harmony among ourselves. This is a gentle, law-abiding, Christian society and we would be most pleased to have you join us.
Stephen F. Austin
When Macnab received these warm assurances he surrendered all doubts about Texas, telling his son: ‘It may have a few rascals, but so did Ireland, and I can name several in this town.’ He began to collect all debts owed him and to set aside those few and precious things he and his son would carry with them to Texas, but now two problems arose. Austin’s letter had been so reassuring that Finlay, despite being a cautious Scot, had buried his uneasiness about the validity of scrip; he was eager to buy some, but found no one at hand to sell him any. And he had developed a real fear of riverboats. Four different steamboats, which he himself had provisioned, had blown up, with heavy loss of life, and he became apprehensive lest the one he chose for passage to Texas become the fifth.
Otto, of course, was eager to board anything that floated, and each day he kept his father informed as to what boats were at the wharf. When one sailed south without the Macnabs, Otto would list its replacement: ‘Climax left, but River Queen tied up.’ To Macnab’s surprise, this particular newcomer brought him an urgent letter:
Finlay Macnab
Bell’s Tavern
I shall be in Cincinnati shortly. Make no move till I arrive.
Cabot Wellington
Texas Land and Improvement
Boston, Massachusetts
Now Macnab had to consider seriously his passage to New Orleans, and as he was talking with experienced men at the tavern, one chanced to mention an alternative to boats: ‘Have you ever thought of walkin’ down to Nashville and pickin’ up the Natchez Trace?’
‘What’s that?’ Finlay asked, and several men crowded in, eager to explain. They said that in old times, before the advent of steam, carpenters along the Ohio used to build huge floating houses-on-rafts on which traders drifted down the rivers, sometimes all the way from Pittsburgh to New Orleans, but often terminating at Natchez-under-the-Hill, where they sold their rafts as house lumber, transferring their goods to real boats that conveyed them in orderly fashion to New Orleans.
‘How did they get back without their rafts?’ Finlay asked, and the men pointed to a surly-looking fellow who was drinking alone.
‘Ask him.’
One of the men accompanied Macnab to the table where the lone man sat, and asked: ‘You a Kaintuck?’
‘I am.’
‘Can we join you?’
‘No charge for chairs, I reckon.’
The go-between explained: ‘Any man who goes downriver on a raft and comes back is known as a Kaintuck. Doesn’t mean he’s from Kaintucky. Where y
‘Kaintucky.’
‘Tell my friend here how you came back from Natchez.’
‘Walked.’
‘All the way back from Natchez?’
‘Yep, and my partner, he’s still walkin’. On his way to Pittsburgh.’
‘Is it difficult?’
The Kaintuck launched into a vivid description of the Natchez Trace: ‘Murderers, cutthroats every foot of the way, robbers, horse thieves.’ He stopped abruptly and broke into a raucous laugh. ‘I’m talkin’ about thirty years ago. Today? Much better.’
‘How many days to Natchez?’
The Kaintuck ignored this question: ‘If you knowed your history, which you bein’ a Scotchman you probably don’t …’
‘How do you know I’m a Scot?’
‘Because I heerd you. And if’n you knowed American history, you’d know that the great Meriwether Lewis, him as went to Oregon, he was murdered comin’ home on the Trace.’
‘Do travelers still use it?’
‘They do.’
‘Is the road still open?’
‘It ain’t a road. I been tryin’ to tell you that, but you won’t listen. It’s what its name says, a clear-cut trace through the wilderness.’
‘But it’s still open?’
‘If’n it could ever be called open. Four hundred and eighty miles through swamp and forest. Never a store, never a town, a few shacks run by half-breed Indians who cut your throat when you’re sleepin’.’
‘Could I walk it? With a seven-year-old boy?’
‘My mother walked it with two babies,’ the Kaintuck said, ‘down and up. But maybe you ain’t the man she was.’
Other travelers who had journeyed up the Trace gave such confirming reports that Macnab had pretty well decided to follow that land route, when a chance conversation with a loquacious Pittsburgh boatman just back from Natchez raised an ugly question that cast a shadow upon the entire Texas adventure.
The conversation started favorably: ‘It’s grand, driftin’ down the rivers, walkin’ home along the Trace.’
‘How many miles can you make a day?’ Finlay asked during a leisurely meal at the tavern.
‘Driftin’ downstream, sixty miles in twenty-four hours, not allowin’ time lost when hung up on sandbars, which is a lot. Walkin’ back, sixteen miles a day, week after week.’ Then he added something which Finlay found attractive: ‘Some men can make twenty, steady, but I often like to lie under the trees … in daylight, so I can watch the birds and the squirrels.’
‘They told me murderers prowl the Trace.’
‘That ended twenty years ago. But let’s be honest. I do hide my money carefully—four different spots so I can give up a small part if I meet up with a holdup man.’ With a deft move of his right hand he produced an imaginary purse from his left breast. ‘And I do feel safer if I travel with others through the lonely parts.’
‘I wish I could have you as my partner,’ Finlay said.
‘I won’t be walkin’ the Trace no more. But if you’re set on headin’ for Texas, that’s the cheap way to go, and you bein’ a Scotchman …’
‘We call it Scotsman.’
‘Of course, when you get there, you’ll be givin’ up a lot more than your money.’
‘What do you mean?’
The boatman looked soberly at Macnab and said: ‘You’re a Presbyterian? I suppose you know that before you can get land in Texas you have to swear to the Mexican officials that you’re a true Catholic.’
‘What?’
‘And your son will have to be baptized in the Catholic faith.’
‘I never heard …’
‘My brothers and me, we was thinkin’ of Texas, but we’re Methodists, and when we heard about that religion business … no, no.’
‘You give me dismal news,’ said Macnab. ‘I’m not sure I should risk going to Texas.’
• • •
Things were in this delicate condition when a suave and stately gentleman alighted from the Pittsburgh boat, announcing that he was Cabot Wellington from Boston, looking for a Texas traveler named Finlay Macnab. He was what was known in the trade as ‘the finisher,’ the relentless man who came in only after the advance men had softened up the prospect.
As soon as he saw Macnab he cried enthusiastically: ‘Dear friend! I bring you your passport to riches,’ and he betrayed no disappointment when Finlay drew back, refused to accept any papers, and asked bluntly: ‘What’s this about converting to popery?’
Grandly, and with a condescending smile, Wellington said: ‘Many ask about that rumor, and there’s no better way to explain than to consult with a settler who already owns an estate in Texas,’ and he whistled for a raw-boned, prearranged fellow of forty, who sidled up and allowed that he owned one of the best estancias in Texas.
‘What’s an estancia?’
‘Fancy Mexican word for farm … real big farm. I was born, bred a Baptist. Virginia man. So when I gets to Texas, I ain’t hankerin’ to turn my coat, not me. Trick’s simple. Don’t let no Mexican priest convert you, because if they do, it’s for keeps. But they’s five or six Irish priests. Yep, imported direct from Ireland, through New Orleans. They never seen Mexico City or none of that.’
‘What are they doing in Texas?’ Finlay asked, for he had grown suddenly afraid, knowing that there were not in this world any Catholic priests more devout and stern than the Irish. He wanted no Irish priest converting him, because that really would be forever.
‘Stands to reason, the Mexican government, they cain’t persuade any real Mexican priests to travel all the way to Texas. Those hanker after the fleshpots of the big city. So the oney priests they can get to work in land s’far away are Irishmen who cain’t make no livin’ in Ireland, and who cain’t speak a word of Spanish neither, if’n you ask me.’
‘Aren’t they real fanatics?’
‘No! No! There’s this big, jolly, whiskey-guzzlin’ priest called Clooney, goes about on a mule, settlement to settlement, convertin’ Protestants by the hundreds, free and easy, with him knowin’ it ain’t serious just as well as we know it ain’t.’
‘Did he convert you?’
‘Yep. Father Clooney’s the name, and a fairer man never lived. You let him sprinkle a little holy water over you, hand in your scrip, which Mr. Wellington here will give you, and you get your league-and-a-labor.’
‘Is that right?’ Macnab asked.
‘It is indeed,’ Wellington said, and the Texas man added: ‘The scrip solves ever’thin’, and the day after you get your land you can revert to bein’ a Baptist again. I did.’
‘I’m Presbyterian.’
‘My mother was a Presbyterian,’ Wellington cried with real enthusiasm, and the deal was settled. Finlay Macnab and his son were entitled to twenty thousand acres of the choicest land in Texas, purchased at the ridiculous price of five cents an acre.
Otto was delighted when he learned that a firm decision had been reached. A dream long cherished was about to become reality: ‘And we’ll go by steamboat!’ But he grew apprehensive when Finlay reviewed the perils of such a river trip: ‘You know, Otto, the steamers often blow up. Pirates attack from Cave-in-Rock.’ But when Otto said: ‘Maybe we better walk down,’ his father said: ‘Robbers infest that route. Meriwether Lewis got murdered,’ and the boy summarized their situation: ‘Getting to Texas isn’t easy.’
But now Finlay devised a stratagem which would be useful regardless of which route they adopted. They assembled with many furtive moves a pair of homespun trousers for the boy, just a little too large; same for Finlay; long lengths of cloth identical with that used in the trousers; hats for both; cloth identical with the hats; a pair of long, heavy needles, very costly; and most important of all, their total savings were converted from paper and small coins into gold.
When all these items had been smuggled into Bell’s Tavern, Finlay placed his son at the door to prevent intrusion, and began sewing. In the lining of the hats, in the waists of the pant
Otto did not like the hat, for he had rarely worn one, and he could scarcely sit down because the coins made the pants far too stiff, but Finlay made him take the pants off, threw them on the floor, and jumped on them repeatedly: ‘Now try them!’ And the pants were manageable.
The Macnabs now doctored Finlay’s garments until they, too, were gold-laden, and then they joined in solemn compact: ‘When we reach the Trace we will never mention, not even to each other, where our gold pieces are till we get safe to Texas. Tell nobody … nobody.’ But Otto had to break the promise immediately, for he said: ‘One piece hurts my bottom,’ and this, of course, had to be corrected.
They were an attractive pair of emigrants as they crossed the ferry into Kentucky and started the three-hundred-mile hike to Nashville. Finlay was thirty-seven, medium height, blue-eyed, trim of carriage and sharp of mind. He’d had a solid education at St. Andrews and a wealth of practical experience in the United States; he also had that engaging quality which would attract the eye of any unmarried woman looking for a good husband, and his easy manner acquired from working with Irishmen in the old country and with river folk in this made him an amusing addition to any group. Having outgrown those earlier acts of impulsive immaturity that had forced him to flee both Ireland and Baltimore, he now gave the appearance of a man who could work hard and earn his family a decent living, for he was very protective of his son. He was, in brief, the kind of man a nation hopes to get when it throws open its doors to immigrants, and he was typical of many who were beginning to swarm toward Texas.
His seven-year-old son was even more good-looking, with his blond hair peeping from beneath his new cap, his quick step and his thin face that looked almost sallow, for the sun seemed not to affect it. He wore heavy shoes, new homespun pants that came an inch below his knee, a thick woolen shirt and a manly kerchief about his neck. When strangers were with the pair for any length of time they were apt to remark: ‘The father has a quick mind. But the lad, he’s quiet, always seems to be thinking about something else.’