The Black Jacks

"Old and deaf and perfectly useless," said Leah spitefully.

The insult had no apparent effect on Roman. He pretended not to hear it, and put the tray on a table next to the bed where Stewart lay. "Here's your di

"Thank you, Roman. I will eat every bit of it, I promise. I'm famished."

"Yassuh. Will there be anything else?"

"Get out," muttered Leah.

"Yessum." Roman shuffled out of the room and closed the door very gently behind him.

"Oh!" exclaimed Leah, furious. "That insufferable old man."

Stewart was chuckling now.

"How dare you!" she cried. "Are you laughing at me? Do you realize they are spying on us?"

"Why do you care what they think?"

"It's what they tell John Henry when he returns that matters, you reckless fool."

"So suddenly you care what your husband thinks."

Her green eyes shot daggers of emerald ice at him. "I doubt even he would tolerate this kind of thing under his own roof."

"You're simply nursing me back to health. I find your kisses a miraculous curative." He reached out for her. "Come here and give me another."

She danced out of his reach with a sultry and coquettish smile touching ruby lips parted slightly to reveal just a glimmer of white teeth.

"No, I don't think I shall kiss you, sir, since you have laughed at me."

Stewart shrugged. "Well, then, I suppose I'll just have my di

He took a cup of tea from the tray, but she struck it from his hand and threw herself on top of him and kissed him passionately—then bit his bottom lip so hard she drew blood. Stewart bucked her off with such a violent reaction that his leg wound gave him a shot of pain that robbed him of breath. Now Leah was the one laughing as he wiped blood from his mouth, and the sight of her, one of the most beautiful women he had even seen, lying there on the bed, made the anger in his eyes dwindle while the desire within him soared, and he crushed her body with his. This time her lips were pliant and willing. Leah closed her eyes and surrendered herself to him, her heart racing.

Suddenly Stewart rolled off her and, sitting on the edge of the bed, took a napkin from the tray and tucked it into the collar of his linen nightshirt. "I really am starving," he said, "and this smells delectable. Um, some of Bessie's famous stew. She really is quite a good cook, you know—"

"Oh, you!" Indignant, Leah jumped off the bed and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Stewart tried not to laugh so loud that she would hear him from the hallway, but he couldn't help it.

When Roman entered the kitchen, Bessie was kneading a mound of sourdough for biscuits. Flames licked at the blackened bottom of the Dutch oven hanging on an iron hook above the big fireplace, and it was warm in the room; perspiration beaded her moon-shaped face as she worked. She was humming an old spiritual tune "Roll Jordan Roll," but when she saw the scowl on Roman's face she stopped short.

"Now what's got into you?" she wanted to know.

"Dat woman, she's a devil chile," declared Roman, shaking his head.

"You mean Miss Leah."

"It jis' ain't right, the way she be carryin' on."

"Hmph." Bessie planted a fist on each beefy hip and looked askance at Roman. "And jis' what you gwine do about it? I'll tell you. You ain't gwine do nuttin', you hear me?"

"It jis' ain't right."

"Who tole you ever'thing gwine be right in dis ole world?"

"Marse John he deserve better."

"Well, if he deserve better den he'll get better. Doan you think he know what kind of woman he married to? Sure he do. And he'll take care of things in his own way and in his own time. Now you jis' keep your mouth shut, ole man. Doan go stickin' your nose into business what ain't none of your concern." As she spoke, Roman was edging over to the Dutch oven, sniffing the air like an old hound dog, and Bessie added, "And keep your grimy fingers out my stew, else I'll knock you upside de head."

Jeb appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Rider comin'. It ain't Marse John, though." With that he was gone.

Jeb arrived at the front of the house just as the rider checked his horse at the gate in the hedge of Cherokee rose. The newcomer was a big, burly man wearing a leopardskin vest under his broadcloth coat. Steely gray eyes peered at Jeb from beneath a broad-brimmed planter's hat.

"I am Sam Houston," a

"He ain't here, suh. He gone after dem Comanches."

Houston nodded, sweeping his gaze across the house and the sugarcane fields below the bluff. "Yes, I heard you've had some trouble. Well, then, is there an Englishman here by the name of Stewart?"

"Yessuh, he's here. They took a Comanche arrow out of his leg a few days back."

Houston swung out of the saddle and handed the reins to Jeb. "I would have a few words with Major Stewart."

"I wish I could have brought my wife along," said Houston. "She would have liked to have made your acquaintance, Major."

They sat in the downstairs parlor, Houston in a chair facing Stewart and Leah McAllen, who were seated at opposite ends of a mohair sofa. Stewart had managed to dress for the occasion—he wore the uniform of an officer in the Royal Scots Fusiliers—but the effort to do so had worsened his already weak condition. Houston had sent Bessie upstairs with word that he would not mind at all if Stewart chose to stay in bed during their meeting, but the major would have none of that. "I have come halfway around the world to meet General Houston," he explained to Leah, "and I shall accord him the honor he merits by presenting myself to him in a condition befitting the occasion."

"I regret missing the opportunity to meet Mrs. Houston," replied Stewart gallantly. "I am the poorer for it. And what of my good friend Dr. Smith?"

"He wanted to come with me, but I persuaded him to remain in Galveston to look after my Margaret. I did not bring her, on account of the Comanche trouble."

Stewart indicated his leg. "I've had a taste of that brand of trouble, General. They are quite extraordinary fighters, aren't they?"

"Which is a lesson Lamar will learn," rasped Houston. "But at what cost? How many Texans must die before he learns it?"

Roman brought them their drinks—a sangaree for Stewart, a mint julep for Leah, and an orange bitters for Houston. Houston accepted the glass with a sigh. Now more than ever, with the frontier aflame and a rigorous political contest ahead of him, he felt the need for a good stiff drink. But he would not break his word to Margaret. Sam Houston never went back on a promise.

"I have," he said with a rueful smile, "taken the pledge, as they say in the temperance leagues."

"Mebbe the gen'ral like a seegar," suggested Roman.

"Indeed I would, Roman! One of John Henry's fine Cuban smokes. I have not, thank God, forsworn the weed per humo, as they say."

As Houston was lighting his Dosamygos, Stewart gazed speculatively at the hero of San Jacinto. "Captain McAllen has informed me you intend to challenge Lamar for the presidency. Since your victory is assured, perhaps you will be able to make peace with the aborigines."