The Black Jacks

"Of course they will. And Her Majesty's government will not be pleased when one of its heroes is hanged by a Texas rope." Houston sighed.

Tice had a sudden thought, and it alarmed him. "You're not thinking of intervening on Stewart's behalf, are you, General?"

Houston paced back and forth, scowling in silence for a full minute. The doctor's anxiety doubled by the second; the general was in some ways a mirror image of his mentor, Andrew Jackson. Both men had a history of engaging in reckless escapades regardless of the consequences. Tice was afraid Houston might be concocting some incredible scheme to break Stewart out of jail and smuggle him across Texas to a berth on a homeward-bound British ship. What was worse, Houston would probably ask McAllen and his Black Jacks to undertake such a desperate mission. Would John Henry go along? Would his loyalty to Sam Houston take precedence over common sense? Tice fairly cringed at the thought. If so, more than Houston's political career would be destroyed.

"No," said Houston finally—to Tice's vast relief. "We can't do anything for Stewart. He's jumped into the frying pan and now he's got to cook on his own. But he may expect my help. And there is no way of knowing what he might do or say to save himself once he realizes we'll do nothing to save him."

"You mean go to Lamar?" asked McAllen. "Tell the president anything he wants to hear about you and Great Britain?"

"Not even Lamar can help him now," said Tice.

"That depends on how desperate Lamar is," said McAllen. "But Stewart has his pride."

"The truth is, my problems in this case are nothing compared to yours, John Henry," said Houston. "I am truly sorry this happened. I feel at least partly responsible."

"Don't concern yourself, General."

"I suppose you'll be going to Austin."

McAllen nodded. "Do you have a message you'd like for me to relay to Major Stewart?"

Houston sighed. "No. Just see what you can do. I leave it in your hands."

Once they had returned to their room, McAllen took pen and paper and wrote a quick letter which he then let Tice read.

"This authorizes me to draw on your funds held by Robert Mills of Brazoria," said Tice, puzzled.

"My factor. I want you to hire Benjamin Sturgis, the freighter. He'll need several wagons. I want him to go to the plantation and load up everything that belongs to Leah and carry it to her father's house in Galveston. That includes all the furniture in her bedroom, and have them take the piano in the downstairs parlor."

With a nod Tice folded and pocketed the letter. "So it has finally come to this."

"I should have done it a long time ago, Artemus. But pride got in my way. I refused to admit failure."

"After all that has happened, no blame could possibly attach itself to you."

"I blame myself, for many things. Most of all for putting myself in the position where I could not reciprocate the feelings Emily had for me."

"Has. The feelings she has for you, John Henry."

McAllen moodily stroked the scar on his cheek. "I pray to God you're right. That she is still alive."

It was raining when McAllen rode into Austin, the first of the September rains which heralded the end of a long Texas summer. The gray, dismal day suited his mood perfectly. He went first to the Bullock Hotel. This was where he expected to find Leah.

"Glad to see you again, Captain," said Bullock. A Houston partisan, the hotel owner knew McAllen to be one of the Old Chief's most trusted lieutenants. "I only wish it was under better circumstances. If there is anything I can do for you while you're in town . . ."

"There might be," replied McAllen. "But for now I would like to see my wife."

Bullock told him that Leah was upstairs and gave him the room number. "She's hardly come out of that room since . . . well, since the murder."

When McAllen knocked on the door there was no sound from within the room. He knocked a second time.

"Leah? It's John Henry."

She threw open the door and the light in her eyes was something he had not seen since their first days together.

"John Henry!" She wrapped her arms around his neck, held him close, and cried softly. He did not hold her, but neither did he push her away—he simply waited until the flood of tears had subsided. He felt sorry for her and warned himself not to play the fool out of sympathy. In spite of himself, in spite of all she had done, he still cared for her. It wasn't love. That had died a long time ago. He tried to harden his heart.

Leah stepped back finally, brushing the last tears from her face, and he studied the bruises that were just now begi

"Did Stewart do that to you?"

She nodded. "He . . . he took me, John Henry. Against my will. I'm not telling you this because I want sympathy. I deserve everything that happened to me—and everything that is going to happen."

McAllen thought, She has more than an inkling of what I'm about to do. This beautiful, wayward, hopelessly flawed woman-child! Had she really learned her lesson? McAllen's resolve was shaken.

"I didn't dare come home," she continued. "I didn't know if . . . if you would want me to."

"When you go home," he said softly, "it will not be to Grand Cane. Your things are on their way to Galveston, Leah."

She gasped, as though he had struck her; his words hurt worse than a physical blow. McAllen expected her to start crying again, but she fooled him, showed him more character than he thought she possessed.

"I don't blame you," she said, and managed a trembling smile. "I've been a terrible wife, haven't I? I'm so sorry for all the pain I've caused you. I do love you, John Henry. I never realized how much until these last few days. I—"

"It's too late, Leah."

"Why didn't you stop me?" she cried.

"Stop you? How?"

"You knew. You saw. This . . . this thing between me and Stewart. You saw it happening, right in front of you, at Grand Cane. But you didn't lift a finger to stop it. Is that because you didn't care?"

"I guess you could say it was a cure, of sorts."

"You gave me the rope and let me hang myself," she said resentfully.

"Maybe so."

"Will they execute him?"

He knew she meant Stewart. "Yes. They will."

"He deserves to hang."

Not, mused McAllen, because he had murdered Jonah Singletary, but because of what he had done to her. That was what Leah meant.

She turned away from him, went to the chair by the window, sank into it, and gazed out at the rain tap-tap-tapping on the weeping panes of glass.

"What will become of me?" she asked in a small, lost voice.

"You'll survive."

"No one loves me. All I ever wanted was to be loved."

McAllen shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips. Her words cut across the grain of his compassion. She was feeling sorry for herself. In some ways Leah McAllen—no, make that Leah Pierce—would never change. She was still concerned only with herself.

She glanced across the room at him. "Did you find the Torrance girl?"

"Not yet."

"You're in love with her, aren't you?"

"I hardly know her."

"That doesn't make any difference. That's not how love works, is it?"