including the old Bullock Hotel on Pecan Street just west of Congress. There were, however, no churches. The chargé d'affaires of the French government—the first to recognize the sovereignty of the Republic of Texas—had plans to erect an embassy at a likely spot. But for now he resided at Bullock's, even though he despised the innkeeper's pigs, who in their turn resided in an odiferous sty behind the hotel. Nonetheless, Bullock's was by far the best available accommodations in Austin.
Austin's most classically minded boosters pointed out that, like Rome, the republic's new capital stood upon seven hills overlooking a sparkling river. Far better, believed President Lamar and his backers, than that sinkhole of sin and dissipation on the banks of Buffalo Bayou, where the previous chief magistrate of Texas had incompetently carried out his duties as head of state. How appropriate that the town of Houston, with its horse racing, brothels, and forty-seven—count them!—saloons, should be named after the Big Drunk himself, the most profligate Texan of them all. Austin, on the other hand, was a shining city upon a hill, destined to become the center of a great Texas empire stretching from the Gulf of Mexico to—if Lamar had his way—the shores of the Pacific.
Grandiose schemes preoccupied Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar, and on the day that Jonah Singletary came to call, accompanied by the republic's brash and bellicose war secretary, Albert Sidney Johnston, and Texas Ranger Captain Eli Wingate, the president was, as usual, dreaming such dreams.
While one less familiar with the president's habits than the newspaperman, the war secretary, and the Indian fighter might have expected to find Lamar at the capitol building, they went instead to his private residence, confident that they would find him, as indeed they did, ensconced behind his massively impressive French desk, surrounded by his equally impressive collection of books. Lamar had taken it upon himself to become the patron of the arts in the republic. He dreamed of a splendid university perched upon one of the Austin hills; he had been largely responsible for the naming of Congress Street, Austin's primary east-west artery, which might have seemed off, or perhaps even presumptuous, to those who were aware of no institution within five hundred miles of the Colorado River which merited being called a college. Lamar was a master violinist, and poet of no small talent. But there was enough of the realist in him to know that the republic's first priority was to make the frontier safe. Culture would come later.
The president stood and greeted his three visitors, then beckoned them to chairs arrayed around the handsome desk. He remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, and fastened his piercing gaze upon the secretary of war.
"Have you any word of the Comanches, General?"
"Our scouts report that Yellow Hand's bunch has been seen near the headwaters of the San Saba River."
Lamar frowned. "Is that all? Nothing more?"
Johnston shook his head. A graduate of West Point, he had given up a promising military career in the service of the United States upon the untimely death of his young wife and had joined the Texas army as a private. But a man with Johnston's training was not likely to remain at such a lowly rank for very long. Sam Houston had appointed him commander in chief of the army two years ago, replacing Felix Huston, a fiery Mississippi swashbuckler who, in a startling if characteristic display of hubris, had thought to march his troops into Mexico, promising them the wealth of Montezuma as loot, and without the permission of the president. Huston had not surrendered his command with good grace; in fact, he had severely wounded Johnston in a duel.
Though Johnston owed his promotion to Houston, Lamar knew that the man was no supporter of "The Raven"—the Cherokee name by which Houston was widely known. Johnston had parted with Houston on the subject of the Indian
Austin's most classically minded boosters pointed out that, like Rome, the republic's new capital stood upon seven hills overlooking a sparkling river. Far better, believed President Lamar and his backers, than that sinkhole of sin and dissipation on the banks of Buffalo Bayou, where the previous chief magistrate of Texas had incompetently carried out his duties as head of state. How appropriate that the town of Houston, with its horse racing, brothels, and forty-seven—count them!—saloons, should be named after the Big Drunk himself, the most profligate Texan of them all. Austin, on the other hand, was a shining city upon a hill, destined to become the center of a great Texas empire stretching from the Gulf of Mexico to—if Lamar had his way—the shores of the Pacific.
Grandiose schemes preoccupied Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar, and on the day that Jonah Singletary came to call, accompanied by the republic's brash and bellicose war secretary, Albert Sidney Johnston, and Texas Ranger Captain Eli Wingate, the president was, as usual, dreaming such dreams.
While one less familiar with the president's habits than the newspaperman, the war secretary, and the Indian fighter might have expected to find Lamar at the capitol building, they went instead to his private residence, confident that they would find him, as indeed they did, ensconced behind his massively impressive French desk, surrounded by his equally impressive collection of books. Lamar had taken it upon himself to become the patron of the arts in the republic. He dreamed of a splendid university perched upon one of the Austin hills; he had been largely responsible for the naming of Congress Street, Austin's primary east-west artery, which might have seemed off, or perhaps even presumptuous, to those who were aware of no institution within five hundred miles of the Colorado River which merited being called a college. Lamar was a master violinist, and poet of no small talent. But there was enough of the realist in him to know that the republic's first priority was to make the frontier safe. Culture would come later.
The president stood and greeted his three visitors, then beckoned them to chairs arrayed around the handsome desk. He remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, and fastened his piercing gaze upon the secretary of war.
"Have you any word of the Comanches, General?"
"Our scouts report that Yellow Hand's bunch has been seen near the headwaters of the San Saba River."
Lamar frowned. "Is that all? Nothing more?"
Johnston shook his head. A graduate of West Point, he had given up a promising military career in the service of the United States upon the untimely death of his young wife and had joined the Texas army as a private. But a man with Johnston's training was not likely to remain at such a lowly rank for very long. Sam Houston had appointed him commander in chief of the army two years ago, replacing Felix Huston, a fiery Mississippi swashbuckler who, in a startling if characteristic display of hubris, had thought to march his troops into Mexico, promising them the wealth of Montezuma as loot, and without the permission of the president. Huston had not surrendered his command with good grace; in fact, he had severely wounded Johnston in a duel.
Though Johnston owed his promotion to Houston, Lamar knew that the man was no supporter of "The Raven"—the Cherokee name by which Houston was widely known. Johnston had parted with Houston on the subject of the Indian
Similar Books
