After relating one of the most stirring and tragic episodes of my life
as a showman, my thought turns instinctively to the other extreme--to
an experience quite as typical of the wandering existence of the
pioneer showman of the old wagon days. I refer to a chance meeting with
one of the greatest men who helped to make the history of the United
States, a splendid, picturesque giant of the pioneer type whose life
was an unbroken romance. It may be asked, What has this kind of thing
to do with circus life? I answer: Everything! Much of the success which
I have achieved in this peculiar field of effort I owe to the contact
with men of large capacity with whom I chanced to "fall in," as it
were, while on the road. These meetings were as bread to my mind. They
made the bright spots in my life, and, from the very beginning of my
career, gave me the inspiration which helped me to see things in a
larger way, to persevere in the face of all obstacles and to take
advantage of every opportunity. Of the hundreds of experiences in this
line, no other approached in romantic interest that which came to me
very early in my southwestern tour.
I was then a young man and was traveling in Louisiana. I put up at a
hotel in a rather small town, where hotels were as rare as other
evidences of civilization. I had just gone to my room on the night
succeeding my arrival when I was honored with a call from the landlord.
"Mr. Coup," he said, "there'll be another feller up to bunk with you in
a few minutes. You'd better wait up and arrange with him about the side
of the bed you are to sleep on. If he walks in and finds you sleepin'
on his side, there might be a coolness spring up between you."
At that time I was a stranger to southern customs, and their manner of
doing things struck me as being a trifle irregular. However, I offered
no objection. It has always been a rule with me to maintain the silence
which is said to be golden when I am among strangers in a strange land.
I afterwards discovered that it was customary for this landlord to put
as many as three in one bed when he happened to be cramped for room. In
about ten minutes my bedfellow came up. He was an elderly man with eyes
which seemed to pierce one.
His bedroom candle lighted up a face which I have never since been able
to eradicate from my memory. It was one of the most interesting faces
it has ever been my good fortune to gaze upon. When he smiled, I was
somehow irresistibly drawn towards him. It was the saddest, tenderest,
sweetest smile that I have ever seen upon a man's face. He spoke to me
kindly as he placed his candle upon the little table, then drew his
chair up close beside me in front of the open, wood fire. Twenty
minutes afterward I could have sworn that I had known the man all my
life. He was a brilliant talker; and his stock of knowledge regarding
men and affairs of that day seemed to be inexhaustible.
"By the way," I said, after we had talked well into the night, "I see
Gen. Sam Houston is billed to speak here to-morrow night. I shall
certainly go to hear him." He glanced up at me quickly.
"Are you an admirer of him?" he asked.
"I will answer that question by saying both yes and no," I replied. "I
greatly admire him for his sturdy independence, his political ability,
and his apparent hatred for all shams. But there seems to be another
side to his character which I do not admire. The manner in which he
deserted his Cherokee wife after he had left the nation and returned to
civilization, I regard as wholly contemptible. Do you know him?"
"I have seen him," he replied, quietly, smiling the sad smile which had
before struck me so forcibly.
"Well, don't you agree with me?" I asked.
"Before I reply to that question I would like to tell you a little
story," my roommate replied, and it seemed to me that his voice
trembled a little.
"I once knew a man who held a prominent office in the State of
Tennessee. He was a young man then--not older than yourself, and with
just as quick a tongue when it came to condemning all sorts of wrong
and injustice. His position gave him admission to the best social
circles, and he wooed and married a beautiful girl. On his part it was
wholly a love match. He worshiped her as he had never before worshiped
anything on earth. For a time he was happy--after the manner of men who
place their entire lives in the hands of one woman. By and by he
noticed that his beautiful young wife was growing dejected and unhappy.
Often, when he spoke to her in terms of endearment when they were
alone, she would burst into tears, tear herself out of his arms and
escape from the room. On one of these occasions he followed her to her
room and insisted upon an explanation. At first she refused, but
finally yielded, telling him a story which crushed him to the very
dust. She said she had never loved him, but had been persuaded by
friends to marry him on account of his position. She told him more than
that. She told him that long before the marriage occurred she had loved
another man.
"That night the husband left his home and his high official position
and disappeared. Shaving the hair from his head and tearing the
broadcloth garments into shreds, he donned the scanty apparel of the
savage and became a member of the Cherokee nation. The members of the
tribe treated him with the greatest consideration and respect, and he
became a sort of oracle among them. In time he married an Indian
maiden, thereby widening the breach between himself and the past. After
a number of years had passed, however, he grew weary of savagery and
his mind often reverted to the life which had been his before his great
trouble came upon him. Finally he bade his wife and her untutored
friends a temporary farewell and drifted into Texas. Here he soon rose
to recognition, and in a comparatively brief space of time once more
held an important official position. But he had not deserted his Indian
wife. On several occasions he returned to the tribe to see her and
tried to induce her to return with him to civilization. But the poor,
untutored Indian squaw was a thousand times nobler than the beautiful
society woman who had ruined his life in early manhood. She loved him
passionately, but positively refused to accede to his requests. 'I
would only disgrace you,' she said. 'I am not fit to go out into your
world.' Finally the husband returned without her--very much against his
wishes, remember--and a few months later word reached him that his
Indian wife was dead. She had loved him too well to accompany him into
his changed life for fear of disgracing him, and had loved him too well
to wish to live without him. She was found, said the messenger, at the
bottom of a cliff, and the manner of her death was only too apparent.
The white wife represented what is popularly called the highest type of
civilization and social culture--the poor Indian girl what is best
known by the name of savagery. That, young man, is how General Houston
came to desert his Indian bride."
I had been deeply interested in the old man's story, and when he had
finished I thought that his keen eyes were filled with tears as he sat
gazing into the dying embers of our fire. I hastened to assure him that
I was glad to be set right regarding General Houston's character. "I
shall listen to his speech with renewed interest to-morrow night," I
said. "You must have known him well?"
"Yes," was the reply, "I have seen a good deal of him. But, my young
friend, don't let your enthusiasm run away with your discretion.
General Houston has his faults like the rest of the world--plenty of
them."
"By the way," I said, as we pushed back our chairs and prepared for
bed, "I believe you have omitted telling me your name. I have spent
such a pleasant evening that I would really like to know to whom I am
indebted for it."
"Ah," he said, with the same smile, "I believe I did omit that little
formality. My name is Sam Houston."
We did not quarrel regarding the side of the bed he was to occupy.
General Houston could have had both sides had he expressed a wish for
them.