About two years after the Texan revolution, a difficulty occurred
between the new government and a portion of the people, which threatened
the most serious consequences--even the bloodshed and horrors of civil
war. Briefly, the cause was this: The constitution had fixed the city of
Austin as the permanent capital, where the public archives were to be
kept, with the reservation, however, of a power in the president to
order their temporary removal, in case of danger from the inroads of a
foreign enemy, or the force of a sudden insurrection.
Conceiving that the exceptional emergency had arrived, as the Camanches
frequently committed ravages within sight of the capital itself,
Houston, who then resided at Washington, on the Brazos, dispatched an
order commanding his subordinate functionaries to send the state records
to the latter place, which he declared to be, _pro tempore_, the seat of
government.
It is impossible to describe the stormy excitement which the
promulgation of this fiat raised in Austin. The keepers of hotels,
boarding-houses, groceries, and faro-banks, were thunderstruck,--maddened
to frenzy; for the measure would be a death-blow to their prosperity
in business; and, accordingly, they determined at once to take the
necessary steps to avert the danger, by opposing the execution of
Houston's mandate. They called a mass meeting of the citizens and
farmers of the circumjacent country, who were all more or less
interested in the question; and, after many fiery speeches against
the asserted tyranny of the administration, it was unanimously resolved
to prevent the removal of the archives, by open and armed resistance.
To that end, they organized a company of four hundred men; one moiety
of whom, relieving the other at regular periods of duty, should keep
constant guard around the state-house until the peril passed by. The
commander of this force was one Colonel Morton, who had achieved
considerable renown in the war for independence, and had still more
recently displayed desperate bravery in two desperate duels, in both of
which he had cut his antagonist nearly to pieces with the bowie-knife.
Indeed, from the notoriety of his character, for revenge as well as
courage, it was thought that President Houston would renounce his
purpose touching the archives, so soon as he should learn who was the
leader of the opposition.
Morton, on his part, whose vanity fully equaled his personal prowess,
encouraged and justified the prevailing opinion, by his boastful
threats. He swore that if the president did succeed in removing the
records by the march of an overpowering force, he would then, himself,
hunt him down like a wolf, and shoot him with as little ceremony, or
stab him in his bed, or waylay him in his walks of recreation. He even
wrote the hero of San Jacinto to that effect. The latter replied in a
note of laconic brevity:
"If the people of Austin do not send the archives, I shall certainly
come and take them; and if Colonel Morton can kill me, he is welcome to
my ear-cap."
On the reception of this answer, the guard was doubled around the
state-house. Chosen sentinels were stationed along the road leading to
the capital, the military paraded the streets from morning till night,
and a select caucus held permanent session in the city hall. In short,
everything betokened a coming tempest.
One day, while matters were in this precarious condition, the caucus at
the city hall was surprised by the sudden appearance of a stranger,
whose mode of entering was as extraordinary as his looks and dress. He
did not knock at the closed door--he did not seek admission there at
all; but climbing, unseen, a small, bushy-topped, live oak, which grew
beside the wall, he leaped, without sound or warning, through a lofty
window. He was clothed altogether in buckskin, carried a long and heavy
rifle in his hand, wore at the button of his left suspender a large
bowie-knife, and had in his leathern belt a couple of pistols half the
length of his gun. He was tall, straight as an arrow, active as a
panther in his motions, with dark complexion, and luxuriant, jetty hair,
with a severe, iron-like countenance, that seemed never to have known a
smile, and eyes of intense, vivid black, wild and rolling, and piercing
as the point of a dagger. His strange advent inspired a thrill of
involuntary fear, and many present unconsciously grasped the handles of
their side-arms.
"Who are you, that thus presumes to intrude among gentlemen, without
invitation?" demanded Colonel Morton, ferociously essaying to cow down
the stranger with his eye.
The latter returned his stare with compound interest, and laid his long,
bony finger on his lip, as a sign--but of what, the spectators could
not imagine.
"Who are you? Speak! or I will cut an answer out of your heart!" shouted
Morton, almost distracted with rage, by the cool, sneering gaze of the
other, who now removed his finger from his lip, and laid it on the hilt
of his monstrous knife.
The fiery colonel then drew his dagger, and was in the act of advancing
upon the stranger, when several caught him and held him back,
remonstrating. "Let him alone, Morton, for God's sake. Do you not
perceive that he is crazy?"
At the moment, Judge Webb, a man of shrewd intellect and courteous
manners, stepped forward, and addressed the intruder in a most
respectful manner:
"My good friend, I presume you have made a mistake in the house. This is
a private meeting, where none but members are admitted."
The stranger did not appear to comprehend the words; but he could not
fail to understand the mild and deprecatory manner. His rigid features
relaxed, and moving to a table in the center of the hall, where there
were materials and implements for writing, he seized a pen, and traced
one line: "I am deaf." He then held it up before the spectators, as a
sort of natural apology for his own want of politeness.
Judge Webb took the paper, and wrote a question: "Dear sir, will you be
so obliging as to inform us what is your business with the
present meeting?"
The other responded by delivering a letter, inscribed on the back, "To
the citizens of Austin." They broke the seal and read it aloud. It was
from Houston, and showed the usual terse brevity of his style:
"FELLOW CITIZENS:--Though in error, and deceived by the arts of
traitors, I will give you three days more to decide whether you will
surrender the public archives. At the end of that time you will please
let me know your decision."