1892

It will go down in the history books that there weren't any hurricanes in Brownsville in  the fall of 1892. I stop at the Immaculate Conception Cathedral in the late morning and beg the Great Powers to take mercy on our forsaken town. Our blind leadership wants to keep us isolated and at the mercy of the powerful by refusing to allow the railroad to extend rails south from Corpus Christi. I stay close to the buildings on the shady side of the street. The summers are interminable.

The vendors are closing the stalls at Market Square. The smell of fresh meat hangs heavy in the air. I see Jim Wells, Mr. Democrat, buying a peck of peanuts. He says that Captain William Kelly and a group of officers from Fort Brown are going to meet at the White Elephant.

"They're talking about bringing them damn nigger soldiers again," says Jim. "Why does the army keep threatening us with this indignity every year. I thought that's why we've had the niggers and Comanches fighting each other so they could kill each other off. The Herald's Jesse Wheeler says that it won't be safe for our daughters if these apes are prowling the streets. I predict that one day there will be an incident that could have been avoidable if we only had some sensible politicians in Washington D.C. Don't those damn Republicans know that Lincoln has been dead more than 25 years and it's time to accept that we have to keep whites and black separate for the welfare of our country and the rebirth of the South?"

"Wheeler is a Klansman" I reply. "I can't believe you support his yellow sheet. I'm sure that SOB feels the same way about Mexicans. In his eyes if you ain't white, you ain't right. I never read his damn propaganda sheet. I've been reading the Daily Cosmopolitan since its first publication. I can tell you by the turn of the century the people won't even remember there was a Herald. Tell Wheeler to quit fighting the Civil War. How can you respect a man who wants to build a monument to Quantrill in Washington Park?"

I turn right past the square and pass the Stillman House. The mayor is standing in front of the residence that old man Stillman gave him for years of faithfully executing his dirty work. Tom Carson is hooked up with the King and Kenedy families. He hasn't done anything for 14 years except protect the Stillman, King, Kenedy and Yturria interests. He's county judge as well. Wells talks about cleaning up the town with the Mexicans he owns, but nothing changes.

"Mayor, how are you doing, sir?" I say. "Has the attorney general rendered an opinion about your dual roles as mayor and county judge? I was talking to Bill Dougherty at the Cosmopolitan and he expects a decision shortly."

"Dougherty doesn't know a damn thing about anything," huffs the mayor who hasn't lost any of his crustiness. "The Cosmopolitan hasn't written an objective article in a decade. Dougherty has less credibility in Brownsville than that old bandit Juan Cortina. I predict Wheeler will put him out of business within a year. I don't advertise in the Cosmopolitan and most the merchants agree with me. They feel that Wheeler has a more positive and realistic outlook on the future."

"Speaking of our future, are we going to have that railroad that connects us with the rest of the country or are the King and Kenedy families going to keep us hopeless and helpless?" I ask. "I'm tired of that rinky-dink line to Port Isabel and boarding the steamer to Galveston or New Orleans. According to your last platform, you were going to usher us into the modern world. Hell, we can't drink the water without risking a bout of dysentery."

"If you think you can do a better job, then you run for office," he snaps. "You never stop criticizing. We have one of the finest looking high schools in the state. The commissioners and I worked very hard on the new federal building and I believe it is a splendid structure. It seems there are certain constituents I can never please. Good day, sir."

I stop at the fort's parade grounds. Captain Cummings is taking his Brownsville Rifles through their paces. They claim the brown hordes from south of the river are hatching a plot to recover Texas and the citizenry must be prepared for every contingency. I know all these boys who would have more success shooting themselves in the foot than actually bringing down a human target: Leahy, Crane, Turegano, Hanson, Putegnat, Cowen, Sauder and Thom. They won't let any Mexican boys join their ranks because they claim at a showdown everyone will revert to his native allegiance. I hope one of their guns doesn't misfire at the next parade and kill a spectator.

I run into Lieutenant W.H. Chatfield leaving the compound's gates. He is writing a promotional book he has entitled "The Twin Cities of the Border." He is one of those outsiders who has succumbed to the romanticism of our backwater existence. He hands me a snippet to read:

"Until Aleck Paxinni started out with his shine-'em-up box recently, Brownsville has never had a professional bootblack. The pioneer is a white man, slightly crippled, who goes about his work with a cheerfulness, which is as refreshing to witness as is the sensation one feels upon contemplating the brilliant polish he imparts to one's foot-gear.

"Aleck has struck into a new and untried field, but his success is already assured and it is hoped that the proprietor of the first large hotel opened in the future will recognize the pioneer bootblack and offer him the chair in the area over which boots reign supreme."

I like this kid. The last time I saw him he had returned from a ten-day strip on the Bessie. He had visited Santa Maria, Edinburg, Rio Grande City, Roma, Camargo and Mier. I told him that a baby could crawl faster to Roma than the steamer. He said that he had acclimated himself to the "land of manana" and never hurried himself except when he had diarrhea.

"I've told you about eating Matamoros tamales at those fandangos you insist on attending," I kidded him when I saw him at Joseph Putegnat's Botica Del Leon ordering powders to cure his Moctezuma's Revenge a few months ago. "You need to leave the senoritas alone because some don is liable to put a bullet between those handsome blue eyes that have the girls swooning."

"You're sounding like one of our fine Southern gentleman that you have warned me about," he needled. "Have you forgotten your Yankee roots or do you lose that liberal frame of mind as you age? Matamoros is safer than Brownsville. You're starting to think like a Herald editorialist."

"Listen here, you whippersnapper," I retorted. "Before you pen the final version of your border story, I need to take you to Matamoros and give you a guided tour of the more select gathering places. I'll introduce you to some of the experiences that will make one of your celebrated fandangos seem like a quinceanera. Don't mess with the man who taught John 'RIP' Ford the difference between tequila and mescal."

I stroll along Elizabeth toward Washington Park. I admire the new federal building before continuing west and turning on 7th. I have built a house across the street from the park. The wife promised fresh quail for lunch. I'm surprised to see William Neale sitting on my stoop drinking lemonade. Despite living on the border for more than 60 of his 85 years, he retains the Cockney accent of his native England.

"Don't you lawyers ever work?" he jabs. "You guys rob the Ballis or the Hinojosas of a small piece of their property once a year and you have sufficient cash to keep you on vacation for six months. When are these people going to get wise to you?"

"We're a necessary evil," I answer. "They have to register their lands with the state or they could lose everything. They don't have hard currency so they have to pay with property. If I left them to the mercy of the carpetbaggers and scalawags, they would all be elote vendors. By the way, I saw the Brownsville Rifles preparing for Porfirio Diaz's invasion."

"Sit down and let me tell you a story about the Brownsville Rifles, or the Brownsville Tigers as they were known during their glory days," he begins. "It was 1859 or 1860, I don't remember exactly, but Juan Cortina and his desperadoes were hanging around the city, robbing our mail and killing many inoffensive American travelers until our citizens formed themselves into a well-armed company. After a little drilling, they sallied forth under the command of Captain Thompson to seek the enemy. They took with them two pieces of artillery, and I believe they meant mischief, for my old friend, the Captain, who was rather belligerent in his younger days, made his will just before they marched.

"Now, mind, I will not state positively--for I would not state an untruth knowingly in this veracious history--but I think the facts are that the Brownsville Tigers, as the company was named, got as far as Mr. Glavaecke's  ranch, situated about three miles from here in four days; and proceeding on at the same rate, they got to Santa Rita, seven miles from Brownsville, in a week; and there, sure enough, they found the enemy, or perhaps more properly speaking, the enemy found them. Which one found the other is a question never yet fully decided; consequently, I give the honor to the Tigers, they being on the march. That justifies me in again venturing to assert that 'they found 'em.'

"A halt was called. The Tigers made a firm stand and immediately preparations were made for some movement. Much discussion ensued, and much difference of opinion prevailed among the officers--and that means the main body, for they were nearly all colonels, captains or majors. I say much difference of opinion prevailed as to the propriety of fighting after dinner. The sheriff, then acting in a military capacity and mounted on a beautiful white steed, in vain reiterated the words of command, 'Come along, boys!' The 'boys' wouldn't come. They made a firm stand at a respectful distance from the enemy's line or where they expected the line to be for only a few straggling Mexicans could be seen as they dodged in and out of the chaparral.

"We have all read in history books how the fate of armies has repeatedly in olden times been decided by some unforeseen accident or occurrence. So it was with the Brownsville Tigers. Either by intent or accident, some firing commenced. The Tigers made a desperate charge for home, leaving their cannons in possession of the enemy, and though it had taken a week to get to Santa Rita, they made much better time in getting back. I was personally acquainted with one of the officers in that famous expedition, who, though a cripple, has since frequently declared to me that he got home on that occasion in less than forty minutes and I believe he did."

"You crazy old goat," I laugh. "Where do you get all those stories? I guess the last generation is no better than the present generation when it comes to leadership. They talk a brave game, but they're a bunch of cowards who only get daring when there's a buck at stake. I don't doubt that a hundred years from now that Brownsville will still be in the hands of these shifty characters' great-grandchildren."

I invite Mr. Neale for lunch. After quail and venison, I have the maid's son accompany the ancient Englishman home. Some of these carriages race through the streets as if they were competing in the Colosseum. I stretch out on a couch in the veranda. Small beads of sweat collect on my forehead. The afternoon breezes are sweeping off the gulf. I fall asleep. When I awake, seagulls are circling overhead.