THE TRAVELER

I am occasionally asked why we named our son Tex.

In the hallway of my sister’s house hangs a formal portrait (circa 1900) of my mother’s great-great granduncle, Artur Maciejewski. This is his story.



Artur Maciejewski was born on a farm outside of Gdansk, Poland in 1830, the first of eight children conceived by Sofia and Federik Maciejewski.

From his earliest years, Artur’s personality was characterized by a wanderlust verging on madness. At the age of fourteen months, shortly after he had learned to walk, Artur was discovered in a rainstorm, alone and half-drowned, in a drainage ditch some eighteen kilometers from his home. The farmer who found him, a dour yet loving man named Andrzej Movacek, with fourteen children of his own, rescued Artur and nurtured him back to life, searched vainly for the boy’s parents, and ultimately decided to raise him as his own.

Seven years later, Artur’s mother was selling pierogies at a fair in the region when a boy approached her table. Sofia, a mother’s love suffusing every fiber of her being, recognized him instantly, and followed him as he retreated, pierogies in hand, from her table.

At last, when Artur encountered a man who spoke to him in a way suggesting a parental relationship, Sofia pounced. Introducing herself, she told her tale and demanded the particulars of the lad’s provenance. Andrzej, in a trembling voice, his heart breaking, related the events of the stormy night seven years prior.

A discussion ensued and both families gathered, as did a number of townspeople. As darkness fell, Father Jok Doriecki, the village priest, wandered by and was recruited as arbitrator. Prayers were said. Vendors gathered, hawking “Death By Potato,” the local vodka.

Sofia spoke, as did Andrzej and each of his children. At last, Fr. Doriecki, swaying a bit and fueled by the spirit, pronounced his verdict in a single sentence still celebrated by every student of Polish jurisprudence.

“A mother is a mother,” he declared.

And there was silence. Many fell to their knees, dumbstruck at the simple wisdom of this parish priest, their eyes raised heavenward where, as if by providence, a shooting star flashed, fell, and disappeared into the darkness. Thus was the case decided. Artur returned home that night with Sofia and Federik.

The next morning, as dawn broke, Sofia arose and went to gaze upon her sleeping son. He was gone, of course, already halfway to the seaport where he would sign on as a cabin boy aboard a tramp freighter that would ultimately deposit the young man, ten years old, at the foot of Manhattan Island. The year was 1840, and Artur Maciejewski was now an American.

Artur spoke Polish and the patois of a hundred nations, yet not a word of English. But in a new country full of immigrants, for a boy already accustomed to earning his supper through the sweat of his brow, New York was a dream come true. For him, there was always work, always food, and always adventure. He hauled fish, shined shoes, and sold coffins. For several years, he worked as cook and laundryman for a bawdyhouse on Wall Street. It was there he learned to read and write English, with the King James Bible as his textbook.

But not even the Big Apple could keep Artur in its thrall for long. At sixteen, with twelve dollars in his pocket and new shoes on his feet, he set out for a place he had heard about only in the stories of drunken men at the cathouse bar. It was a land with a big sky and vast deserts and grasslands a thousand miles across, a wild place where riches were waiting for any man with a strong back, a brain in his head and a gun on his hip. He didn’t know exactly where it was, but he knew it was called Texas, and he knew he could not rest until he had seen it. It would take him eleven years to get there.

He worked the farms and orchards of southern Ohio, and tarried a bit. There was a girl named Polly, a girl with wide hips and apple cheeks and a ready smile, the only child of a prosperous widower with a big spread. He liked the farmer and he liked Polly, but she was not Texas, and when Spring arrived, he was gone again, through the hills and hollows of Kentucky to the Mississippi River, and St. Louis, Missouri.

There was always work at the docks for a man who wanted it, and that is where he went. His experience at sea got him a job on a paddle-wheeler as a laborer, then as a seaman, then as a faro dealer, then as manager of the bar and card-room. At age 22, Artur was wearing tailored suits and had acquired a taste for expensive cigars. He was a gentleman of sorts, a man of some means, and he was known in every port along the river.

On June 10, 1857, Artur was cutting into a steak at his favorite restaurant in New Orleans when his attention was drawn to an altercation at a table across the restaurant. An elderly gentleman was being accosted by two rough-looking men standing over him and shouting. The source of their pique was unclear, but as the their language grew foul and threatening, Artur rose and strode purposefully across the room. Grasping a shoulder, he spun one of the men around and flattened him with a right hand to the jaw. The other turned and swung wildly at Artur, who countered with a solid left. As waiters dragged the two assailants to the street, the elderly man spoke to Artur.

“Young man, my name is Sam Houston, and if you return with me to Texas, you will never regret it.”

“I am dining with friends, sir,” Artur replied. “May I finish my supper before we leave?”

And thus did Artur come to serve Sam Houston as factotum, bodyguard and friend at Houston’s home in Huntsville. Two years later, when Houston was elected Governor, the pair moved to Austin, where Artur quickly became “a good man to know” if you wanted the governor’s ear. Houston was forced to resign in 1861 over his staunch opposition to secession, and the men returned to Huntsville, where Artur attended the old man until his death in 1863.

Still a young man, Artur (now known as Tex) was well-situated financially and known throughout the state. Some of Sam Houston’s cronies wanted to launch him into Texas politics. Others came forward with various business opportunities.

But such a life of sedentary privilege was not for Tex. Instead, he took a low-paying, dangerous job with a group of men he respected above all others. Tex Maciejewski became a Texas Ranger. For the next 25 years, Tex would see every inch of the land he had come to love, bringing law to the lawless, and keeping the peace for the innocent.

In 1888, after three dusty weeks on the road, Tex returned to his headquarters to find a letter waiting for him, addressed simply to “Artur Maciejewski, Texas.” Sofia had found him again. Now in her late 70’s, she had immigrated to America with two of her sons and was living in Philadelphia.

Three weeks later, Tex knocked at the door of a nondescript tenement in the Port Richmond section of Philadelphia, and was reunited with his mother, with whom he would live for the rest of her life.

Tex himself became a popular figure in the taprooms and clubhouses of Port Richmond, and his stories of cowboys and Indians, outlaws and range wars, all rendered in fluent Polish with a Texas drawl, captivated both young and old for years.

Toward the end of his days, he was once asked if he had any regrets in his long and colorful life. “Well,” he said, “I never married, never had a son. Ha! Maybe somebody will name a kid after me.”

Tex died quietly in 1907. His services were attended by five Texas Rangers who stood at attention throughout the memorial, then returned to Texas with his ashes, which were scattered along the Rio Grande. Among the Polish families in Port Richmond, and now among their descendants, the name “Tex” endures as a popular name for a first-born son.

THE TRAVELER

I am occasionally asked why we named our son Tex.

In the hallway of my sister’s house hangs a formal portrait (circa 1900) of my mother’s great-great granduncle, Artur Maciejewski. This is his story.



Artur Maciejewski was born on a farm outside of Gdansk, Poland in 1830, the first of eight children conceived by Sofia and Federik Maciejewski.

From his earliest years, Artur’s personality was characterized by a wanderlust verging on madness. At the age of fourteen months, shortly after he had learned to walk, Artur was discovered in a rainstorm, alone and half-drowned, in a drainage ditch some eighteen kilometers from his home. The farmer who found him, a dour yet loving man named Andrzej Movacek, with fourteen children of his own, rescued Artur and nurtured him back to life, searched vainly for the boy’s parents, and ultimately decided to raise him as his own.

Seven years later, Artur’s mother was selling pierogies at a fair in the region when a boy approached her table. Sofia, a mother’s love suffusing every fiber of her being, recognized him instantly, and followed him as he retreated, pierogies in hand, from her table.

At last, when Artur encountered a man who spoke to him in a way suggesting a parental relationship, Sofia pounced. Introducing herself, she told her tale and demanded the particulars of the lad’s provenance. Andrzej, in a trembling voice, his heart breaking, related the events of the stormy night seven years prior.

A discussion ensued and both families gathered, as did a number of townspeople. As darkness fell, Father Jok Doriecki, the village priest, wandered by and was recruited as arbitrator. Prayers were said. Vendors gathered, hawking “Death By Potato,” the local vodka.

Sofia spoke, as did Andrzej and each of his children. At last, Fr. Doriecki, swaying a bit and fueled by the spirit, pronounced his verdict in a single sentence still celebrated by every student of Polish jurisprudence.

“A mother is a mother,” he declared.

And there was silence. Many fell to their knees, dumbstruck at the simple wisdom of this parish priest, their eyes raised heavenward where, as if by providence, a shooting star flashed, fell, and disappeared into the darkness. Thus was the case decided. Artur returned home that night with Sofia and Federik.

The next morning, as dawn broke, Sofia arose and went to gaze upon her sleeping son. He was gone, of course, already halfway to the seaport where he would sign on as a cabin boy aboard a tramp freighter that would ultimately deposit the young man, ten years old, at the foot of Manhattan Island. The year was 1840, and Artur Maciejewski was now an American.

Artur spoke Polish and the patois of a hundred nations, yet not a word of English. But in a new country full of immigrants, for a boy already accustomed to earning his supper through the sweat of his brow, New York was a dream come true. For him, there was always work, always food, and always adventure. He hauled fish, shined shoes, and sold coffins. For several years, he worked as cook and laundryman for a bawdyhouse on Wall Street. It was there he learned to read and write English, with the King James Bible as his textbook.

But not even the Big Apple could keep Artur in its thrall for long. At sixteen, with twelve dollars in his pocket and new shoes on his feet, he set out for a place he had heard about only in the stories of drunken men at the cathouse bar. It was a land with a big sky and vast deserts and grasslands a thousand miles across, a wild place where riches were waiting for any man with a strong back, a brain in his head and a gun on his hip. He didn’t know exactly where it was, but he knew it was called Texas, and he knew he could not rest until he had seen it. It would take him eleven years to get there.

He worked the farms and orchards of southern Ohio, and tarried a bit. There was a girl named Polly, a girl with wide hips and apple cheeks and a ready smile, the only child of a prosperous widower with a big spread. He liked the farmer and he liked Polly, but she was not Texas, and when Spring arrived, he was gone again, through the hills and hollows of Kentucky to the Mississippi River, and St. Louis, Missouri.

There was always work at the docks for a man who wanted it, and that is where he went. His experience at sea got him a job on a paddle-wheeler as a laborer, then as a seaman, then as a faro dealer, then as manager of the bar and card-room. At age 22, Artur was wearing tailored suits and had acquired a taste for expensive cigars. He was a gentleman of sorts, a man of some means, and he was known in every port along the river.

On June 10, 1857, Artur was cutting into a steak at his favorite restaurant in New Orleans when his attention was drawn to an altercation at a table across the restaurant. An elderly gentleman was being accosted by two rough-looking men standing over him and shouting. The source of their pique was unclear, but as the their language grew foul and threatening, Artur rose and strode purposefully across the room. Grasping a shoulder, he spun one of the men around and flattened him with a right hand to the jaw. The other turned and swung wildly at Artur, who countered with a solid left. As waiters dragged the two assailants to the street, the elderly man spoke to Artur.

“Young man, my name is Sam Houston, and if you return with me to Texas, you will never regret it.”

“I am dining with friends, sir,” Artur replied. “May I finish my supper before we leave?”

And thus did Artur come to serve Sam Houston as factotum, bodyguard and friend at Houston’s home in Huntsville. Two years later, when Houston was elected Governor, the pair moved to Austin, where Artur quickly became “a good man to know” if you wanted the governor’s ear. Houston was forced to resign in 1861 over his staunch opposition to secession, and the men returned to Huntsville, where Artur attended the old man until his death in 1863.

Still a young man, Artur (now known as Tex) was well-situated financially and known throughout the state. Some of Sam Houston’s cronies wanted to launch him into Texas politics. Others came forward with various business opportunities.

But such a life of sedentary privilege was not for Tex. Instead, he took a low-paying, dangerous job with a group of men he respected above all others. Tex Maciejewski became a Texas Ranger. For the next 25 years, Tex would see every inch of the land he had come to love, bringing law to the lawless, and keeping the peace for the innocent.

In 1888, after three dusty weeks on the road, Tex returned to his headquarters to find a letter waiting for him, addressed simply to “Artur Maciejewski, Texas.” Sofia had found him again. Now in her late 70’s, she had immigrated to America with two of her sons and was living in Philadelphia.

Three weeks later, Tex knocked at the door of a nondescript tenement in the Port Richmond section of Philadelphia, and was reunited with his mother, with whom he would live for the rest of her life.

Tex himself became a popular figure in the taprooms and clubhouses of Port Richmond, and his stories of cowboys and Indians, outlaws and range wars, all rendered in fluent Polish with a Texas drawl, captivated both young and old for years.

Toward the end of his days, he was once asked if he had any regrets in his long and colorful life. “Well,” he said, “I never married, never had a son. Ha! Maybe somebody will name a kid after me.”

Tex died quietly in 1907. His services were attended by five Texas Rangers who stood at attention throughout the memorial, then returned to Texas with his ashes, which were scattered along the Rio Grande. Among the Polish families in Port Richmond, and now among their descendants, the name “Tex” endures as a popular name for a first-born son.

Copyright 2004 Michael Kubacki