by Bob Mayer
“Sit down, please,” Lincoln said, waving toward a hard wooden bench on their side of the desk. Stanton went and stood by an open window, peering out, as if he had no interest in anything that might happen inside the room and wanted to grab as much fresh air as possible.
Lincoln looked different than the etchings Rumble had seen in the papers. His nose was the first thing one noticed, followed by the prominent cheekbones, with skin drawn tight over them. But then the eyes trapped Rumble’s attention.
Rumble and Delafield sat on the bench, backs not touching the wood, much like plebes were forced to sit at meals at West Point.
“Willie and Tad like to bring their friends into the house,” Lincoln said. “And it does me good to play every once in a while or I might get grumpy. Willie just received a pony the other day. I was going to refuse the gift, but he fell so in love with it, I ended up paying the benefactor out of my own pocket for the animal in order to keep it and avoid any sort of impropriety.”
Rumble glanced at Delafield, unsure if they were supposed to respond to this, but the former superintendent remained silent, so he followed the lead.
“General Delafield,” Lincoln said. “It was good of you to hold the reins at the Academy after that fool Beauregard displayed his southern tendencies.”
“I am always glad to serve my country, sir,” Delafield said.
“Would that all military men felt the same way,” Lincoln murmured, more to himself than the others.
“Sir,” Delafield said, “if I might introduce—“
“Sergeant Major Rumble,” Lincoln said. Surprisingly, Lincoln stood and leaned over the desk, extending his hand. Rumble scrambled to his feet and met the President’s firm hand.
Lincoln held the grip for a second. “I can always tell a lot about a man from his shake.”
Then the President sat back down, put his feet up on the desk while leaning so far back in his chair, that even Stanton started, expecting to see the President fall over backwards. Their concern was for naught as Lincoln laced his fingers behind his head and began speaking, as if to the ceiling.
“I was in the military for a little while during the Black Hawk War,” Lincoln said. “One of the proudest moments of my life was when the men in my company elected me captain. Of course, they did not do so out of any sense that I had the genius of a Mars. I could wrestle well, which they somehow seemed to believe lent itself to leadership.”
Lincoln was gazing at some spot on the ceiling. Rumble was tempted to look up, but he kept his eyes on the President as he continued.
“One time we were on the march and we came upon a split rail fence. There was a narrow gate in the fence, but I fear I could not remember the proper commands to go from the march formation to the appropriate movement to get us through the gate in a military manner. So I simply called a halt, ordered the men to fall out for a few minutes and reform on the other side of the fence in formation. It worked.” Lincoln dropped his feet off the desk with a heavy thud and sat up straight. “However, no one was firing at us at the time. I suppose that would have made my maneuver disastrous.”
Lincoln sighed and for a moment he looked old, very old, the lines in his face falling into each other and the dark pockets under his eyes telling of restless nights.
“General McDowell will move on Richmond soon. And many say that hopefully this war will be over soon. Are you a hopeful man, Sergeant Major Rumble?”
“In this instance, I am not, sir,” Rumble replied.
“Really? A rarity in this city.” Lincoln looked past Stanton, out the window. “They stopped building Washington’s monument in ’54 when the pockets of the people donating were empty. Congress was going to appropriate the money to finish it, but then the states got to haggling. Alabama wanted the monument to have stone from every state and once that can of worms was opened Washington’s tower was doomed to gather dust.” Lincoln fell silent for a moment. “And then there’s the capitol dome. Also incomplete. I can finish one or the other, but not both, which seems to be the theme of this war.”
Silence descended in the office once more. Rumble fought not to fidget, but the sound of intense activity outside the door contrasted starkly with the stillness in side. Even the heat seemed to be at bay for the moment.
“We offered a graduate of your Academy, Robert E. Lee, command of the army. Did you know that?” Lincoln asked.
The other three men were uncertain whom the question was directed at, but Delafield answered. “Yes, sir. He was a good choice.”
“Except that good choice now fights for the other side,” Lincoln said. “Which means he was actually a poor choice in retrospect. As was Beauregard, whom you replaced. In fact, I’m told he commands the army in Virginia that our troops will engage shortly. And our army is led by General McDowell. The two were classmates at West Point. I find that strange. In fact,” Lincoln’s voice got sharper, “I find it most strange that men who swore an oath to our country, who were educated at our country’s expense, who were commissioned in our country’s army, are now fighting against our country. Am I the only one who finds this strange?”
“No, sir,” Rumble said.
“Did you know Lee?”
“He was superintendent from ’52 to ‘55,” Rumble said.
“What kind of man is he?” Lincoln asked.
“Very smart, sir. Very precise. A very good officer. I also saw him briefly in Mexico. He comes alive in battle.”
Lincoln frowned. “He’s enjoys it?”
“No, sir. Not that. It just seemed his natural element.”
“Woe unto us, then,” Lincoln murmured. “And McDowell?”
“He’s an officer, sir, and I’m but an enlisted man.”
Lincoln arched an eyebrow. “Come now. Between us men.”
“Before the Mexican War, General McDowell was a tactics instructor at the Academy,” Rumble said.
“And?” Lincoln pressed.
Rumble looked over at Stanton, but the attorney seemed more interested in what was going on outside.
“He was a major not long ago, sir,” Rumble said. “Now he commands tens of thousands. The tactics taught on the blackboard at West Point are one thing. Implementing them with an army made largely of ninety-day volunteers is another.”
“The rebel army is also made of volunteers,” Lincoln said. “Our soldiers are green, but they are green also. They are all green alike.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What else?” Lincoln prompted.
“McDowell has never led troops in combat. He was an aide-de-camp during the Mexican War.”
“So he saw combat,” Lincoln said.
“Seeing combat and leading men in combat are two very different things, sir.”
“I imagine they are,” Lincoln said. “Responsibility for the lives of others is a great burden.”
The room was silent for a while, the words sinking into the walls of the President’s office.
“What of McClellan?” Lincoln finally asked.
When Rumble hesitated, Lincoln’s voice became harsher. “Why do you think are here, Sergeant Major? I asked General Delafield to tell me of the West Pointers, since he’s been superintendent three times, more than any other. He informed me that the man who could tell me the most was the Master of the Horse. Who had once been a cadet and then taught riding to class after class of cadets. Who went to the Mexican War and wrote many notebooks full of information that no one reads.
“So? What of McClellan? He won our first battle at Philippi. Thus he now has command on the other side of the Appalachians. And he sent General Scott a strategic plan to win the war. Very industrious and showing of initiative, don’t you think?”
“You seem to have your mind made up about him, sir,” Rumble said.
“I have not,” Lincoln snapped. He sighed. “I’m sorry. Let me explain. There’s a call to abolish West Point. So many graduates have gone over to the other side, there is a very legitimate question as to why we should con
tinue funding the institution. But as we used to say back in Illinois, that cow has already left the barn. We’re stuck with the officers we have and I need to know about them. So. McClellan.”
“McClellan is a very good organizer, sir,” Rumble said. “But he’s not daring. And he will flinch at the critical moment, when a general needs to press on. He’s not a finisher and this war will need a finisher.”
Lincoln smiled. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “From all the West Pointers you’ve seen, as cadets and as officers, who is the best ‘finisher’ as you call it?”
“Ulysses S. Grant, sir.”
“I like the name Ulysses. Very martial.” Lincoln frowned. “Ulyssess Grant? That strikes a bell.” He began sifting through a pile of papers on his desk.
Rumble plunged on. “He’s solid and steady, sir, and if there’s one thing he will do, it’s get where he’s going. I fought with him in Mexico.”
“Ah!” Lincoln said, pulling out a sheet. “Here’s his name. Recommendations for promotion to General from each state. He’s very far down. The war might indeed be over before his name bubbles up high enough. Curious.”
Lincoln reached out and grabbed a pen. He scratched through some names, then wrote a note next to Grant’s name. “Well, he’ll be a general within the month.”
Rumble leaned forward. “If I might make a suggestion, sir?”
Lincoln paused, pen hovering over paper. “Yes?”
“Back date the promotion to May. This will allow him to rank most of the other officers on that list.”
Lincoln chuckled. “Ah, the army. Certainly. Let’s say, May 17th. I like the ring of that.” He wrote some more and then put the paper into another pile. “I assume you’ll be fighting, Sergeant Major?”
Rumble nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s my duty.”
Lincoln reached down to the floor, disappearing for a moment behind the large desk. He re-appeared holding a rifle in his hands. “The Henry Arms company gave me two guns. One was quite fancy and engraved in gold. Number six off the production line. Too fancy to actually be used. I’d be afraid to fire it. And they gave me this one, plain and simple.” He cocked the lever. “Repeating rifle. Quite fascinating. Holds fifteen bullets.” He extended it to Rumble. “I think you can make much better use of it than I. Honestly, I have had thoughts about taking it with me when I go to Congress, although fifteen bullets wouldn’t be near as many as I’d need, so you’d be doing me, and a number of congressmen, a favor.”
Rumble took the rifle, feeling the solid weight of it in his hands. “Thank you, sir. I’ll find a use for it.”
Lincoln scribbled something on a piece of paper and signed it. He folded it and extended the paper across the desk as he stood. “I’d prefer if you used the rifle to stay alive. I would want a word with you in the future, Sergeant Major. And use this,” he indicated the paper, “to go wherever you desire within the army, answerable to no one but me. I want you to ride south and join McDowell tomorrow. Do what you did in Mexico. Observe. And then come back here and tell me what you’ve seen. You work for me now, Master of the Horse Rumble.”
“You did well,” Delafield said as the carriage retraced the route from the morning.
“He’s not quite what I expected,” Rumble said, the Henry across his lap.
“He’s in for a hard time,” Delafield predicted. “The abolitionists want him to emancipate the slaves immediately, but if he does so, he loses the border states. He loses the border states, we most likely lose the war. He’s making it about Union, but I think that can only carry this war so far. Damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t.”
“I wouldn’t want his job for all the money in the world,” Rumble said.
Delafield pointed at the Henry. “That’s a fine weapon he gave you. If only the war department would see fit to outfit the entire army with them.”
“Why won’t they?”
“The fools think the soldiers will use too much ammunition if they can fire fifteen shots in eleven seconds, as the Ordnance department timed it in trials.”
“I thought the point of combat was to pour as much fire into the enemy ranks as quickly as possible. At least that was my experience.”
“Old men move slowly when faced with change,” Delafield said. “They haven’t even taken the rifled musket into account yet concerning tactics.”
Rumble stiffened, seeing Ben standing outside the boarding house. He knew, in the way only a parent could. He could barely mumble his parting to General Delafield as he angrily dismounted the carriage. With a clatter it rolled away as Rumble faced Ben.
“I will not allow this,” Rumble declared.
“It isn’t your choice,” Ben said. “I’m a man and I’m of age and this time the decision is all mine.”
“I can talk to General Delafield. He’ll have your enlistment papers torn up.”
“I’ll go elsewhere and re-enlist with another unit.”
“I’m going to fight; that is more than enough service for our family,” Rumble said.
“And Seneca fights for the South,” Ben pointed out. “Doesn’t that cancel out the Rumble contribution to the northern war effort?”
“And what would you do if you had to face your uncle on the field of battle?” Rumble asked.
“I’ll pray it doesn’t come to that.”
“And if your prayers aren’t answered?”
“I’ll pray harder.” Ben stood fast. “What will you do, father, if you have to face your brother? Will you kill him?”
“It won’t come to that,” Rumble said.
“So you pray for the same thing. Father, I’m fighting whether you give your blessings or not. I’d prefer to go with your blessings.”
“Your mother would not have wanted this.”
“Mother didn’t want me in the Corps. This is a different matter. She didn’t make you promise that I wouldn’t serve in the army. I believe she would’ve wanted me to be an honorable man and not just say words about what I believe but to take action.”
“She would have wished you safe.”
“All mothers want their sons safe but few are going to be granted that.”
Rumble clenched his fists. “Why did you do this?”
“I had to, father.” Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out an abolitionist token and handed it over.
“You got this at the seminary?” Rumble asked.
“Yes.”
“So my mother’s plan sending you there had an undesired effect.” Rumble laughed bitterly. “So much for plans.”
Ben’s eyes were moist. “Think of my name-sake. Should I disavow the very legacy you placed on me with my given name?”
Rumble’s shoulders slumped. “If you must do this, let me help you. A friend of mine, Sam Grant, is going to become a general out west. If you must serve, my heart would be comforted if you served under him.”
“What makes Grant so special?” Ben asked.
“He’s steady,” Rumble said. “No matter what the pressure, he stands fast.”
“Is that what a soldier is supposed to do?”
“Part of it,” Rumble said. “You have no idea what war is like. It’s not some noble and glorious adventure. It’s blood and death and horror.”
“I’m not starry-eyed, father,” Ben said. “I know it’ll be bad. I grew up at West Point where all they talk of is war. I did spend seven weeks in the Corps.” Ben held out the token. “Take this, please.”
Rumble accepted the coin and the inevitability of his son going to war.
Chapter Two
21 July 1861, Manassas, Virginia
Rumble experienced a growing sense of dread as he re-read the orders McDowell had issued the previous night. It didn’t seem to occur to General McDowell that General Beauregard, whom he faced across Bull Run Creek in Northern Virginia, had sat in the same tactics classes at West Point for four years, taught by the same instructors.
He was alone in the staff tent b
ehind Wilmer McLean’s farmhouse, which McDowell had chosen as his headquarters. It was five in the morning and according to these orders, some units were already in movement. The sum of the orders comprised a complicated turning movement for the assault this morning.
While several divisions would attack the Confederate left flank for the turning movement, another element would block reinforcements coming from the Shenandoah Valley, while another element would be a diversion, and another element would protect the rear.
These were not orders for a volunteer army, roughly trained, entering combat for the first time. These were orders that Napoleon’s Imperial Guard might have a chance to pull off. And they were orders Napoleon himself might have given, considering that Napoleonic tactics had been the military bible preached at West Point.
In the flickering candlelight, Rumble put the orders down and examined the Henry repeating rifle. Napoleon had not had such a weapon. Napoleon had been moldering in a grave for over forty years. In fact, during the Mexican War, the soldiers had not been armed with rifled muskets as they were now, yet the tactics had not grown with the weaponry. Rumble consoled himself by figuring Beauregard was issuing a similar set of complicated orders on the other side of Bull Run. And that Ben was heading west, to join a unit out there with Grant.
The flap on the tent twitched open and an excited young officer with a dispatch case over one shoulder rushed in. A cascade of golden locks flowed over the newly commissioned officer’s shoulders. He headed right for a pile of gear, but paused upon seeing Rumble.
“Master of the Horse,” George Armstrong Custer said. “What brings you here?”
“Lieutenant Custer,” Rumble said. “I’m on a special assignment.” Lincoln’s letter was in Rumble’s breast pocket, right next to Lidia and Ben’s etching.
Custer didn’t seem too interested. “I’m riding dispatches from General Scott to General McDowell. Just delivered a batch.” He pulled a stirrup out of the pile. “Lost mine crossing a river.”
A sharp crack in the distance split the air. Rumble had heard it before. A cannon firing. It was followed by a volley from a battery.
