Gone to Texas

by Jason Manning

  Thayer spun on his heel and walked briskly away, head down, hands clasped behind his back.

  Standing there in the hot sun, Christopher felt cold. What could Emily Cooper, née Vickers, want from him? Whatever her motives for coming to see him, he was certain that no good would come of it.

  Chapter 3

  Christopher tried his level best not to let the imminent visit of Emily Cooper distract him from his studies. He labored to convince himself that there was nothing to it, and that nothing would come of it. The woman had loved his father—he gave her the benefit of the doubt on that score. She must have, to have risked everything—her good name, her family's respect—to engage for so many years in what could only be described as a scandalous affair. Maybe she was coming to apologize to him, to try to explain why she had done what she'd done. And if she did ask for his forgiveness? Christopher decided he would give it. That would a gentleman's course, and bitter recriminations wouldn't alter the past.

  And what would come of the visit? Right away Christopher got a taste of the changes Emily Cooper would bring about in his life. That he had been summoned by Superintendent Thayer spread like wildlife through the corps. At every opportunity his classmates beseeched him to tell the gory details. Christopher stonily refused to divulge any information to anyone. Except O'Connor. He and O'Connor shared a room with Gil Bryant and immediately after supper O'Connor found Christopher alone in their quarters.

  "You were wrong," said Christopher. "As usual. It had absolutely nothing to do with Greta Inskilling."

  O'Connor was surprised. "I thought for certain it did, especially since you refuse to tell anyone what transpired between you and Old Silly."

  "No. No, it's much worse."

  "Worse? Good Lord." O'Connor sat down and leaned forward. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "I doubt it. The superintendent informed me that Emily Cooper is coming here to visit with me."

  He watched his friend closely. Never had the subject of his father's lurid private affairs been broached between them. They had talked about everything else under the sun, except that. O'Connor had sensed from the start that it was a sensitive subject, and avoided it out of respect for his friend's feelings. Christopher was curious now to know what O'Connor, a Tennessean, knew about the whole business. Surely he knew something. O'Connor's expression betrayed the fact that, indeed, he knew a great deal.

  "Emily Cooper?" O'Connor was reading Christopher's face, as well, and could see that to be disingenuous—his first instinct—would not pass muster. "Yes, I've heard about her and your father."

  "What exactly have you heard?" Christopher's tone of voice was defensive. He couldn't help it.

  "It is a well-kept secret—by almost everybody."

  "God," groaned Christopher, dismally.

  "Look on the bright side . . . "

  "I just can't fathom," said Christopher, "why she would come all this way to see me."

  O'Connor brandished a pipe, packed it with tobacco, and fired it up. He sat there puffing a moment, pondering the situation, filling the room with fragrant blue smoke. Such a blatant disregard for the regulations on O'Connor's part was so commonplace that Christopher thought nothing of it.

  "There is nothing to be gained by trying to understand why a woman does what she does," decided O'Connor. "There is no logic to it. I am convinced that, more often than not, they do not themselves know the reasons for their actions. 'The Heart has its reasons which Reason knoweth not.' Chateaubriand, wasn't it? Or Pascal?"

  "Pascal. You're a big help, O'Connor."

  O'Connor grinned. "Were I you, it's Adam Vickers I would worry about, and not her."

  "Why? What do you think he'll do?"

  "Well, that depends on what she does, and how you react. Mark my words, Vickers will be looking for any excuse to pick a fight with you."

  Christopher's gesture of disdain was full of youthful bravado. "If he wants a fight all he has to do is ask for it. I'll be more than happy to oblige."

  "You don't mean that. Be sensible, Christopher. You could be drummed out of the Corps."

  "Words of caution from you? That's rich."

  No longer was O'Connor grinning. The ne'er-do-well attitude was gone now, replaced by sober concern.

  "Don't jeopardize your career, my friend. Not for the likes of Adam Vickers."

  "You never take my advice, do you, O'Connor?"

  "Shame on me if I don't. But I always thought you had better sense than I."

  "I do."

  O'Connor laughed, and Christopher laughed with him. That was one of the things Christopher liked about O'Connor. No matter how grim the situation, O'Connor could always make him laugh. Never take life too seriously. That was O'Connor's golden rule. Christopher decided he would try to live by it as he awaited Emily Cooper's visit.

  Christopher tried his best to concentrate on his studies. The academic load was so he could not afford to become distracted and fall behind. It was a difficult task. He came to resent Emily Cooper for adversely affecting his life—again. Which was odd, considering that he had never met her face-to-face.

  His was a full and strenuous routine. Reveille was sounded at dawn. Cadets dressed and answered roll call. Quarters had to be made immaculate, and all accoutrements cleaned and polished to perfection. A half hour after reveille, cadet officers inspected the barracks. From the sunrise gun to seven o'clock the cadets studied their lessons. Then, at seven, they formed squads and marched to the mess hall. While eating they were not permitted to indulge in idle conversation. Allowed thirty minutes for breakfast, there was guard mount at seven-thirty, parade at eight, after which they marched to the academic building, which included a chapel, the library, the chemical and physics laboratories, the engineering department, and the adjutant's office.

  From eight until eleven in the morning the cadets were in classroom. The first-classmen—the "plebes"—studied mathematics, while the others tackled physics, which included calculus, analytical geometry and conic sections, drawing—which included landscape and topography—and chemistry and "natural philosophy." The latter heading was composed of instruction in mechanics, electricity, astronomy, light, heat, and magnetism, with texts which included Newton's Principia and Gregory's Treatise on Mechanics. Between eleven and noon, cadets were allowed to return to their quarters to study. From noon to one o'clock they were free. The dinner hour was at one, and at two came formation, followed by studies and recitations in French until four. The texts were Gil Blas and Voltaire's Histoire de Charles XII. From four until sunset there were military exercises. Two hours every other afternoon were devoted to artillery practice. At sunset, dress parade and roll call were followed by supper, after which the cadets retired to their quarters and wrestled with their studies until nine-thirty. Tattoo and a final roll call and inspection of quarters concluded the day. "Lights out" was at precisely ten o'clock.

  Christopher customarily attacked all his studies with what amounted to grim dedication, motivated by the knowledge that in his third year at the Academy he would leave mathematics and physics behind and be introduced to the discipline he was longing to sink his teeth into, technical military training. The science of war. The course was in four parts: fortifications, artillery, grand tactics, and civil and military architecture. The topics ranged from the building of batteries and redoubts, the construction of mines, the attack and defense of fortified places, the principles of gunnery, orders of battle, laying out an encampment, the building of arches, canals and bridges. All of the mathematical and scientific study of a cadet's first two years laid a foundation for this course. Christopher could hardly wait.

  In his spare time—what little he had—he did extra reading designed as preliminary forays into the realm of military training. He checked books out of the library—Machiavelli's Art of War, Drean's Military Dictionary, and Baron Gay de Vernon's Treatise on the Science of War and Fortification. Consuming these heavy tomes had never been a chore for him. His mind was a sponge
soaking up every detail. But now, as Emily Cooper loomed ominously in his immediate future, he found it extremely difficult to concentrate.

  These were crucial months for all the cadets. The board of visitors would soon make its annual visit. The board was composed of five gentlemen well-versed in military and other sciences who would be on hand for the Academy's twice-yearly examinations. They were allowed to verbally examine the cadets. Christopher wanted to excel, as he always did, in these examinations, because those whose names were placed at the top of the merit rolls received instruction from the best members of the faculty. And Christopher was determined to qualify for Alfred Thayer Mahan's class in military science. One reason was Mahan's admiration for Napoleon Bonaparte's military genius, something he shared with Christopher. Napoleon had breathed his last a few years ago, an exile on the remote South Atlantic island of St. Helena, but his reputation as one of the great captains of military history would never die.

  Christopher's prized possession was a rare copy of Napoleon's Military Maxims. A slim printed volume bound in dun-colored leather, its full title was A Manuscript found in the portfolio of Las Casas containing maxims and observations of Napoleon, collected during the last two years of his residence at St. Helena. Translated from the French, it had been printed in London in 1820. Oddly enough, the volume sported a frontispiece of Wellington, of all people.

  Ten days after his visit with Sylvanus Thayer, Christopher found a little time between tattoo and "lights out" to browse through the Maxims. Not having been entirely successful in concentrating on his studies that day, he sought inspiration from the words of the master for renewed effort on the morrow. Bryant and O'Connor were there, too, the former at his desk, plowing through Berard's Lecteur Français. O'Connor was sprawled on his bed, writing a letter to one of his many lady friends.

  Then Adam Vickers burst into the room.

  "There you are, Groves," he said curtly. "I want a word with you."

  Sitting on his bed, his back to the wall, Christopher stared at the intruder, momentarily nonplussed. Vickers was a tall, brawny young man with raven black hair in a constant state of angry disarray, and blue eyes so dark they looked black at times, beneath bushy brows which met above the bridge of his nose, giving him a peculiarly predatory appearance.

  O'Connor rolled out of his bunk and jumped to his feet to confront Vickers, standing toe to toe, matching Vickers' belligerence with an equal measure of his own.

  "Why don't you try knocking before you enter private quarters?"

  "Take care how you speak to me," sneered Vickers, and pointed to the stripes on his sleeve. He had been honored with an appointment as class staff sergeant, a position that only the best cadets of good academic standing could hope to attain. There was no denying that Vickers was an excellent student. He excelled in athletic pursuits, too. But he was not well-liked. His attitude was to blame for that.

  "I wouldn't care if you wore a general's braid," said O'Connor, truculent.

  Christopher rose, put a hand on O'Connor's shoulder, and spun him around. He knew O'Connor would never back down from the likes of Vickers, and he didn't want his friend to get into trouble on his account.

  "Back off," he said.

  O'Connor smirked at Vickers. "Well, I suppose I should only expect gentlemen to have manners."

  "Why don't you and Gil leave," suggested Christopher. "I believe what Mr. Vickers wants to say to me ought to be said in private."

  "You're sure?" asked O'Connor, reluctant to go.

  Christopher nodded.

  Once O'Connor and Bryant were gone and the door closed, Vickers said, "The Superintendent told me my cousin Emily is paying us a visit."

  "So I've been told."

  "He advised me not to make trouble."

  "Why would you?"

  "I have every reason," said Vickers, the words sharp as knives. "Your father destroyed her good name."

  "My father?" Christopher barked a laugh. His ire was on the rise, and he fought to control it. "You need to get the facts straight. Your cousin pursued my father. He was a married man, and she knew it. By all accounts, she became obsessed with him after he killed her husband in a duel."

  "That's a dirty lie!" roared Vickers, fists clenched, face flush with scarlet anger.

  Christopher said nothing. This confrontation was teetering precariously on the brink of violence, and violence would mean disaster. Both of them would lose.

  Vickers shook a finger in his face. "I don't know why Emily would come all this way to see the likes of you. But whatever her reasons, I'm warning you, Groves, you had better treat her with respect. I will defend my family's honor."

  "If you've said what you came to say, get out."

  "You don't tell me what to do."

  "I said get out."

  "You're forgetting who I am."

  "Those stripes don't give you the right to remain in my quarters without my permission, unless you are conducting a formal inspection."

  "You're a coward," said Vickers, eyes narrowed into slits.

  He wants a fight, realized Christopher, and the devil take the cost. 'Never do what the enemy wishes you to do, for this reason alone, that he desires it.' Napoleon's words came to Christopher's mind as he returned Vickers' stare.

  Without another word Christopher went to the door and opened it. O'Connor and Bryant were waiting just outside. They stepped into the room and watched Vickers, like a pair of trained guard dogs waiting hopefully for the word from Christopher that would loose them on the intruder.

  Vickers sneered. "Three to one. Are those odds good enough for a coward like you, Groves?"

  "He wouldn't need any help from us to teach you a few manners," said O'Connor.

  "One day, Groves," Vickers said as he left the room. "One day we will settle what's between us."

  Christopher shut the door on him.

  Chapter 4

  William Cozzens, West Point's mess contractor, used the upper level of the two-story mess hall as a hotel. Ten rooms were available for friends and relatives who journeyed to the Academy to visit the cadets. It was here that Emily Cooper found lodging. But as it was not acceptable that her meeting with Christopher Groves occur in her hotel room, arrangements were made, through Superintendent Thayer, for Christopher to be excused from his afternoon academics to meet with her at Kosciusko's rock garden.

  The garden was near the cottage where Kosciusko had lived. A steep flight of stone steps descended from the ramparts down the wooded slope to the cottage near the river. The cottage was unoccupied now, but maintained by the Academy as a monument to one of the true heroes of the American Revolution.

  Christopher was a few minutes late. From the top of the rock garden he could see a frail figure dressed in somber black near the bottom of the steps, her back to him.

  Christopher hesitated. Adam Vickers' threat caused him less worry than Emily Cooper herself, for she had become a flesh-and-blood reminder of a past that Christopher was trying to overcome, if not escape. She was here because of his father, and her presence forced Christopher to confront his own mixed feelings about Jonathan Groves.

  She heard him as he came near, and turned, and for an instant Christopher was shot through with supernatural awe, nape hairs crawling, because she seemed ethereal rather than solid, spirit rather than living person, a ghost in black organdy and lace that might disintegrate before his very eyes, come here to haunt him. He told himself it was just the setting, the gray sky and gray river, the exotic rock garden, the gloom-shrouded trees through which the wind whispered and moaned.

  "Christopher," she said, extending a small gloved hand. "I've desired for so long to see you. Come, let me look at you."

  He took the hand—it lay light as a feather in his—and inclined his upper body forward an inch or two in a stiff bow.

  "At your service, ma'am."

  "As gallant as your father." She spoke slowly, dreamily, and he thought she must be smiling, though he couldn't be certain, as she wore a bl
ack veil. Her face was pale and indistinct, like the moon behind a film of high, thin clouds. "You resemble him a great deal, you know. Oh, it makes me happy and sad at the same time. Does that make any sense? I miss him very much, even though he has been gone so many years."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Do you? Miss him, I mean."

  "I suppose."

  "You suppose? Don't you know?"

  "I knew him scarcely at all. Rarely saw him. When I was very young he was in politics, often away from home, at Frankfort in the Kentucky Legislature and later the Congress. Then he was off to fight." Christopher hesitated, wondering if he should speak his mind.

  She spoke it for him. "And when he wasn't off fighting he was with me."

  He did not respond, out of simple courtesy.

  "You must hate me," she said.

  "No."

  "Resent me, then. After all, when he could have come home to you and your mother he came instead to me."

  "I don't blame you."

  "You don't? Honestly? Others do. But I don't care what other people think."

  That, thought Christopher, was stating the obvious. A woman of Emily Cooper's station would not have been content having a long-standing affair with a married man if she cared one whit for public opinion.

  "Of course you aren't telling the truth, are you, Christopher?" she asked. "Surely you must blame me, if only a little. After all, I did pursue your father. They say I was obsessed with him. He saved my life, you know. Stephen was a brute. I believe he was mentally unstable. Had been, ever since that Shawnee tomahawk cracked his skull. He would fly into such terrible rages, without warning. One minute he was fine, and the next was transformed into a cruel brute. He . . . he beat me."

  "I'm sorry."

  "But even when he was being kind to me he was never loving, or affectionate. I don't think he was capable of affection. I believe he married me for my money. My father was, and still is, quite wealthy. Of course, I loved him, or else I would not have consented to marriage. He managed somehow to keep his darker side hidden from me until . . . until it was too late."