But he had no intention of running. In fact, to his surprise, he found himself quite calm and clearheaded. Adrenaline surged through his veins. His throat was dry, and there was a dull, persistent ache between his shoulder blades. But his hands were steady.
"Gentlemen, if you are ready?" said Morgan.
Vickers nodded.
"I'm ready," said Christopher, his voice clear as a bell.
Morgan, O'Connor, and Bryant backed away to give the combatants plenty of room.
Vickers extended his saber, dropping into the swordsman's crouch, body turned sideways to his adversary, the stance wide apart and bent at the knees, his free hand resting lightly on his hip. Christopher batted the saber away with the flat of the cutlass blade.
"Begin," said Morgan.
Incensed by Christopher's insolence, Vickers sprang forward like a horse released from the starting gate, slashing with the saber, a mighty downward stroke that could have split Christopher from the skull to sternum—except that Christopher deftly parried the blow and stepped aside to avoid Vickers' charge. With a snarl of rage Vickers passed him, off balance, then whirled and struck again, this time a horizontal stroke. The point of the saber grazed Christopher below the ribs, ripping his shirt and slicing his flesh and stinging like a thousand angry fire ants, but he knew the pain was worse than the wound, which was superficial.
The two men circled. Vickers lunged again, and Christopher stepped in to meet him. Steel rang against steel. Their blades locked at the guards, Vickers hooked a leg behind one of Christopher's and muscled his opponent off balance. Christopher fell and rolled to avoid the slashing saber, coming to his feet with an agile grace in time to parry another thrust. This left Vickers open to a blow to the face, and Christopher's fist landed solidly on the other's jawbone, driving him to one knee.
"No rules!" shouted O'Connor, a reminder for Morgan's benefit.
Vickers hurled a handful of sand into Christopher's face. Momentarily blinded, Christopher staggered backward as Vickers pounced like a jungle cat, seizing the advantage. Christopher blocked one stroke by sheer luck and then moved sideways, under another, gasping as Vickers' blade bit deeply into the flesh of his sword arm, above the elbow. An exultant cry escaped Vickers' lips. Christopher clutched at the wound as searing pain jolted his body. Blood gushed through his clawing fingers. Vickers pressed him, slashing with the saber again, like a man possessed. Sparks flew as blade clashed against blade. The two men pushed apart and circled.
Breathing hard, Christopher blinked sweat out of his eyes. Blood had soaked his shirt and was now beginning to drip into his hand, making his grip on the hilt of the Tripolitan cutlass a precarious one. Distant thunder rolled across the sky. Morgan, O'Connor, and Bryant stood by, silent and rigid spectators. Christopher could hear little else above the harsh rasp of the breath in his throat. As he and Vickers circled warily, the single lamp threw their shadows in a grotesque dance of death against the somber gray stone walls of the riding hall.
For the first time in his life Christopher stared death in the face. Until a moment ago he had considered himself invulnerable, a common delusion among youth. But now he realized he wasn't immortal. Adam Vickers was going to cut him into bloody pieces. He felt his strength ebbing as his blood made black splotches in the sand.
Vickers knew he had the upper hand, and his gloating face stirred the embers of Christopher's anger, and the anger gave him new strength, so that when Vickers lunged forward again with another mighty downward stroke of the saber, Christopher was able to overpower him, putting everything he had left into parry and counterstroke. The cutlass blade bit deeply into Vickers' sword arm, below the elbow, breaking the bone. The saber slipped from Vickers' paralyzed fingers. Vickers cried out and dropped abruptly to his knees, a bright spray of scarlet blood gushing from his wound. Christopher raised the cutlass over his head, gripping it with both hands. One stroke and he could decapitate his opponent. But then Vickers looked up and Christopher saw the fear in his eyes, and Vickers held up a hand, a feeble gesture, a plea for mercy, and Christopher came to his senses. The urge to destroy this man who had tormented him for so long passed quickly.
Christopher lowered the cutlass.
Rushing to Vickers' side, Morgan said, "It is over."
Christopher turned away as Morgan ripped Vickers' sleeve at the shoulder seam and used it as a tourniquet on the wounded man's arm, trying to staunch the profuse flow of blood. Suddenly Christopher felt dizzy, nauseated, and weak in the knees. O'Connor hurried to him, prepared to catch him should he fall, but by sheer force of will Christopher stayed on his feet, an arm laid across his friend's shoulder for support.
"You should have killed him when you had the chance," said O'Connor in a fierce whisper. "I know him. It isn't over. Not by a long shot."
Morgan approached them, spared Christopher a cold glance, and addressed O'Connor, still one second to another. "Mr. Vickers is in need of immediate medical attention."
"As is Mr. Groves."
"I predict Mr. Vickers will never again have the use of that arm."
"He's lucky to be alive," said O'Connor. "Would you rather he were dead? Whatever he has lost this night, he brought it on himself."
Glancing back at Vickers, Morgan said, "I'll bring the doctor here," and left the riding hall with long, quick strides.
Christopher started for the door.
"Where are you going?" asked O'Connor.
Christopher made no reply.
"For God's sake," said his friend, "you must remain still. You are losing a lot of blood."
Christopher kept walking. "I am going to call on the superintendent."
By the tone of his voice it was manifest to O'Connor that he would not be deterred. The Irishman nodded, with an air of resignation. "I'll go with you." He turned to Gil Bryant. "Look after Vickers."
Bryant nodded bleakly.
Outside, a night wind howled in the trees. Distant lightning illuminated the storm clouds. The smell of rain was strong and pungent. The cool, damp breeze on his face revived Christopher. He stumbled several times, but refused to fall. He dragged the cutlass, as though it were too heavy for him to lift. O'Connor stayed close, ready to help him if he should falter. But Christopher made it to the superintendent's house. Climbing the steps to the porch of the small white clapboard house took the very last of his strength. He managed to raise his fist, and let it fall against the door, leaving smears of blood on the white paint. A light appeared in a window. A latch clattered as it was thrown back. The door swung open. Thayer stood there in a nightshirt, holding a lamp aloft. Standing behind Christopher, O'Connor thought that in any other circumstance Old Silly would look quite silly indeed. But there was nothing amusing about the expression on the old soldier's face.
"What's the meaning of this?"
"I have come to report that I . . . " Christopher almost blacked out. He swayed like a tall pine in a strong wind. His words were slurred together. He struggled to get them out. "I have come to report that I have fought a duel with Cadet Vickers."
Thayer blanched. He looked at O'Connor as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing, and hoped O'Connor would tell him it wasn't so. But he saw nothing in O'Connor's grim face to encourage him to cling to that hope, and Sylvanus Thayer was not one to linger long in a state of denial.
"Why?" he snapped. "You, of all people, Cadet Groves. I thought you had better sense."
"It was a . . . a question of honor, sir."
Thayer's lips were so tightly compressed that his mouth resembled a knife slit. "Do you realize what you've done?"
"Yes, sir."
Thayer glowered at O'Connor. "And you? Why didn't you put a stop to this?"
O'Connor stood stiffly at attention. "Because Christopher is my friend."
"Were you a true friend you would have prevented this from happening."
"He had no recourse."
"No recourse," growled Thayer. He looked Christopher over from head to toe, and then no
ted for the first time the growing puddle of blood at Christopher's feet. "Bring him inside, O'Connor, and fetch Dr. Rhodes."
"Dr. Rhodes is at the riding hall by now, sir. Looking after Cadet Vickers."
"Vickers isn't dead?"
"No, sir."
"Well, that's something, at least." Thayer turned his attention back to Christopher. "But not enough, I fear, to save you from court-martial."
"No, sir."
Thayer stepped aside to let them enter. Christopher took one step, but the floor seemed suddenly to evaporate beneath his feet, and he pitched forward into a blackness many shades darker than the storm-swept night.
Chapter 6
"Where will you go?" asked O'Connor.
Christopher smiled at his despondent friend. "Home to Kentucky."
"But . . . but what will you do there?"
Christopher shook his head. The smile on his face was strained. He did not care to think too long and hard about the future, as it did not seem to him that he had one.
"I don't know yet," he confessed.
The last of his belongings was packed in the trunk. He closed the lid and secured the latch. O'Connor and Bryant were standing by to transport the trunk to the surrey waiting outside. Christopher was inconvenienced by his arm, which was not only tightly dressed but also immobilized in a sling. Even now, a fortnight after the duel, the slightest movement was painful.
He looked around the room, seeing it for the last time, and memories came flooding back. He remembered the last two years vividly and, now that it was over, his dreams shattered, he thought they would turn out to be the best two years of his life. The last two weeks, however, were vague, and blessedly so, because they were full of anguish, both physical and emotional. The end result was that he was out—dismissed from the United States Military Academy—and on the threshold of a long journey home, by rented surrey across the Alleghenies to a distant landing on the Ohio River, and down the river on a boat to another landing on Kentucky soil. He dreaded meeting his mother face-to-face. Not that she would be too disappointed. Rebecca Groves had never been enthusiastic about her son embarking on a military career. But Christopher wasn't looking forward to admitting failure—or his participation in an affair of honor. His mother was strongly opposed to dueling, and little wonder.
On the way to Elm Tree he would stop at Boonesboro and visit his grandfather, Nathaniel Jones, the legendary frontiersman most folks knew as Flintlock. Grandfather Nathaniel was getting on in years—he was sixty-five now. But his eye was still keen, his aim still true. Christopher looked up to him, and valued his advice. Nathaniel was a man of great wisdom, and Christopher knew that his grandfather would not judge him, but rather would give sound advice—if asked. Christopher only hoped that he would find Nathaniel at home. Now that his wife—Christopher's grandmother, Amanda—was dead, Nathaniel spent much of his time roaming the woodlands he knew and loved so well.
"Christopher?"
Lost in thought, Christopher jumped at the sound of O'Connor's voice, and turned to find his friend holding his coat of blue broadcloth. Christopher slipped his good arm into a sleeve, and O'Connor draped the coat over his other shoulder.
"You look strange out of uniform," said O'Connor, with a smile every bit as strained as Christopher's.
"At least we won't have to see how bad you look in civilian clothes."
"Yes, thanks to you."
"Amen," said Bryant.
"I simply told the board and the superintendent the truth," said Christopher, shrugging off their heartfelt gratitude.
"You told them we both tried to talk you out of it," said O'Connor. "That's only half true. If you recall, I was all for a little bloodletting."
"But you tried to talk me out of it later."
"I did?"
"Yes. I remember your exact words. You said Vickers and I would hack each other to bloody pieces." Christopher glanced ruefully at his damaged arm. "That's what happened, too."
"Still, I can't believe they didn't throw us out, and Morgan, too."
"They understand and appreciate loyalty. As do I." Christopher extended his left hand, and O'Connor clasped it tightly.
"Well," said the Irishman, "we'd better get this trunk loaded up. You have a long road ahead of you."
Christopher followed them out. It was a warm and sunny morning, but he did not have eyes to see and appreciate this—he would forever remember this day as one of the most gray and dismal of his life. He was just grateful that all the other cadets were in class. His erstwhile roommates had been given permission to see him off. Christopher thought Sylvanus Thayer had been extremely generous in his handling of the situation. Of course, he and Vickers, the principals in the duel, had to go. No question of that. But Old Silly had proved astonishingly lenient when it came to Bryant and O'Connor and Morgan.
Thoughts of Greta Inskilling intruded on Christopher's misery, and made it even more severe. He tried to banish them from his mind. He had the courage to confront Adam Vickers in an affair of honor, but not nearly enough to face Greta, now that he was ruined and disgraced, and he could only imagine how her father must be gloating over his misfortune at this very moment. Like father, like son, Piet Inskilling would tell his daughter.
Once the trunk was loaded onto the back of the surrey the three friends parted company. Christopher did not linger over the farewell. No long goodbyes for him. As usual, O'Connor tried to be lighthearted, though Christopher could see his own unhappiness reflected in the young Irishman's eyes.
"Don't be surprised if you find my shadow on your door in a few months' time," said O'Connor. "I have a feeling Old Silly is at the end of his tether where I'm concerned. One false step and . . . "
"And you would disappoint me," was Christopher's stern reply. "As a friend, do me a favor. Obey the rules. Graduate from West Point. That way at least one of us will."
O'Connor swallowed the lump in his throat, nodded solemnly. He did not trust himself to speak.
Christopher climbed into the surrey, gathered up the leathers in his one good hand, and whipped the bay horse in the traces into motion. He didn't look back.
Less than a mile from the Point, he met a rider on the road. The horseman was heading toward the Academy, and by the looks of his horse he was in a big hurry. His uniform identified him as a dragoon. The single gold bar on the shoulder straps of his blue double-breasted frock informed Christopher that he was a lieutenant. His forage cap was adorned with an officer's badge, a gold-embroidered six-point star. He wore a red sash beneath his sword belt, which sported a Mortimer pistol as well as the regulation saber.
The dragoon slowed his lathered mount as he drew near Christopher, and Christopher became uncomfortably aware of the man's keen scrutiny. He pulled on the reins to stop the bay when the lieutenant turned his horse broadside across the road and held up a hand.
"Do you come from West Point, sir?" asked the dragoon.
"I do."
"May I inquire after your name?"
"Christopher Groves." He almost added "Cadet," but caught himself in time.
The dragoon looked him over, taking in his civilian clothes, and the bulge of the dressing and sling beneath the coat, and Christopher felt the heat in his cheeks. He imagined that by now the whole country was informed of the ignominious end to his career as a West Point cadet.
"I am Joshua Singer, Lieutenant, Second Dragoons, at your service, sir. You are the gentlemen I have been sent to find."
"For what reason?"
"To deliver this." Singer brandished an envelope from beneath his tunic.
The envelope told Christopher nothing—it bore only "Christopher Groves, Esq." and "U.S. Military Academy, West Point" in a vigorous but quite legible and distinctly masculine hand. It was sealed with crimson wax bearing the emblem of an eagle with four arrows clutched in one of its talons.
The seal of the Republic! There was no mistaking it. Official business, then. But of what nature? Perhaps a reprimand. Just what he needed,
to add to his misery. But it might be something else. Christopher tried not to be a pessimist. But, considering the way his luck had been running lately, he braced himself for the worst as he opened the envelope and extracted the single folded sheet of expensive vellum contained within.
Dated three days ago, the letter read:
Dear Mr. Groves—
Genl Jackson would be obliged were you to call upon him at the President's House at your earliest convenience.
It was signed "A. J. Donelson."
Andrew Jackson Donelson was Old Hickory's nephew and personal secretary. His brother Daniel had recently attended West Point. General Jackson had taken the orphaned brothers under his wing. In fact, the childless president had adopted a number of young men, and loved them as he would have his own sons. Apart from the Donelsons and the legally adopted Andrew, there was Andrew's cousin, Andrew Jackson Hutchings, as well as Lincoyer, the Creek Indian whom the general had saved as an infant after his soldiers killed the child's parents during the campaign against the hostiles which culminated in the Battle of Horseshoe Bend.
Christopher was stunned. "What does this mean?" he wondered aloud.
"I'm sure I don't know," said Lieutenant Singer wryly. "I am not acquainted with the contents of the letter, nor do I wish to be. I am only its deliverer. It arrived at Fort McHenry yesterday and Colonel Roberts instructed me to hand it to you and offer any assistance you might require and which is within my power to provide."
Christopher had no thought of declining an invitation from the President of the United States. In the best of circumstances he would have been apprehensive about meeting Andy Jackson in the flesh, but he was doubly so now because he could only suppose that this letter had some connection with the duel and his dismissal from the Military Academy. Otherwise he would not have come to the General's attention at all.
Gone to Texas Page 5
