by Bob Mayer
Lee stopped and turned toward Cord, his gaze penetrating. “A carefully worded answer. You are not close to your father?”
“He is my father.”
“Again. Evasion. I do not like that.” Lee’s tone was clipped. “Do you hate your father?”
That gave Cord pause. “No, sir. I try not to think of him.”
“Apathy,” Lee said. “You’re lying to yourself. Although not technically an honor code violation, it is a violation of one’s personal honor.”
“Are they not the same, sir?” Cord asked.
“Personal honor is imposed from within. The honor code is imposed from without. Sometimes the two are not the same. In the end, though, one must always be guided from within.”
Cord remained quiet.
Lee did not. “I understand you were challenged to a duel. That you were requested to resign by the Vigilance Committee.” It not phrased as a question and Lee continued. “You refused to duel. You have been Silenced. Why should I speak with you?”
“I come not for me, but for someone I owe a personal debt to.”
Lee clasped his hands behind his back and looked Cord over, as if inspecting a slab of beef to be served up at an upcoming banquet. “Why did you not resign?”
“I felt my transgression did not warrant it,” Cord said.
“But it was over honor?”
“It was over a woman,” Cord said. “And the matter was solved to the satisfaction of all involved. The Corps had no need to get involved.”
“’To the satisfaction of all’?” Lee seemed amused. “You were beaten and Silenced.”
“A small price to pay to remain at West Point.”
“Interesting.” The major continued. “The only reason I agreed to see you was my cousin does business with your father. And you have an uncle with his hands on some powerful strings. Powerful enough to get you into the Academy. I have never met your father, so I cannot judge him. But one should always honor one’s father.”
Cord thought that curious given that Lee’s own father, the infamous Light Horse Harry Lee of Revolutionary War fame, had lost the family fortune and absconded to the West Indies when Lee was but a child.
“I am not close to my father.”
“Better,” Lee said. “But who are you here about?”
“A former cadet named George King, from Charleston.”
Lee frowned. “Wasn’t he the one who challenged you to the duel you refused to satisfy?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lee resumed his stroll across the wide lawn and Cord hurried to keep up. “What of Mister King?”
“Mister King’s family has fallen on hard times. He needs an occupation. One where he can use his military training, but also one where he can be clear of what happened at West Point. He applied for one but was denied. I was hoping that your interceding might sway the decision the other way.”
“Why do you care?” Lee asked.
“The duel would not have happened if it had not been for previous actions on my part, sir.”
“Go on.”
“The Navy is recruiting midshipmen for a training cruise, sir. I was hoping you might put in a positive word with Secretary of War Spencer for Mister King to attain one of those positions. He tried on his own and was turned down.”
“Is Mister King an honest and good man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have heard differently about you. Beyond the event that brought the wrath of the Vigilance Committee, I have heard that your list of transgressions as a cadet is long. That you have more demerits than anyone in your class. That you lead the Immortals in every section of Academics. And, you do not present yourself well at my door.”
“No excuse, sir.”
“Yes, sir; no, sir; no excuse, sir. You learned your answers as a plebe well. Let us see what my cousin has to say.” Lee held out a hand and the slave who had been shadowing them extracted a small blade from somewhere in his outfit and Lee neatly sliced the envelope open, handing the blade back without looking at the slave.
Lee unfolded a piece of thick paper and read quickly. Then he folded the paper, slid it back in the envelope, and placed both inside his uniform coat, every move deliberate and precise as if he were being graded by some unseen entity. “My cousin speaks highly of Mister King. Apparently he is a very studious and righteous young man of the highest character.” Lee raised an eyebrow at Cord. “Too bad it was he who was dismissed from the Academy and not you.”
Cord couldn’t stop the words. “Was it that you were perfect in your behavior for four years at the Academy, sir, or that you were very good at not getting caught or a combination of the two?”
“I see why you receive so many demerits.” Lee folded his arms over his chest. “No one is perfect, but I strove to do the best I could. I viewed my education at the Academy as a God-given opportunity. I am not sure how you view it although your perseverance deserves some merit.”
“I’m not asking this favor for me, sir, but for a man who will make the most of an opportunity.”
“Why was he turned down in the first place?” Lee asked. “This is an excellent letter of recommendation and his record at West Point, according to this, was exemplary up to the event which caused his expulsion.”
“The governor of South Carolina used his connections to block it, sir.” Cord shrugged. “I am not privy to the political machinations involved.”
Lee paused and raised a hand. The slave came hurrying up. Lee pointed toward a hedgerow. “I ordered you to have that trimmed yesterday.”
“Yes, master.”
“I do not like disorder. You will inform your overseer and accept whatever he decides for you.”
“Yes, master.”
Lee turned back to Cord and spoke as if the slave wasn’t there. “You have had little dealing with people of color based on the incident at the door.”
Cord thought the hedges perfectly trimmed. “I have not, sir. In Norfolk, at the docks, we employ free men, usually immigrants; men who are willing to work hard.”
“People of color will work hard,” Lee said. “As long as one stays on top of them. What you should understand is that they need the institution. They cannot function outside of it. We take care of them.”
“Yes, sir.” Cord glanced over at Parks, but the dark face was a mask and his eyes were downcast.
“You think differently?” Lee asked.
“I don’t know enough about it to think one way or the other, sir.”
“The truth is it doesn’t affect you so you don’t think of it at all. That is the way with most people.”
“Mister King, sir?” Cord was anxious to receive a decision and get away.
“What do you think of Texas?” Lee abruptly asked.
“Sir?”
“Annexation,” Lee snapped.
Cord focused. “It’s inevitable, sir. Texas must be part of the country.”
“It will mean war.” Lee sounded eager.
“Yes, sir.”
“Texas as a slave or free state?” Lee asked.
Cord glanced at the black man standing five paces away. “Slave, of course, sir.”
“It has nothing do with slavery, you know,” Lee said
“Of course not, sir,” Cord replied, having no idea what the Major meant.
“Slavery is a given condition from God. When God wishes it to end, it will end. It is clear God wants Texas to be annexed and to be a slave state since He struck down President Harrison, who opposed both, so quickly after taking office. And it’s also about the sanctity of the State. A State must have the right to choose its own course. Those wise men who wrote the Constitution knew that.”
“I believe Jefferson wrote that slavery was comparable to holding a wolf by the ears,” Cord said before catching himself, “and we can neither continue to hold the wolf, nor safely let it go. Justice is on one side of the scale and self-preservation on the other.”
Lee’s face tightened. “For a slave owner,
he had some strange thoughts. What we do is bridle our people of color and keep them in their place. Neither justice or self-preservation, but rather the natural order of things to be maintained.”
“I am sure you are correct,” Cord said, regaining control. “Mister King, sir?”
Lee looked irritated. “I do indeed know Secretary of War Spencer. As a matter of fact, his son, Philip, is to be one of the midshipmen aboard the Somers, the ship that is to conduct the training cruise. It’s a new vessel, currently being completed at the naval yards in New York City. I will pen a letter to Secretary Spencer and advise him to consider Mister King and see if practical military considerations can supersede political squabbling. I will include my cousin’s letter of recommendation.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Why did you go to West Point?” Lee asked.
Cord considered telling the truth, but so far that had not gone over well with Major Lee. “I spent two years before the mast and decided that life is not for me.”
“But it is for Mister King?”
“Mister King has spent time on his ships. His family ran a trading company in Charleston and he spoke fondly of his time at sea at the Academy. And, knowing King, I believe he might be a natural for the Navy.”
“It is honorable,” Lee allowed, “that you are trying to do the right thing for a man who challenged you. Perhaps there is hope for you.”
Cord bridled at the comment but bit back his retort.
“You may go,” Lee said, dismissing Cord like he was a plebe once more.
Cord headed away, but Lee’s call stopped him. “I will probably see you somewhere in Mexico in the coming years, Cadet Cord. I suggest you attend to your martial studies with more diligence. There will be war.”
Chapter Five
Summer 1841, Just South of Natchez, Mississippi
Rumble reined in the horse and gazed west from the bluff, feeling the familiar sheen of sweat on his body and breathing in the fragrance of magnolias. He’d galloped south from Natchez at first light, and the sun was still ascending in the east.
The Mississippi River appeared deceptively slow and calm, but beneath its muddy surface was a twisted and tangled knot of dangerous currents. Much like Palatine. The grand house was almost grand, maintenance having been a bit slack over the past couple of years since last he’d seen it. The fields were ripe with cotton, yet he’d heard rumors in town that there were problems with shipments from Palatine being delivered on time and in the proper bulk. To his right, steamers cruised up the river, heading for the docks of Natchez for their loads of white gold.
Natchez had more millionaires per capita than any other in the United States. The townsfolk liked to say it was cotton that brought the money, but for Rumble it was much costlier: the blood of the slaves who worked the fields and the souls of those who ruled over them. Eli Whitney had had no idea the misery he was inflicting on the world when he invented his cotton gin. Prior to that, slavery was slowly dying out due to its inherent inefficiency.
Rumble wore his uniform, proud of the chevrons on his sleeve from his recent promotion to sergeant by Superintendent Delafield. And proud of his Army blue. Also, he knew it would grate on Tiberius, who often liked to be called Colonel, though the man had never worn a uniform or wielded a weapon in battle.
“I do swear, I do not like that river,” a woman’s voice drawled behind him.
Rumble turned the horse, a smile lighting up his face. “Mother. You never swear. Not really.”
Dressed in a dark-red riding dress, Violet Rumble sat sidesaddle on her old horse, a closed parasol in her deerskin gloved hands. A bright red bonnet with the feather of some exotic bird crowned her head. She looked elegant, as always. The horse was perfectly still, almost a statue. His mother had been riding that nag as long as Rumble could remember. It had been broken a long time ago and seemed content to stay broken and be a pedestal to Violet Rumble. He rode up to her, and she leaned over, pecking him on the cheek.
But she was still focused on the river. “It almost took you from us. I stay as far away from it as possible.”
“I think that is a wise thing,” Rumble said. “So you still watch the road and saw my approach?”
“It is better to watch the road than the river,” Violet said. She gently nudged the reins, facing toward Palatine House. “What do you think of the old place?”
“I think it looks fine.”
“You never were good at lying,” Violet said with a laugh. “It’s falling apart. Your father spends all his time up there—” she pointed with the parasol toward the second story porch. Rumble could make out a figure dressed in white seated in a large wicker chair. “He never goes out to the fields any more.”
“You mentioned in your letter that he was ill.”
“He had a spell where he could not stand for two days. He refused to have a doctor come. He can get up now, but he is not the same.”
“He knows I’m here?” Rumble asked.
“He does now,” Violet said.
“You did not tell him of the letter?”
“He did not tell me he was sending the message via St. George,” Violet said as if the quid pro quo of deceit was the natural state of affairs and quite reasonable and normal.
“How did you know then that—” Rumble stopped. Violet knew everything. “So what will be the welcome?”
“I’ve already welcomed you. It’s my home also, you know.”
“Yes, mother.”
She reached out and her gloved hand gripped his forearm with force. “It’s true? You have a child.”
Rumble licked sweat off his upper lip. “Yes.”
“A son?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve done well. And his name?”
“Ben Agrippa Rumble.”
“Oh my!” The normally unflappable Violet Rumble, formally Violet Rudolph of the esteemed Rudolph’s of Clarksville, Tennessee, was rarely shocked, but she regrouped quickly. “That will make things more interesting to say the least.” She glanced back at the Mississippi. “You did it in his memory?”
“Yes, mother.”
“That was noble.” She flicked the reins and her horse began ambling toward Palatine House. “But short-sighted and impetuous.”
Well removed and out of sight from Palatine House, over a mile and a half by dirt road, was a village; one that was not registered on any maps because it was entirely a creation of Palatine. A stoutly built log cabin, festooned with a dozen rifle ports pointing in all direction, was set on a small knoll overlooking a collection of shanty shacks. The cabin had heavy wooden shutters on the insides of the few small windows and despite the June heat, they were closed and barred, as they were every night.
John Dyer, the chief overseer of Palatine, didn’t mind experiencing a little discomfort for safety. Or a lot of discomfort for safety. On pegs next to each of the twelve firing ports was a Colt-Root repeating rifle, fully loaded and ready for action. Dyer had the percussion caps and rounds checked every evening, a ritual his son, St. George, had taken over as soon as he was able to pick the weapon up. The Colt-Root was essentially a larger version of a Colt revolver with a longer barrel and a shoulder stock being added to the pistol. It gave the firer six shots, albeit not always reliably. With twelve such rifles in the cabin, the barred doors and windows, and a large supply of powder and ball to reload, aided by six subordinate overseers who slept every night in an adjacent room, also all well-armed, Dyer felt confident his cabin could stave off any attack.
Those he was concerned about in terms of attack occupied the shanty sheds at the base of the knoll. Palatine owned one hundred and forty-two slaves, and John Dyer and his son were responsible for keeping them in line. The elder Dyer had learned from his own father the easiest way to do that was fear and terror.
This morning was to be a lesson in the subject, which Dyer and his son taught best. He slid a pistol in the holster on each hip, made sure his knife was loose in its sheath, looped a coile
d bullwhip over his shoulder—more for show than use; although Dyer could wield it like a master, he preferred less visible methods. Not out of any concern for humanity, but because a slave bearing scars indicated rebelliousness, and that brought less gold.
Dyer grabbed one of the Colt-Root rifles, glanced at his son, who was also similarly armed, except that instead of two Colt revolvers, he carried his unique Le Mat pistol inside the black sash he wrapped around his waist every day like a badge of rank.
“Times wasting,” Dyer said. “We got to get them out in the fields. Got a big load needs to be moved tonight.”
“I know,” St. George muttered.
“What you say, boy?”
“They’ll work hard after this,” St. George promised in a louder voice as he slid up the heavy wooden bar and opened the front door.
“You take care of it,” John Dyer ordered his son, grimacing as he stretched his back out.
St. George’s voice dropped back down to the mutter he knew his hard-of-hearing father could hear, but not make out. “Don’ I always?”
There were shouts down the hill in shantytown as the other overseers gathered the slaves.
“Count,” St. George called out as they reached the small clearing at the base of the knoll, just before the first shack. The slaves were clustered about in a semi-circle.
“All here,” an overseer reported.
“Bring ‘im here,” St. George said.
A young Negro, mid-teens, was dragged forward by two other slaves.
“I done nothing!” the slave cried. “I aint done nothing, Master.”
“But you will,” St. George said. “I could tell it in your eyes yesterday. You know how I could tell, boy? Because I saw your eyes. I don’ never want to be seeing you looking at me again.”
“I won’t, Master. I swear I won’t!”
“I know.” St. George gestured.
The two slaves held the boy upright, their hands on his upper arms, locking him in place. Then they pressed down, forcing the boy to his knees.
St. George pulled a rag out of a pocket on his black cloak. He walked behind the boy and wrapped it around his face, covering his mouth, nose and eyes and pulling it tight in the rear. He jerked back and the boy’s face tilted upward.
