West Point to Mexico

by Bob Mayer

  St. George took a step back. “Too many nosy folk around. I hear you keydets have honor. Can I be trusting you to deliver this letter?”

  “Yes.” Cord almost spit the word.

  St. George held out an envelope sealed with wax. “I’ll be seeing young Rumble before I be going back. I’ll be knowing whether you give it to him or not.”

  Cord took the thick envelope. “He’ll get it.”

  St. George took a step back. “Maybe I see you later, boy. Maybe at that saloon you keydets go to. You tell young Rumble, he got a reply, he be finding me there tonight. Won’t be hard for him to do, seeing as he live next door.”

  St. George laughed and walked away.

  Grant looked past Rumble. “I see George King, back for your graduation. I’ll go speak to him. Stay here and wait for Elijah to give you a report on his scouting. I’ll keep your cousin occupied.”

  Grant led York to the midshipman. King was watching the cluster of cadets as if evaluating everything they did.

  “Mister King!” Grant saluted.

  King returned the salute. “Sam Grant. I remember a similar jump you did on the same horse.”

  “That jump wasn’t as calculated,” Grant said.

  “Oh, I do believe it was,” King said.

  “I heard about the Somers,” Grant said. “A terrible thing.”

  King nodded. “It was an unfortunate lack of discipline combined with poor leadership.”

  “I hear they’re going to establish a Naval Academy because of what happened.”

  “Strange, what power and effect a hanging can have, especially when one is the son of the Secretary of War,” King said. “Yes, there’ll be a Naval Academy. We’ll keep the students on shore for a few years to get some discipline under their belts before sending them out to sea. I’ll be heading to Annapolis after the wedding to help prepare that very institution.”

  “Your cousin’s wedding in Mississippi?” Grant asked.

  “Yes. I’ve never been there but I desire to see that part of the country, particularly the Mississippi. The Navy has responsibilities for our inland waterways also.”

  “It should be quite the affair,” Grant said. “I also received an invitation. I’ll be heading home to Ohio, then to the wedding, and afterwards Mister Cord and I will report for duty at Jefferson Barracks.”

  When King said nothing at Cord’s mention, Grant continued. “Try not to be too hard on the incoming students at your Academy. Some discipline is good, but-“

  “Discipline must be absolute,” King said. “A ship at sea has no recourse beyond the Captain’s iron will.”

  Grant mildly raised an eyebrow. “There are some who say the hanging on the Somers was beyond the bonds of military law.”

  “It was necessary,” King said, before softening. “Still, things could have been handled much better. There was a lack of effective leadership involved.”

  “Men need to be led, not forced,” Grant said. “Especially in a country like the United States where we value our individual freedom so much more than other countries.”

  King was looking over at Rumble, Benny Havens, his wife and the two children. “Strange how time has played out. My cousin seems very content.”

  “He is,” Grant said. “Are you?”

  “With the Navy? Yes. It suits me. It was gracious of Major Lee to intercede on my behalf.”

  “Do you know why Major Lee did so?” Grant asked.

  King cocked his head. “I’ve wondered about that.”

  “Elijah went to see the Major over his furlough with a letter of recommendation for you and his own personal request.” Grant watched Cord come back in the stable and speak briefly with Rumble.

  “Mister Cord did that?”

  “Indeed.”

  King pursed his lips as he pondered this development. “I was going to speak to him anyway, now is as good a time as any.” He brushed by Grant and headed toward Cord.

  Seeing King approach, Cord walked away from Rumble and his family to the center of the stable, next to the pole Grant had jumped.

  “Mister Cord.”

  Cord saluted. “Ensign King.”

  “There are some who say you will not graduate,” King said, returning the salute.

  “There are some who say a lot of things,” Cord replied.

  “We have unfinished business,” King said.

  “Surely, you can’t be holding a grudge after all this time,” Cord said.

  “There is no time limit on honor.”

  Cord rubbed his forehead, trying to forestall a headache.

  King folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve heard of your stubbornness in the face of the Silence. Strange thing, my getting kicked out for speaking and your suffering, but perhaps graduating, for not speaking.”

  “Was it worth it?” Cord asked.

  “Honor is everything,” King said.

  “Yes, I remember. I believe you said it’s all a man has.”

  “Perhaps I will see you tonight in Benny Havens?” King asked. “We can discuss our unfinished business some more.”

  Cord sighed. “Seems everyone’s going to be at Benny’s tonight.”

  Rumble sat alone on Kosciuszko’s garden, the letter from his father heavy in his hands. There was more than just paper inside. A hard, round object could be felt. Cord had given the envelope to him, saying that St. George would be in Benny Havens this evening awaiting a reply. That portended disaster. St. George amongst a crowd of drunken cadets, many eager for graduation in less than a week, was throwing a keg of gunpowder into a bonfire. And it was too damn close to Ben and Abigail. Rumble had sent Cord to find Grant, so that both could be in the tavern later, but Cord had mysteriously indicated he already had a standing engagement with Grant after which they would both show up.

  Then there was the issue of his cousin King and Cord. Since arriving at West Point a few days ago, King has talked little, so Rumble had no idea where his cousin stood in regard to the unfinished duel and it was a distraction he could ill afford right now.

  The afternoon sun was below the level of the Plain and Rumble was in the shadows. The sound of the small fountain was drowned out by the cries of revelry from graduating cadets and their families enjoying dinner in a pavilion erected on the Plain.

  Rumble looked at the seal on the envelope. A replica of the Emperor Tiberius’ imperial seal. Rumble sometimes wondered if his father realized that Tiberius was Emperor of Rome when Jesus was crucified. He doubted it. The fact his Father had used his seal meant he didn’t fully trust St. George. The overseer was capable of many things and quite the accomplished liar, but betraying the seal was too obvious a breach of protocol even for him.

  With a sigh, Rumble broke the wax with his thumb and opened the envelope. He was shocked when he saw a single sheet of folded rose-colored paper. Inside the paper was a ring—a replica of Tiberius’s seal.

  Rumble smiled as he saw his mother’s flowing script, images of his mother lounging in her sitting room coming to mind. The words caused the smile to disappear:

  Palatine

  Natchez, MS

  May 15th, 1843

  My dearest son,

  I must admit I am somewhat sorry we are not there for what would have been your graduation. You know we would have come if the event had unfolded as your father wished. But from seeing you two summers ago, I believe you have chosen the correct path for yourself. Your father was sending St. George with a letter to upbride you for not graduating and to once more ask you to forsake your family there to return here. He does not understand your family is our family. I intercepted the letter before he gave it to St. George. I replaced his with mine. I have always had a copy of his seal, even as he sends you one he had made for his son to ensure your reply returns to Palatine intact and safe from St. George’s prying eyes.

  We I mourned greatly when I heard of your Lidia’s death. You have known too much death for someone so young.

  It is something of which I have
never spoken to you, but you had an older sister. Two years prior. She died shortly after birth of the flux. I fell into grief for almost a year. I hope you do not despair as I did then. You have your children to think of. When you were born, it lifted my darkness. And you have kept a light in my life all the years since. I am glad you have chosen your own path in life. So few are able to do so.

  Rumble had to look up from the letter imagining what his mother must have felt after the death of the sister he had never heard about before and being alone with Tiberius in that huge home. He collected himself and resumed.

  Your father’s condition comes and goes. He says he is well, but the facts speak otherwise. Seneca spends most of his time at Rosalie—so much so that people are saying it is odd; and it is. I know he does not want to be around Tiberius. That he feels useless here as long as John Dyer and his son run the true operations of Palatine. I do not foresee that changing with Seneca’s pending marriage. Rosalie is a forceful woman. I admire her greatly. But a woman cannot run a plantation no matter how talented or powerful she is. I learned that many yeas ago.

  There is much going on here that your father does not know or, more likely, does not care to know. I despise Dyer and his son. But I am powerless to do anything as long as your father keeps them under his protection.

  I desire you to come home once more.

  At least for Seneca and Rosalie’s wedding. And, please, bring your Ben and Abigail. It would do my heart good to see children here again. They would enjoy the fountain, I am sure. I promise you my full support. I want to use the wedding reception to formally recognize both your children as Rumble’s and part of the family. Your father will not be able to deny me that.

  I have invited your cousin, George King, and a pair of your friends: Ulysses Grant (what an odd name) and Elijah Cord whom Samual met with my earlier letter, so you will have company here.

  Please put your reply in the envelope and re-seal it with the ring, which you may keep, as it would have been yours anyway.

  I pray for you and your children.

  With my love.

  Violet Rudolph Rumble.

  Rumble folded the letter, slid it inside the envelope and put it in his blouse pocket. He looked at the seal, tossing it in his hand, feeling the weight. He reached in his pants pocket and pulled out the ring Superintendent Delafield had given him. He put them side-by-side. He had achieved neither. Yet, he had ended up with both.

  Chapter Eleven

  June 1843, West Point, New York

  St. George Dyer sat with his chair tipped back against the wall at a corner table in Benny Havens watching the cadets drinking. They were children, playing a game. Every time the circle of cadets prepared to drink, they would turn their backs to each other, imbibe, then turn back and resume their conversation. It made no sense.

  When the owner came over with another mug of ale, St. George pointed. “What they be doing?”

  Benny Havens laughed. “The honor code. They aint supposed to be drinking. So to avoid having to lie about seeing each other drink, they make sure they don’t see each other drink.”

  “That be the stupidest damn thing I done heard.”

  Benny Havens shrugged. “It’s been that way since I opened the place. It’s harmless and more a tradition these days than anything else.”

  “Damn foolish.”

  “Where are you from, stranger?” Benny Havens asked. “You sound southern.”

  “You got a problem with southerners?” St. George looked up at the tavern keep.

  “Not at all. These cadets are from everywhere.”

  St. George tossed a coin on the table and Benny Havens scooped it up. “Would you be wanting a hot flip?” he asked, pointing at a flagon in which he had been dipping a red-hot poker from the fireplace every so often.

  St. George tapped a thick finger on the edge of the mug. “Asked for ale. Paid for it. I be wanting something, I be telling you.”

  “As you wish,” Havens said coldly and moved on.

  St. George could hear snippets of conversation, the tavern not much larger than his overseer’s cabin. The front legs of his chair slammed into the plank floor and he leaned forward when he heard someone mention a familiar name.

  “I don’t know why Sam Grant still talks to Rumble,” one cadet was saying. “We’ll be officers soon and he’s enlisted.”

  “Hell, Grant never honored the Silence regarding Cord,” another said.

  “I heard tell Grant is Lil’ Ben Rumble’s godfather,” a third mentioned.

  The second cadet laughed. “You mean Lil’ Ben Cord.”

  “Hush,” the first cadet hissed. “It’s not to be spoken of.”

  The conversation drifted off in another direction, but St. George didn’t push his chair back and relax. Nor did he drink the ale. His eyes were focused on the door. Waiting.

  The riding hall was empty when Cord swung the door open. He held it as Grant led York in by the bridle. The bay was skittish, little used to being in the riding hall in the dark. Moonlight glinted through the narrow, high windows and in the distance the sounds of revelry echoed from the Plain. The bar that Grant had jumped was still in place, a temporary monument to his achievement.

  Cord swung the door shut and latched it, insuring they would not be disturbed. Grant ran his hand over York’s forehead, whispering to the horse, calming it.

  “Are you certain?” he asked Cord.

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you think tonight will be different from the other nights we’ve been here?” Grant asked.

  “It probably won’t be,” Cord acknowledged. “But it will be my last chance, regardless of what happens with the Board.”

  “All right. From here,” Grant said, positioning York at the same spot from which he had started earlier in the day.

  Cord took a deep breath, then took the bridle from Grant’s hand. He put his hand on York’s forehead. “Easy now.”

  One foot in the stirrup. York remained still. Cord lifted himself off the floor and swung his leg over the saddle. York twitched.

  Grant stepped back and nodded, the movement almost unseen in the darkness.

  Cord leaned forward in the saddle, as he had seen Grant do so many times before and had been taught to do. He whispered comforting words in York’s ear, feeling the tension ease slightly in the beast underneath him.

  “Now!” Cord hissed and York bolted, heading straight for the bar. Air rushed through Cord’s hair as the bay accelerated. Cord relaxed, settling into the saddle. His hands were loose, letting York have free rein. The sound of the bay’s hooves on the tanbark covered floor sounded distant to Cord. His focus was on the bar, a dark line against a darker backdrop.

  York leapt, lifting Cord into the air.

  As they flew over, the left rear hoof nicked the bar and it vibrated and teetered.

  Cord grunted as York landed hard. He jerked the reins to look back. Grant was staring up at the quivering bar. All was still except for the piece of wood. Then it too was still.

  Grant let out a whoop, more excited about Cord’s achievement than his own.

  Cord slid off the horse. Grant ran up and grabbed him in a hug, pounding him on the back. “You did it!”

  “The horse did all the work,” Cord said with his trademark grin.

  “We have to tell—” Grant began but Cord held up a hand.

  “No, Sam. No one is to know. This is between you and me. And York.” He looked at the bar. “I just needed to prove I could do something right.”

  Cord reluctantly walked with Sam Grant down the path to Benny Havens. Cord knew the place would be full of his classmates, that almost all would ignore him, and that St. George and George King would be there.

  It seemed a pretty damn stupid idea.

  “Cheer up, Elijah,” Grant said. “St. George won’t try anything with the three of us around. Lucius said he would give him the needed reply and that would be that.”

  “Nothing is ever that simple,” Cord sai
d, falling in step with him. “And George King said he wished to speak with me there, also. I don’t think this evening will turn out well.”

  “Now you sound like old Cump,” Grant said,

  “Have you heard from him lately?” Cord asked as they hit a switchback on the trail.

  “He’s still with the Third Artillery down in Florida,” Grant said as they approached the open door to Benny Havens. “Fighting the Seminoles. Bloody affair. He wrote that they went by the site of Dade’s massacre.”

  “That was horrible,” Cord said. “Longstreet used to say Dade got massacred by the Seminoles just like Hannibal ambushed the Romans at Lake Trasimene during the Second Punic War. Marching along a road with a body of water to the right and getting attacked from the left and trapped.”

  Grant stared at Cord in surprise. “You’ve been brushing up on your martial studies.”

  “Someone told me I needed to,” Cord said. “I wouldn’t mind going down to Florida and getting in a scrape or two.”

  “Don’t be in such a rush to get shot at,” Grant advised. “Still, it is strange that Dade would get massacred in the same way as a lesson he certainly learned in tactics class.”

  “Perhaps there’s a difference between the classroom and the battlefield,” Cord said.

  They walked into the bar, cadets calling out greetings; as usual, most acknowledging Grant and ignoring Cord. Many shouted congratulations to Grant over the jump earlier in the day. It wasn’t hard to spot St. George’s bulk ensconced at a table in the far corner. George King was at the far end of the bar, aloof and distant from the cadets with his Navy uniform and his attitude.