West Point to Mexico

by Bob Mayer

  The eight officers lowered their sabers. Offered their condolences, as much as they could be for a bird, to Julia, and then headed for the main house to visit on ‘Colonel’ Dent.

  Grant walked up to Julia and offered her his arm. Despite the loss of her favorite pet, she couldn’t help but smile. “How did you get them all here, Sam?”

  “Your father’s whiskey,” Grant said, as they strolled toward the house at a more leisurely pace than the other officers.

  Julia shook her head. “They could have whiskey in St. Louis. They came here for you. You have something. Something special.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Grant said.

  Julia tugged on his arm. “Thank you. That was so sweet of you.”

  Behind them, Mrs. Dent, a small but energetic woman, walked with her other daughters. She tapped a fan against her lips. “That young man will be heard from some day. He has a good deal in him. I predict he’ll make his mark.”

  One of the daughters protested. “Mother, how can you say that? Julia has so many other more dashing suitors. And father would never approve.”

  “He will not approve now or in the near future,” Mrs. Dent acknowledged, “but time and love may tell a different tale.”

  The daughter persisted. “Julia has other affairs of the heart, mother, not just little Sam Grant. Some of her suitors are quite charming.”

  “Hush,” Mrs. Dent said. “Affairs of the heart are one thing. True love is another.”

  “And what is true love?” the daughter asked.

  “When you can count on a man, always,” Mrs. Dent said. “I sense one can count on Lieutenant Grant.”

  Within a few minutes everyone was on the portico of White Haven where ‘Colonel’ Dent held court. He had no military experience, but Colonel went with the lifestyle. Slaves bustled to and fro making sure everyone’s glass was full.

  Cord came up to Grant and Julia. He tipped his glass. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Julia.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Cord. It’s good to know Sam has such good friends to take a Sunday and spend it in such a way.”

  Cord turned serious. “I owe Sam. I would do anything for him.”

  Grant shifted his feet in embarrassment. “I helped you when you asked for it, that’s all.”

  “You have done much more than that,” Cord said.

  Neither of the men noticed Julia staring at Grant with an admiration she’d never had before. He’d been fun to be around and a consistent caller at White Haven the past year. But she’d recently gone to a regimental ball not in his accompaniment and she’d been surprised at the distant response from the other officers. None would ask her to dance. Lieutenant Hoskins, a fellow officer in Grant’s regiment, had come up to her and pointedly asked her where Grant was, as if challenging her.

  “Thank you, Elijah,” Grant said.

  Cord bowed and walked away, heading toward Longstreet who was probably setting up bets on whether the sun would set in the west or east this evening. And getting takers.

  Grant lightly touched Julia’s arm. “Might we speak in the piazza, Julia? I am heading to Ohio in a week to visit my family and there is something I wish to discuss with you.”

  Julia Dent flushed. She swallowed hard and nodded, allowing Grant to lead her away from the crowd. They sat on a bench, alone for the moment. Grant turned toward her, his saber clattering against the stone. “Julia, I knew when I received my class ring, that I would eventually give it to a lady. The lady. As an engagement ring. I ask you to have it.”

  Grant extended his hand, the gold ring in his palm.

  Julia Dent rapidly waved her small fan in front of her face. “Oh.” She took several deep breaths and looked at the corner of the house, as if expecting an invading army to come racing around it to rescue her. “Oh, no, mamma would not approve of my accepting a gift from a gentleman.”

  Grant looked at her, trying to penetrate her eyes into her heart, but she turned away, still fanning herself vigorously.

  “This is not a thing I do lightly,” Grant said.

  “I know, sir.” She still would not look at him. “I have had several rings pressed upon me in the past few months. But war beckons and I believe it makes men rash and foolish and in a rush.”

  “I am not rash and foolish, although I do admit to a bit of a rush,” Grant said in a stern voice. “I make decisions very clearly and with determination. I have made this one.”

  “Yes, sir,” Julia said, the fan fluttering faster. “But I have not made a decision, nor can I now, or in the immediate future.”

  She did not tell him that she had never envisioned him as a lover or a husband. He was fun to be around. She was happy when he was present. Most of all, up until today, the most important thing had been that he was a great horseman that she could take her horse out with and ride like the wind. He had never pressed her, never pushed.

  Grant sighed. “Will you at least have dinner with me in St. Louis the night before I depart for home?”

  “Certainly,” Julia said, willing to do anything but accede to his initial request.

  Grant stood, his hand gripped in a fist around his West Point ring. The knuckles were white, but his voice was level. “Will you think of me in my absence?”

  She finally turned toward him and looked up. “I will, sir.”

  Grant’s jaw was tight. “Then I will take your leave, Miss Dent.”

  May 1845, West Point, New York

  Rumble rode York in a tight circle, leading the horse with a firm, but not tight, grip on the rein. The cadets assembled in the riding hall watched in utter silence. York was still the Hell Beast and in the two years since Ulysses S. Grant’s record-setting jump, Rumble was the only person who had managed to ride the horse. As far as anyone knew.

  “Cadets!” Master of the Horse Herschberger cried out. “Assemble, in-line, one rank, on me.”

  The cadets of the class of 1846 scrambled out of the bleachers and fell in to the left of Herschberger. Rumble rode to the far end of the hall and waited.

  In the shadow of the entrance was Benny Havens, one hand on Ben’s shoulder, come to see the spectacle. The boy was growing up fast and Abigail had just taken her first steps a few days ago. In Benny’s tavern, to the delight of the cadets gathered there.

  As soon as the 59 members of the class, the largest in the history of the Academy, were in a row, Herschberger strode to the front, between Rumble and the cadets, and looked down the line. “Mister Jackson. Mister McClellan. Front and center, gentlemen.”

  Thomas Jackson of Virginia and George McClellan of Pennsylvania double-timed to a position in front of the Master of the Horse. “Gentleman, take your place in the center of the line, relieving the two men there.”

  Jackson and McClellan did as ordered.

  “Center two men hold, wings forward to observe,” Herschberger commanded.

  Using the two cadets as anchor, the lines on either side moved forward until all could see them.

  “Sergeant Rumble!” Herschberger called out.

  “Master of the Horse,” Rumble replied.

  “Advance!”

  Rumble focused on Jackson and McClellan standing at attention. Jackson was almost six feet in height with piercing blue eyes that caught one’s attention, even at a distance. McClellan was four inches shorter, still not grown to his full height.

  Two more diverse cadets one could not find. It wasn’t just their appearance. McClellan was an intellectual racehorse while Jackson was a mule. Not quick to grasp his studies, but stubborn to a fault and willing to work a problem until he wore it down with shear effort.

  Rumble lightly dug his heels in to the horse’s side and York began to gallop. Rumble leaned forward and whispered in York’s ear: “We can do it.”

  “Stand fast!” Herschberger yelled as Rumble and York thundered toward the line of gray.

  Ten feet from the center of the line the horse gathered underneath Rumble and leapt.

  Jackson st
ood rock solid at attention, eyes straight ahead.

  McClellan flinched but did not step out of the way.

  With barely an inch to spare from the top of Jackson’s head, York flew over the two cadets and landed on the far side. Rumble brought York to a halt, and turned around.

  “Hold in place!” Herschberger ordered as several cadets started to break ranks to congratulate the two cadets.

  “Damn it men,” Herschberger shouted. “Are you going to cheer each other in battle when the enemy charges down on you and someone doesn’t break and run? It’s your duty to stand in place. How do you think you’ll feel when it isn’t just horse and rider, but a lancer wielding bright steel aiming directly toward you and he wants to ram that steel right through your chest?” Herschberger accentuated the last words by slapping one gloved hand into the other.

  “Master of the Horse Herschberger,” a voice called out from the reviewing stand.

  Herschberger turned and snapped to attention, as did everyone, when they recognized Superintendent Delafield.

  “Sir!” Herschberger acknowledged.

  “I’d like to speak to Sergeant Rumble if you can spare him for a moment.

  “Sergeant Rumble, you are released from current duty,” Herschberger yelled.

  “As you were,” Delafield said to Herschberger. “By the way,” he added, “a most intriguing exercise.”

  “Sir!” Herschberger looked confused, not sure if that were a compliment or a reprimand.

  Rumble trotted York to the viewing stand and dismounted. He tied the horse off to the bar in front of the stand.

  “Sir,” Rumble said.

  “Walk with me, sergeant,” Delafield said. He had a two-foot long round leather case looped over one shoulder by a strap. He gestured for the riding door. “Young Master Ben can come with us as this concerns him also.”

  They left behind Herschberger shouting orders. Benny Havens straightened as Delafield approached. He touched the tip of his hat. “Major Delafield.”

  “Mister Havens. Still corrupting my cadets?”

  Benny Havens sputtered. “Now, sir, I just give the boys a little piece of home.”

  “If their home was a tavern, sir, then you are quite correct.” Delafield said it with a smile, removing the sting. “I know your place is needed. Just be careful dealing with my replacement. His touch on discipline regarding your tavern might not be as light.”

  “Your replacement?” Benny sounded resigned to breaking in another superintendent.

  “I’ve been re-assigned. I’m off to New York City to supervise the construction of coastal defenses.”

  “The Academy will be poorer for your departure, sir,” Benny said.

  “And your business might suffer if my successor actually enforces the rules.”

  “True, but you’ve been good to my family and to me, sir,” Benny said. “I appreciate it.” He stuck out his meaty hand.

  Delafield took it and the two men shook. “Can we borrow Ben for a walk?”

  “Certainly,” Benny said. He looked at Rumble. “I’ll be down at the tavern. I’ll see you shortly, Lucius. And you too, Lil’ Ben,” he added with a light punch to Ben’s shoulder.

  Benny Havens ambled off. Rumble, Ben, and Delafield exited the riding hall. Rumble held Ben’s hand and they walked at a leisurely pace that the boy could easily match. It was March and still chilly at mid-afternoon. The trees were bare and would not bring forth green for almost two months, but at least they were emerging from the cold grip of winter. Delafield led the way up the road to the level of the academic building and the barracks. They ambled onto the Plain. To the right were the ruins of Fort Clinton, to the left, Execution Hollow, where British prisoners-of-war during the Revolution had been contained under horrid conditions, as a counter to the conditions American POWs were being held. The tit for tat approach had achieved little except misery and death on both sides.

  Delafield halted in the center of the Plain and faced the Academy. Rumble placed Ben in front of him, both hands firmly on the boy’s shoulders.

  Delafield ran a hand through his white beard. “You know Congress passed the joint resolution to make Texas a state?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’ll wait until after Polk is in office before pushing the matter, but war with Mexico is inevitable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It will be a West Point war,” Delafield said.

  “Sir?”

  “The regular army will fight it and the regular army is led by West Pointers. Have you and Herschberger been doing that little drill for a while?”

  “Ever since I could jump York, sir,” Rumble admitted.

  “Gotten as high as Grant?”

  “No, sir. We set Grant’s bar at six and a half. I was a bit concerned today about Cadet Jackson’s height.”

  “Jackson didn’t seem a very bright lad when he entered,” Delafield said. “I thought he would be found in academics his first year. But I’ve never seen anyone work as hard to improve himself. Give him two more years here, instead of the one he has left, and I suspect he would graduate top in his class.”

  “He didn’t blink when York jumped, sir,” Rumble said.

  “I saw. More importantly you saw, and you’ve seen all these cadets for years in many different ways. Not just in the riding hall, but also in your father-in-law’s tavern. I dare say no officer stationed here knows the cadets over so many years as well as you. That’s why I want to talk to you.”

  Rumble was puzzled. “Yes, sir?”

  Delafield knelt in front of Ben. “Son, can you spare your father going away from home for a while?”

  “How long, sir?” Ben asked.

  “It might be quite a while, I’m afraid to say,” Delafield said.

  “Will he be going where mommy went?” Ben asked and Rumble closed his eyes momentarily.

  “No, son,” Delafield said. “Just away for a while, then he’ll come back.”

  “If he has to,” Ben said, his shoulders slumping in Rumble’s hands.

  Delafield stood. “Sergeant Rumble, I want you to go with the Regular Army as my personal observer when they head to Texas and on to Mexico.”

  Rumble’s hands tightened on his son’s shoulders. So much so that Ben gave a cry of discomfort and Rumble realized what he was doing. He forced himself to relax. “I’m a soldier, sir. I go where ordered.”

  “I know you’ll follow orders, Sergeant Rumble. I know you’re an honorable man. I hate to take you from your family. But this is important. What I want you to do is watch our graduates. See how they perform in combat. Then remember what they were like as cadets. I want to know which traits in a cadet make a good combat leader. Anyone can issue orders here on the Plain and polish their brass and clean their rooms. War is a very different thing.”

  Rumble nodded. “You want me to see how effective the Academy training is, sir?”

  Major Delafield faced back toward the buildings lining the Plain: Academic, cadet barracks, officers’ quarters. Above those buildings and further back in the hills loomed Fort Putnam, designed by Kosciuszko to protect the landward approaches to West Point.

  “Partly,” Delafield said. “Certainly, we’ll need to adjust the curriculum based on lessons learned. Armies are always prepared to fight the last war, not the next one. But there’s something more important.”

  They stood still for a few minutes. A squad of second-year cadets marched by not far away, a First Classman putting them through their paces, barking orders. They were under arms and cross-belts, muskets on their shoulders, bayonets on the end of the weapons glinting in the early spring sun.

  “So young,” Delafield said, almost to himself. He gathered himself. “I fear that Texas and Mexico will only be the prelude.”

  “Sir?”

  “Imagine two locomotives on the same rail line. They’re heading toward each other. At the controls are men who will not, cannot, stop their own locomotive. And even if one did, the other will s
till be coming on the same line. They all know that. So they pile more and more wood in the furnace, going faster and faster.”

  “It makes no sense, sir. But it’s true.”

  Delafield nodded. “Slavery was an issue from the very beginning of the country, Sergeant Rumble. We all know that. Our founders decided they needed a country before they could deal with that issue. So they designed a country that was fatally flawed. That flaw is coming to fruition two generations later. And westward expansion; that’s the wood being thrown in the furnace. Texas is the prelude to the collision.”

  “Civil War.” Rumble said it as a statement.

  “Inevitably,” Delafield confirmed.

  “Then—” Rumble paused as he realized what Delafield really wanted. “Where do your sympathies lay, sir?”

  “With my oath as a commissioned officer in the United States Army,” Delafield said.

  “My family is from Mississippi, sir.”

  “I know,” Delafield said. “But you will stand by the United States if it comes to it.” It was not a question, but Rumble answered anyway.

  “Yes, sir. Why not send an officer?”

  “For the reasons I detailed earlier,” Delafield said. “You have an expertise and perspective that no one else has because of your years here. And you were once a cadet. But, on top of all that, this mission is not sanctioned by anyone but me. The War Department tracks the assignment of every officer rather carefully, especially now that conflict is brewing. But you’re assigned to me as of this moment and I wish to take advantage of it. I’ll put you on the ‘detached for special duty’ roll here at the Academy. I very much doubt the new Superintendent will make anything of it, especially as I’ll instruct Herschberger to say nothing of your absence.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t sound so glum,” Delafield said. “The first place you’ll go is Jefferson Barracks where your old friends Longstreet and Grant are stationed. Both are with the 4th Infantry and it there is trouble, the 4th will be first in line.”

  “And Lieutenant Cord, sir? Last I heard, he was with the 4th also.”

  “That’s something else I have in the works,” Delafield said. “A friend sent me a letter saying a special expedition is forming at Jefferson Barracks under the command of John Fremont.”