West Point to Mexico

by Bob Mayer

  “The Pathfinder?” Rumble asked.

  “The same.”

  “Last I heard, he just returned from the west.”

  “And he’s heading west once more,” Delafield said. “The Expedition is supposed to go to the Colorado Territory and scout mountain passes, but I believe there’s more to the Expedition than meets the eye. I see a reconnaissance leaving early enough to be in position in or near California in case Texas goes up in flames. Other countries, particularly Britain, have their eyes on California as ripe for the picking if the United States goes to war with Mexico.

  “Fremont has a reputation as a bit of, shall we say, a wild card. Although he has orders from Washington, he tends to answer more to himself and his political connections than the Secretary of War. Fremont’s father-in-law, Senator Benton, is intent on fulfilling what he calls Manifest Destiny and he has strong connections to President Polk and Polk might be hiding his hand from Congress.”

  “What does that have to do with Cord, sir?”

  “The Secretary of War asked me to recommend an officer to accompany Fremont.”

  “You chose Cord?”

  “Cord gave Ben his ring, did he not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you trust him?”

  “That’s not for me to say, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Cord will be assigned to Fremont’s expedition as part of the United States Corps of Topographical Engineers.”

  “Cord almost failed drawing, sir,” Rumble said. “Grant would be a better choice for the Topographical Engineers.”

  “The Secretary of War isn’t concerned about that aspect of the Expedition. Fremont is more than satisfactory as a surveyor. His previous Expeditions prove that.”

  “Then why Cord, sir? And not Grant?”

  “Sometimes it takes a wild card to check a wild card,” Delafield said. “Grant always struck me as a very trusting fellow. Not the kind I would want around a character like Fremont.”

  “The Secretary really believes Fremont has a hidden agenda, sir?”

  “Fremont is just a tool being used by others. There’s a powerful faction in the government that believes it’s our country’s destiny to stretch from the Atlantic to the Pacific and are willing to cause a war to achieve it.” Delafield sighed. “California is part of Mexico, but like Texas, the claim is tenuous. There are less than fourteen thousand Mexicans occupying that vast territory along the Pacific and a quickly growing American population that is doubling every year. As I said, some see it as ripe for the plucking regardless of what happens with Texas.”

  “And what can Cord do about this, sir?”

  “I was ordered to recommend an officer,” Delafield said. “The list I was given was not long. I chose Cord.”

  Rumble absently rubbed the scar above his right eye. “Sir, this is much too complicated for an enlisted man to—” he began, but his heart wasn’t in the protest and Delafield cut him off.

  “There is also this.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a set of rank insignia. “A promotion to Sergeant Major goes along with the mission.”

  Rumble accepted the insignia. “Thank you, sir.”

  “When you return, you will become Master of the Horse, since old Herschberger is due for retirement soon.”

  “That is an honor, sir.”

  “And this.” Delafield held out the leather case.

  Rumble took it and loosened the tie at one end. A brass telescope rested inside.

  “So you can observe from a safe distance,” Delafield said. “It is the least I can do.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” But Rumble was looking down at Ben.

  “Will you leave your family with Benny and Letitia?” Delafield asked.

  “I haven’t had much of a chance to think about it, sir,” Rumble said, but he already knew what he had to do. “I believe they might be better suited staying with their grandmother and aunt in Mississippi for a while. It would be a good place for them to see a different aspect of life than the Army.”

  May 1845, White Haven, Missouri

  “I have orders to follow the regiment to New Orleans,” Grant told Julia Dent, while her sisters and mothers held back their laughter at his bedraggled appearance. He’d reported back from Ohio to Jefferson Barracks earlier in the day to find the Regiment gone and Lieutenant Richard Ewell commanding the stay-behind detachment of the ill and undeployable. Ewell had given Grant a pass for a quick trip to White Haven before he was to head south on the Mississippi to link up with the regiment. En route to the Dent plantation, Grant had been forced to ford a swollen creek, accounting for his sopping wet clothes. A different man wouldn’t have tried to ford the creek.

  Julia Dent did not share her family’s mirth. She had been surprisingly shaken to hear of the deployment of the 4th, then she’d fallen into a depression. Grant’s sudden arrival brought her both joy and emotional upheaval.

  “How long do you have before you have to report?” Julia asked.

  “I must be on my way tomorrow evening,” Grant said.

  “Come,” Mrs. Dent said. “Let John take you to his room and give you some of Fred’s old clothes. It’s late. The two of you will have time tomorrow to converse.”

  Grant grudgingly allowed himself to be led away, leaving Julia Dent standing on the front porch of White Haven both anticipating and fearing what the morning would bring.

  It brought sunlight and a very serious Ulysses S. Grant waiting for her with a carriage. He helped her into the seat, then climbed up the other side and claimed the reins. As he made to start the horses, Julia placed a hand on his forearm.

  “I am but eighteen, and you twenty-two.”

  “I know.” Grant barely moved the reins and the horses pulled.

  It was a beautiful day, the roads slightly muddy from the previous day’s rain. They quickly came to a bridge over a gulch that was swollen beyond its banks. Water was pouring over the wood planks.

  “It does not look safe to breast,” Julia said as Grant brought the carriage to a halt and contemplated the obstacle.

  “We can make it,” Grant said.

  “I’d rather go back than take the risk of being swept away,” Julia said.

  Grant looked at her, a serious glint in his eye. “I assure you, I will get you across safely.”

  Julia twisted the kerchief in her hands. “Now, if anything happens, I shall cling to you, no matter what you say to the contrary.”

  Grant nodded. “All right.”

  And then they were across the bridge before she had a chance to say another word. Grant drove them to a small clearing, then halted the rig. He turned in the seat to face Julia. She pressed the kerchief against her mouth.

  “I love you,” Grant said. “A life without you is insupportable and unbearable. I want to be married.”

  Julia sighed deeply. “I must admit I have been in a bit of a state lately. Ever since hearing that the 4th was to be deployed.” She fumbled into silence.

  Grant waited.

  “My father would not approve,” Julia said. “Ever since Jessie, the daughter of his friend Senator Benton, secretly married that scoundrel Fremont, my father has been against marriage to a soldier, especially an older one.”

  “I am not Fremont.”

  “Father’s also concerned about your health,” Julia said.

  “I believe the warmer climate in Texas will be good for my health.”

  A slight smile played along Julia’s lips. “You will not back off, will you, Lieutenant Grant?”

  “It is not in my nature.”

  Julia nodded. “I can not do marriage. Not with you leaving this evening. And with father disapproving. But an engagement. That I would welcome. And on that, I will not retreat. The engagement has to be secret until we have the proper time and opportunity to tell father.”

  It was Grant’s turn to nod, with less vigor than Julia. “All right. We are engaged.” He pulled his West Point ring off his finger and slipped it on Julia’s hand
.

  “I will keep it safe,” Julia said. “You keep yourself safe.”

  June 1845, St. Louis, Missouri

  “Ante up,” Cord said, and then took another drink from the bottle at his elbow.

  The muleskinner glared at him through the smoke-filled room. Besides the three men at the ‘table’ consisting of an empty crate, there were a half-dozen others watching the card game. Several bottles of whiskey made the rounds and the noise from the St. Louis streets echoed through the thin plank walls of the make-shift ‘tavern’. Cord had on his uniform blue pants with a plaid shirt, unbuttoned almost to his waist. It was stifling hot inside the room and the cigar smoke was thick enough to punch holes in.

  The muleskinner had a knife tucked in his belt and a musket leaning against the crate, close at hand. The third player was a mountain man, with buckskin britches and a stained shirt that might have once been white and now soaked through with sweat. He had a large Bowie knife stuck in his belt and a long Lancaster Rifle resting against the table. Cord had his whalebone knife in the sheath in the middle of his back. He was realizing that getting engaged in this game, while so far yielding a healthy monetary profit, might not be so good for his health as he was woefully outgunned, having no gun.

  The muleskinner threw two coins on the table. “That’s all I got.”

  “Sorry, friend,” Cord said. “It isn’t enough.” He glanced at the other player. “You in or out, Mister Carson?”

  “Call me Kit,” the man said. His smile cracked a face tanned and lined from years spent in harsh weather. For all the legend surrounding him, he was a surprisingly small man, an inch under five and a half feet. However, he had wide shoulders and a barrel chest.

  “Son, I think you got something more than brass balls, so I’m out.” Kit Carson tossed his cards onto the crate and folded his arms over his broad chest. His dark hair and beard were liberally sprinkled with gray and he had a patience and calmness about him that came from years of moving slowly over vast distances.

  “Elijah Cord. U.S. 4th Infantry.” He stuck his hand out.

  “Nice to meet ya,” Carson said, accepting the handshake with a firm grip.

  “I’ve heard about you,” Cord said. “Most have.”

  “Don’t be believing all you hear,” Carson said. “Only the good things.”

  Cord turned his attention back to the muleskinner. A couple of the men behind him, dressed in similar driving rig, leaned over and whispered in his ear. He shook his and a heated, hushed argument went on.

  “I hear tell you’ve been assigned to United States Corps of Topographical Engineers, Lieutenant Cord,” Carson said. “To be accompanying Fremont.”

  “How’d you hear that?” Cord demanded. “I just received word of it this afternoon.”

  “I scout for Fremont,” Carson said. “Notice the scout and the Fremont parts of that? I know all that’s going on around me.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be joining you,” Cord said.

  “Call me Kit,” Carson repeated. He turned to the muleskinner. “Gents, it’s a card game, not a social meeting. You sound like a bunch of old squaws haggling over a side of buffalo.”

  “Mind your own damn business,” the muleskinner muttered. He glared at the large pot, at his hand and then at Cord. He jabbed a finger at the money piled up. “That’s three months of my wages there, mister.”

  Cord raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  “I can’t lose that.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have bet it.”

  “My friends won’t loan me the ante. Let me pull out what I put in and it’s yours.”

  Kit Carson laughed. “You telling the Lieutenant he can keep my money but you want your money back after you already threw it in? How stupid do you think the man looks?” He pointed. “You’ve got yourself a nice Mississippi ‘41 musket there, don’t you fellow?”

  “How you know what it is?” the muleskinner demanded.

  “I know weapons,” Carson said. He looked at Cord. “That gun is worth everything the man put in the pot plus the ante he’s lacking. You let him take his money out and put the musket up, I suggest you let him finish the hand. Where we’re going, a good musket is more important than money.”

  Cord had a moment’s doubt, wondering if he were being played. “All right.”

  The muleskinner bit his lip, looked at the musket, looked at the pot, then made the trade, scooping back his money and laying the musket on the crate.

  “Let’s see what you have.” Cord took another drink.

  The man put his cards down with a heavy thud on the wood. Cord couldn’t help but grin. “Sorry, friend.” He lay his winning hand down and reached for the pot.

  “You’re with him,” the muleskinner declared, jabbing a dirty finger at Kit Carson.

  “Never met the man before,” Cord said, pocketing the money.

  “But he says he knew you. And you trusted him on my musket’s value.”

  “Easy now, gent” Carson said.

  The muleskinner grabbed for his musket, but Cord snatched it first. The muleskinner threw the crate at Cord, drawing the knife from his belt. Cord was on his back, musket in hand. He cocked the hammer, aiming it at the muleskinner’s gut, but didn’t pull the trigger even as the muleskinner jabbed.

  A Bowie knife slashed between the combating men, slicing a long gash on the muleskinner’s arm, causing him to drop the blade and howl in pain. Cord scrambled to his feet as the muleskinner’s two friends leapt into the fray.

  Exactly as he’d been drilled on the Plain at West Point, Cord used a butt stroke with the musket to lay one of the mule-skinner’s friends out. Carson thumped the Bowie’s hilt on the top of the other man’s head, dropping him instantly.

  “Time to be going,” Carson said, slowly pivoting toward the other men in the room, Bowie in front, his long rifle in his other hand. He backed up toward the door, Cord at his side. Once on the bustling street, they made quick time away.

  “That musket loaded?” Carson asked, glancing over his shoulder for pursuers.

  “No idea,” Cord said. Under a flickering lamp, he lifted it and checked the flint, then peered down the barrel. “Not loaded or charged.”

  “You pointed an empty musket at a man with a knife.” Carson shook his head. “Plus, you didn’t pull the trigger anyways. I didn’t cut him, he’d have gutted you.”

  “I appreciate your interceding.” Cord stuck out his hand once more. “I owe you my life.”

  Carson shook it. “Where you from, Lieutenant Cord?”

  “Virginia.”

  “Well, this aint Virginia and this aint West Point. You make sure any gun you got is loaded and you point it at someone, you be ready to shoot. And shoot to kill.”

  “Sound advice,” Cord agreed. He produced the bottle, which he had somehow rescued during their escape. “How’d you know I was West Point?”

  “Scout, remember,” Kit Carson said. “Plus, Fremont is one of the few officers in the Topographical Corps who aint a West Pointer. He be a bit leery of them, so you be prepared for a bit of coldness from the man. But you do have some talent. Whiskey and cards and a bit of fighting skill. Not a bad combination. Let’s find a quieter and less violent place to get acquainted.”

  A few minutes later they were seated in the lobby of a somewhat upscale hotel and had a new bottle on the table between them.

  “Where’s your ring?” Carson asked, pointing at Cord’s hand. “Your fellow Pointers wear them like they the keys to the kingdom.”

  “I gave it away.”

  Carson grinned. “A special lady waiting for you?”

  “No.”

  The abrupt way Cord said it was enough for Carson to stop the questions.

  “Is this truly a good gun?” Cord hefted his winning.

  “Yep. Mississippi 1841,” Carson said. “Fifty-four caliber. Accurate out to about two-hundred and fifty yards if you know what you’re doing with it. Good enough. Do you know what you’re doing with it?”


  “We were trained in weaponry at the Academy.”

  “Trained and knowing what you doing, be two separate things,” Carson said.

  “What’s that you have?” Cord asked.

  Carson tapped his much longer rifle. “Lancaster. Made in Pennsylvania. Some prefer the Hawken, but I’m happy with this.” He lowered it and showed the octagonal barrel. “Fifty-two caliber. A little smaller bullet than yours, but I can hit a knothole in a tree at five hundred yards. You aint gonna find many of these anywhere. Only a few gunsmiths know how to make ‘em.” Carson put the rifle down and took a drink.

  “Nice pig-sticker you carry,” Cord said.

  Carson smiled. “You know the Bowie?”

  “Jim Bowie had the sandbar fight right off Natchez in the Mississippi. Gutted one man, broke open the skull of another and damn near took off the head of a third. People were still talking about it there.”

  “Old Bowie was a character ‘til he got himself killed down in Texas,” Carson acknowledged. “So, you’re a spy.”

  Cord had been downing a shot when Carson said that and he spit out the alcohol. “What?”

  “Fremont didn’t ask for you to be assigned. No one asked for you. You got assigned by the government. We don’t really need no tenderfoot. Stands to figure you assigned to spy on the expedition.”

  “If so, no one told me,” Cord protested.

  “That’s the best kind of spy,” Carson said.

  “I’ll pull my weight,” Cord said. “I can—” he paused as he spotted someone. “Sam! Sam Grant!”

  Ulysses S. Grant was escorting Julia Dent through the lobby en route to the dining room. He smiled when he saw Cord—Julia did not-- and the couple came over.

  “Miss Dent, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Cord said.

  “Good evening, sir,” Julia said coolly. “And is this the famous Kit Carson, scout for Fremont?”

  “It is indeed.” Cord made the introductions all around and asked them to join he and Carson for a drink.