by Bob Mayer
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Grant said. “This is Julia’s and mine last evening together for a while. I’m to be deployed south because of the Texas problem. Why aren’t you with the regiment, Elijah?”
“Ah,” Cord said, feeling a little light-headed from the whiskey, the near-gutting and learning that apparently, he was a spy. “I’ll be heading west, not south. With my friend, Kit Carson here. To California.”
Grant was surprised. “The regiment is short officers as it is.”
Cord laughed. “Carson thinks I’m assigned to spy on Fremont.”
“How can that be?” Grant said. “Fremont’s an officer.”
Cord shrugged. “Who knows? But it should be quite the adventure to go west. Although I will miss the opportunity for combat with the regiment in the south.”
“Don’t be so anxious to get shot at,” Carson advised. “It aint nearly as exciting as most think.”
“I imagine that’s true,” Grant agreed.
Julia tugged lightly on his arm and he turned to her. “Fremont is a beast,” Julia said. “He secretly married my best friend Jessie Benton when she was but fifteen and caused her great trouble. Her father almost disowned her when he found out. He’s also gone almost all the time.”
“I suspect,” Carson said, “that the Senator has warmed up a bit toward Mister Fremont. He’s the one who gets the money appropriated for our expeditions.”
“Maybe he wants his son-in-law gone a lot,” Grant observed.
Carson laughed. “It’s possible. People do the damnedest things for the damnedest reasons.”
Julia tugged on Grant’s arm once more, this time toward the dining room. He gave a slight bow. “It was pleasant to meet you, Mister Carson.”
“Likewise.”
Grant turned to Cord. “Since I’ll be heading south tomorrow and you’ll most likely be gone before I return, I wish you all the best on your journey, Elijah.”
Cord stood and shook Grant’s hand. “If you end up in Mexico, Sam, keep your head down and don’t do anything stupid.”
The two men embraced, then broke apart, Grant off to dine with Julia and Cord to continue drinking with Carson.
Chapter Fifteen
1 July 1845, New Orleans, Louisiana
New Orleans was the third largest city in the United States and growing by leaps and bounds. Slaves and cotton were the principles of commerce, the former coming in through the river from other states for westward expansion, the latter going out from the Mississippi to the ocean and shipment overseas. But today, the 1st of July, 1845, the streets were practically empty. Windows and doors were shut tight as yellow fever was making a call on the city.
Sergeant Major Rumble had disembarked the steamer from Natchez over four hours ago and he was no closer to finding the 4th Infantry than he had been then. The few people he had managed to question had no idea where the army fellows who’d recently marched through town had gone.
Rumble had a haversack over one shoulder and carried a custom-made double-barreled shotgun, a bandolier of shells draped over the other shoulder. Violet had pressed the shotgun upon him prior to departing Palatine, telling him that Tiberius had no more use for it. Indeed, the last Rumble had seen of his father, the old man could not sit in his wicker throne on the second floor patio. He was flat on his back in bed, too ill to rise. He hadn’t cursed his eldest son as he departed for possible war, but he hadn’t given his blessings either.
Violet had given not only her blessings and a gun, but a promise to look after Ben and Abigail with her life. Drama fit Violet’s personality like the deerskin gloves did her hands, but in this case Rumble had sensed a sincerity that ran deep. Seneca and Rosalie were living in Natchez, learning the cotton trading business and tending to Rosalie’s father’s business interests. At least that was their story.
As Rumble walked along a wide boulevard, searching for someone to ask for directions to the 4th, he remembered watching his two young ones stand on the steamer dock in Natchez, waving him goodbye. Violet had been between them, holding a parasol over their heads. Samual had stood behind the three, a mountain of a man, and a comfort to have at his children’s side.
Ahead, Rumble spotted a slender fellow in army uniform walking away and ran to catch up. The man was in field blue and Rumble could see no rank insignia on his shoulders. “Hey, soldier!” Rumble called out.
The man turned and Rumble felt a surge of relief. “Sam! I mean, Lieutenant Grant.”
Grant was carrying a leather folder with papers bulging out of it. “Lucius.” He noted the chevrons. “Sergeant Major Rumble. I’m impressed. But whatever are you doing here?”
The old friends shook hands.
“I’m attached to the 4th,” Rumble said.
“Attached, not assigned?”
“It’s complicated,” Rumble said.
Grant shook his head. “You and Cord. Skulking about and spying.”
“I’m not a spy,” Rumble protested. “I’m to observe.”
“Well, it’s good you brought that.” Grant pointed at the shotgun. “There may a use for it.”
“What are you doing in the city?” Rumble asked. “Where’s the regiment?”
“The regiment is encamped in the countryside to be away from the fever. I’m the quartermaster, so I’m in town to arrange the shipment of supplies. Come with me to the waterfront where there’s a broker I must speak to about some cattle and then I’ll take you to the regiment.”
Rumble fell in step with Grant who seemed to know his way around. The sun was setting and because of the fever, few streetlamps had been lit. A fog was rolling in off the Mississippi. It made for a most gloomy setting.
“The children?” Grant asked as he stopped outside a tavern and peered in the door.
“They’re fine. I left them with Violet.”
“I’m sure she’ll teach them a thing or two.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Not spotting who he was looking for, Grant moved on to the next tavern, but before they could reach the door, a knot of men spilled out into the street, angry words being exchanged. Grant stepped back into the shadows, pulling Rumble with him as the men squared off.
“I’ve seen two duels since arriving,” Grant said, watching the men argue. “It seems to be the only thing people will congregate for. Damn fools.”
“This is the south,” Rumble said, as if that explained it all.
Grant shook his head. “A duelist might have physical courage to fight, but they lack the moral courage not to fight.”
The two groups of men were still yelling at each other, but it was impossible to make out the words or the details of the participants at this distance and in the darkness. But then a loud voice cut through the confusion:
“Step out and face me, man to man.”
Rumble gripped the shotgun tightly. “That’s St. George.”
At the front of the group on the right appeared the bulky figure of the overseer from Palatine. His slouch hat was pulled low over his eyes and he sported the black sash around his thick mid-section. One hand rested on the top edge of the sash.
“You speak ill of me, you face me, you yellow belly Yankee,” St. George continued.
A man in a tailored suit took a step in front of his friends. “I did not speak ill of you, sir. I was pointing out that the girl you were trying to sell in there looked like a white child.”
“She aint no white,” St. George said.
“I said she looked white,” the man said. “But I don’t really care. She’s got to be all of what, ten? And you were trying to sell her body to me. I knew you people were savages, but I never expected the like.”
“That’s it,” St. George said. He spit at the man’s feet. “Get you a gun, mister. And back up your words.”
“This isn’t a proper duel,” the man protested as St. George took a step forward.
“This is the duel you got,” St. George said. “You get a gun, or I shoot you down like
the dog you are.”
Grant tapped Rumble on the shoulder and pointed down the street where a figure appeared in the road, coming this way. “There’s who I have to meet.”
A tall rangy woman packing a pistol on each hip was slowly advancing toward the men.
“A woman?” Rumble asked.
“It’s a strange town,” Grant said mildly.
“I’m beginning to see that,” Rumble said, but his focus was back on St. George.
“Skull!” St. George yelled, when he saw the woman. “Give that Yankee one of your pistols.”
The woman walked between the two groups of men without any apparent concern. “What the hell are you doing, St. George?”
“He insulted me.” St. George was pointing at the man in the suit.
“That’s your beef contractor?” Rumble asked.
“She’s from Texas,” Grant said, as if that explained it all.
Skull turned to the Yankee. “You insult him?”
“He’s trying to sell a young white girl—”
“She black,” St. George cut in. “Her mother a slave and black as night. I know for damn sure. I seen her birthed.”
“Then the father must be white,” the Yankee argued.
“Don’t matter who the father be,” St. George said. “Any nigra blood, you a nigra. She mine to do with as I will. You can duel me or you can buy her. Don’t make no difference to me.”
Sally Skull pulled one of her pistols out of the holster. She held it up. “Decide mister. I aint got time to be standing around here jabbering with you fools.”
“I’m not buying a young girl!” the Yankee exclaimed.
“All right then,” Skull said. She tossed the pistol to the Yankee as she walked out of the way and headed for the tavern door.
The Yankee caught the gun by instinct. As he fumbled with it, St. George whipped his Le Mat out of the sash and fired. The bullet caught the Yankee in the shoulder and spun him about. Skull’s revolver fell to the ground. The Yankee collapsed to his knees, back to St. George, who came striding forward. St. George stood behind the man and flipped up the hidden striker in the hammer that fired the lower barrel with the .63 caliber slug. He aimed it at the back of the man’s skull.
“Hold on there.” Grant came out of the shadows, pistol at the ready. “You’ve made your point.”
Rumble was at Grant’s side, the shotgun up.
St. George slowly pivoted. “This none your business.” He cocked his head as Grant and Rumble became recognizable. “Young Master Rumble. You down here with the Army, eh? And you,” he added, nodding toward Grant, “you jumped that horse. That was some pretty fancy riding.”
“Leave the man be,” Grant said.
“He insulted me,” St. George insisted.
“He didn’t know he was insulting you,” Rumble said.
“Let him be,” Grant said.
St. George shrugged. “I’ll do it for you, cause of that jump.” He flipped the striker back into place. “Any you other Yankees want some? I got some shots left.”
There was no reply. Shaking his head he started to walk toward the tavern, reloading, when Sally Skull’s voice came floating out. “Don’t forget my gun.”
Muttering to himself, St. George went back to the wounded man and grabbed the pistol. He also checked the man’s pockets and retrieved a gold pocket-watch and his wallet. He looked at Grant and Rumble to see if they would challenge him, but they didn’t. St. George went inside the tavern.
Grant looked at Rumble. “So this is the south?”
“This is New Orleans,” Rumble said. “I’ve heard stories—” he shook his head. “You can’t deal with someone who knows St. George.”
“I’m the quartermaster,” Grant said. “The men need beef. This Skull woman has a steamer full waiting in the harbor.” He looked around and called out. “If you’re this man’s friend, best get him to a doctor.”
A couple of figures skulked out of the darkness, grabbed the wounded man and carried him off. Grant headed for the tavern door. Reluctantly, Rumble followed and entered behind Grant.
Skull and St. George were in a corner table, engaged in intense conversation. There were only a handful of people inside, the ones who chose alcohol or business over fear of the fever. St. George saw Grant and Rumble and reached for the pistol in his sash. Skull looked up, noted the uniforms and put her hand on St. George’s gun arm.
“Easy. This my business.”
“He be—” pointing at Rumble—“ the eldest son from Palatine.”
“But now he’s an Army fella,” Skull said. “And I have business to conduct with the Army.”
Grant stopped a few feet from the table. “You received my requisition, Mrs. Skull?”
“I did. The ship is docking as we speak. I have drovers who can off load and wrangle the cattle to your encampment. As long as I receive payment. Now.”
Grant continued negotiating, but Rumble tuned their conversation out. He was looking in the corner, behind St. George, where the slight wisp of a girl had wedged herself, showing a proclivity for hiding, even in a public place. Her skin was indeed white, as the Yankee had claimed. But her facial features indicated Negro to Rumble. There was something else though, something that struck him as she dared a quick glance up at him, which caused him to shiver for a moment.
He overrode Grant and Skull’s negotiations and addressed St. George. “Who was her mother?”
“You don’t need know,” St. George said.
“If her mother was a slave at Palatine, then you’re a thief, stealing plantation property and trying to sell it.”
St. George’s hand headed for his vest, but Rumble caused him to freeze by swinging up the shotgun.
“Easy now, son,” Skull said. “I’m in the blast of that cannon.”
“Who was her mother?” Rumble said each word distinctly.
“Mary,” St. George said. He held up his gun hand as Rumble pulled back the hammers on both barrels. “I aint stealing. I got Master Tiberius’s legal order to sell her. I got the papers.” St. George eased his hand toward his breast pocket.
Rumble was holding the shotgun so hard it was vibrating. Grant reached out and put a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Be calm.”
“Who was the father?” Rumble demanded. The words echoed in the now silent tavern.
St. George pulled a set of folded papers out of his pocket and placed them on the table. Then he looked at Rumble and smiled. “These here papers give me right to do whatever I want with her. As long as I don’t bring her back to Palatine. You know why that is, don’t you boy? I done this quite a few times.”
Grant sliced his hand down between the shotgun’s dual hammers and the shells, grunting in pain as Rumble pulled the trigger and the hammers slammed on the edge of Grant’s palm, cutting into the flesh but keeping the gun from firing.
“We’re not murderers!” he hissed at Rumble.
St. George laughed.
Grant removed the shotgun from Rumble’s grip and extracted his bleeding hand. He then grabbed Rumble and shoved him toward the door. “Wait for me outside, Sergeant Major.”
“Good thing you keep a rein on that boy,” St. George said as Rumble stomped outside.
Grant reached into the leather folder he carried and tossed a stack of bills on the table in front of Sally Skull. “Payment as agreed.”
Skull grabbed the money. “I’ll get the herd moving.”
“Thank you.” Grant looked at St. George. “I might not be around next time.”
St. George laughed. “I hope not.”
Grant shook his head and left the bar and the normal muted roar of conversation resumed. Skull twisted in her seat as she picked up the pile of cash. “How much for the girl?”
St. George scratched his head. “What you do with her?”
“I can always use help on the ranch.”
“What good a girl be on a ranch?”
“You run a plantation, not a ranch. Don’t b
e asking so many questions. How much?”
St. George quoted a price, a higher one than he had offered the Yankee.
Skull peeled off the bills and dropped them on the table. She stood. “I’ll see you when the next crop is ready.” She grabbed the girl’s arm and left the tavern, leaving a perplexed St. George in her wake.
October 1845, Great Salt Lake Desert, Utah
“When the natives say no one has ever crossed this desert, maybe one ought listen to them,” Cord said in a low voice to Kit Carson.
Cord’s tongue was swollen from lack of water, his throat parched. His skin was rubbed raw by the constant blowing sand and salt. He’d passed that point in hunger to where he no longer felt the need for food; a bad sign. He was simply starving, energy draining from his body. “There were better routes to take. Why’d he go this way? And what’s our destination?”
Carson was not in a jovial mood as they watched Fremont gaze through his telescope at the desolate terrain that stretched ahead of them. And the same terrain was behind them, after a couple of days of riding and walking since leaving the Great Salt Lake. No one knew if they had passed the ‘point of no return’ where turning back for known water would end up being further then continuing toward the unknown. The salt flats they were crossing were indeed flat, unlike anything Cord had ever seen.
“Walker,” Carson said, with a nod toward an old mountain man, “says he was out here once. He survived.”
“I know,” Cord said. “When he was lost. He was lucky to make it out alive. He didn’t cross it. He wandered into it and wandered out of it and I feel like we’re doing a bit of wandering ourselves.”
Carson grimaced. “We’ve not only got to get across, but still have to cross the Sierras before the heavy snows if we’re making for California.”
“Now you sound like my friend Cump Sherman,” Cord said.
“Who’ss that?”
“A fellow West Pointer,” Cord said.
“Sounds like a man with vision,” Carson said, as he rattled his wood canteen, confirming that it was empty. “We got two days, maybe three, before the horses go down. Without the horses, we aint gonna make it through the Sierras. We’ll be caught between the desert and the mountains.”
