West Point to Mexico

by Bob Mayer

  “Fremont knew it was called the Great Salt Lake Desert right?” Cord asked. “Not the Little Salt Lake Desert.” He reached into his pocket and felt the flask. It was almost as dry as Carson’s canteen and now was not the time to drain what little was left.

  It had been two months since the Expedition had departed St. Louis and Cord still didn’t know what to make of Fremont or what the real goal was. They’d left the city on the Mississippi with sixty men and the unit was still intact, but Cord imagined Longstreet would be betting against that lucky streak continuing.

  It had taken them over a month of hard marching and riding to make it from St. Louis to Fort Bent, Colorado. Arriving there, Fremont had been put out upon hearing that five companies of US Army Dragoons under Colonel Kearny had passed through the fort just three days prior to their arrival. The commander at Fort Bent had greeted Fremont coolly, making it clear that his extended presence was not welcome.

  The commander had also secretly summoned Cord to a private meeting at night. He’d handed him a sealed envelope for Fremont that Colonel Kearny had left with instructions under what circumstances to open it. The letter was weighing heavy in Cord’s breast pocket.

  Traveling across the Great Plains, Cord had both marveled at the expanse and grown bored with the monotony; now, swallowed by this desert on the west side of the Rockies, the eastern Plains seemed a Garden of Eden. The Great Plains had been left behind after the Fremont Expedition departed Fort Bent and struck out for the Arkansas River.

  Fremont had not been very forthcoming with the exact route or destination for the Expedition, and sometimes Cord got the feeling the man was making it up as they went along. When they’d reached the Arkansas River near Pueblo, Colorado after leaving Fort Dent, Fremont had ridden his horse into the edge of the river and waved his hat dramatically: “This side, boys, is the United States. And that side is Mexico. But soon, lads, soon this will all be part of the United States.”

  Cord had not been impressed with the flourish, the words, or the arbitrary boundary between two countries, particularly since there were no other human beings in sight. He’d also gotten the sense that Fremont would have been more than happy to charge across the river, an international violation. Fremont had held back and they’d moved north, finally finding some life at a small settlement named Hardscrabble where the land seemed to fit the name. They’d re-supplied as much as they could buy, then punched across the Rockies, down to the Great Salt Lake, where Fremont held them in camp for two weeks of rest while making observations and hunting.

  Now it was late October and all Cord could envision was snow in the Sierras if they were indeed making for California. If they made it through this brutal salt desert. The worst of both worlds.

  “Carson!” Fremont called out suddenly, as if making a great decision.

  “Come with me,” Carson said to Cord. “Let’s see what comes next.”

  They walked up to Fremont. He was a man of medium height with a dark black beard, now covered with sand and salt.

  “We have to turn back,” Fremont declared, still looking through the telescope. “I see nothing but more desert.”

  “Well, sir, we could turn back,” Carson said, “but that would force us to spend the winter in Salt Lake.”

  “Waste a year,” Fremont said, almost to himself. “But remember, we almost got caught in the snow last winter in the Sierras.” He was still peering through the telescope, scanning the horizon for some reference point.

  Cord strained his eyes, but he couldn’t make out anything other than more nothingness.

  “Lieutenant Cord, did you know Colonel Kearny and the dragoons were riding the Front Range of the Rockies?” Fremont suddenly asked.

  In two months, Fremont had never directly addressed Cord and the question caught him by surprise.

  “No, sir.”

  “Why do you think they were doing that?” Fremont demanded.

  “Showing the flag, sir.”

  “To whom, exactly?” Fremont asked, slowly lowering the telescope and looking Cord dead in the eye.

  “The Indians, I imagine. And to reassure the settlers.”

  “And what of the Mexicans?” Fremont didn’t wait for an answer. “They’ll have heard of the patrol by now. They always hear what goes on out here. It makes things more difficult for me. There are those who wish to sabotage me. Do you wish to sabotage me?”

  “I wish to get across this desert,” Cord said. “And then through the Sierras safely. If that’s our path.”

  “Apparently you are a man of limited foresight. A shame.” Fremont held out the telescope to Cord and pointed. “Look yonder and tell me if you see anything. Perhaps your eyes are better than mine.”

  Cord angrily peered through the scope for several moments. He spotted a slight spot of white on the far horizon. “I see a mountaintop.”

  “Where?” Fremont demanded. “You look, Kit.”

  Cord handed the scope to Carson and pointed. The mountain man held the device to his eye for a few seconds, then lowered it and nodded. “He’s right. A peak. Still got snow.”

  “How far away do you think it is?” Fremont asked.

  “Sixty, maybe seventy miles,” Carson said.

  Fremont frowned. “We won’t make it. We need to turn back.”

  “There’ll be water there.” Cord said.

  “How do you know?” Fremont demanded. “This is the first time you’ve been west of the Mississippi.”

  “If it’s got snow up high, it’s got water down low,” Carson said.

  “We must go forward, sir,” Cord said. He gestured toward the western horizon, conjuring Preacher. “The pillar is a sign, just as Moses received when he crossed his own desert to reach the promised land.”

  “And why must we go forward?” Fremont demanded.

  With a sigh, Cord reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. “There was another reason Colonel Kearny passed through Fort Bent. He left a sealed letter with me to give to you.”

  “Why didn’t you give it to me then?” Fremont snapped, his face red from sun and anger.

  “Because the requirements of the order relayed by Colonel Kearny were to give it to you under certain circumstances,” Cord explained. “If we turn back, we won’t be getting across.”

  “Give it to me,” Fremont ordered.

  “Sorry, sir,” Cord said, not really sorry at all. “I’m to read the letter to you, then destroy it. There’s to be no record of this.”

  Fremont clenched his fists in anger. “Read then.”

  Cord unfolded the piece of heavy paper.

  “United States Congress

  Washington, D.C.

  3 June 1845

  To Major Fremont from Senator Benton.

  President Polk has dispatched an envoy to negotiate with the Mexican government to the goal of purchasing the California Territory and the Texas Territory. We believe that goal will not be achieved. Further, word has arrived in Washington that the British are preparing a Naval Expedition with their own goal of claiming California during the upcoming turmoil. It is therefore imperative that we have a presence in California as soon as possible.”

  Cord emphasized those last three words, before continuing to read. “The Mexican situation in California is unstable and to our advantage. Governor Pio Pico has decamped his capital to Los Angeles. Commandante Jose Castro is reported to be in Monterrey where he controls the treasury. There is rumor of a brewing civil war between the two, which would further aid a British intervention. We have fought the British twice on this continent; we wish to avoid a third. Not only are the British assembling a fleet in the Pacific, word has reached Washington that they are preparing to resettle Irish immigrants to California and establish it as a British Protectorate. The commander of our Pacific Fleet will be receiving a similar communiqué, and his priority upon the outbreak of hostilities with Mexico will be to secure Yerba Buena, which some are now calling San Francisco.”

  “We must
have access to the Pacific, especially since the Treaty of Nanjing has opened five ports in China to Westerners. The British have gained Hong Kong. We cannot allow them San Francisco or they will control both sides of the Pacific. President Polk and I have spoken at length in private on this matter. The Monroe Doctrine must stand. While the President cannot proclaim this publicly, I am assuring you that you have his support. Additionally, when California is brought into the United States, as it will inevitably, you will be its first governor. President Polk has given his approval.”

  “While your Expedition was formed for exploration, you must see the possibilities. Although your force is small, we do not believe the Mexican government will be able to send military support to California given events that appear to be forthcoming in their home country. You must get to California and assay the situation. Exploit the rift between Governor and Commandante and also gauge the desire of the American settlers there for revolt against Mexico. If things come to blows, Colonel Kearny’s scout of the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains will provide excellent preparation for a relief column to head west from Fort Leavenworth with all possible haste in the event of armed conflict. Kearny does not know the contents of this letter. Nor is he, or anyone else, to be appraised of it. This is to be held in the strictest confidence. God Speed.”

  Cord folded the letter and looked at Fremont, awaiting his reaction.

  The explorer ran a hand through his beard, sand and salt crumbling out. His eyes were distant, as if he could see over the horizon all the way to California. He finally spoke. “It is not an order to do anything directly,” he mused, “but it is an incentive to cause some havoc. And perhaps more. Much more.”

  “Sir,” Cord pressed, “I learned something several years ago. A friend of mine told me that once you set out for some place, you get there. You don’t let anything turn you aside or stop you. Because he followed that rule, he changed my life.”

  Fremont nodded. “Sound advice. I fear I was discouraged by the lack of support from Washington. But the letter makes all the difference. Take Carson and two other men and leave once it’s dark. Head straight for what you’ve seen. When you find water, build a signal fire. We will follow the smoke during the day and the flame at night.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cord said.

  He and Carson quickly detailed two men, picked the strongest horses, and forged out into the desert. As soon as they were out of earshot, Carson turned toward Cord. “I didn’t see no pillar of rock or snow. Just a smudge of something.”

  “It’s out there,” Cord said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t,” Cord said. “But I’m not turning back until we find something.” He slapped Carson on the shoulder, raising a small cloud of dust and salt. “Have a little faith, my friend.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  10 October 1845, Annapolis, Maryland

  “Attention on deck!” Ensign George King barked the order, with less than satisfactory results. The fifty midshipmen lumbered to their feet with varying speeds, ranging from alacrity to sloth. The end result for most of them was far short of the position considered ‘Attention’ at West Point.

  King fought the urge to retrieve the ‘starter’ tucked into his blue uniform sash. There had been a meeting the previous evening. The officer who had just walked in the room, Commander Franklin Buchanan, had been adamant that learning was to take priority over discipline at Annapolis. The other three officers and three civilians who comprised the rest of the faculty had concurred. King had bit his lip and remained silent.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” Commander Buchanan instructed.

  The midshipmen collapsed back into their seats.

  “We are making history today,” Buchanan began. “The 10th of October, 1846, will be remembered by generations of midshipmen to come as the date the United States Naval School was officially founded. The Secretary of the Navy, Mister Bancroft, has issued me specific instructions about my duties and responsibilities as Superintendent and those of the faculty. And what is required of you young gentlemen.

  “You are to learn the science of ships and the art of naval warfare. You will spend a year on land, being instructed in the basics. Then you will go to sea for the next three years to put what you have learned into practice. Then you will return to Annapolis and spend another year finishing your studies.” Buchanan looked over the young men seated in front of him. “Gentlemen, you are the leaders of the future for the United States Navy. Do your duty with pride and honor.”

  Buchanan walked out of the room. As soon as the door shut behind him, King shot to his feet. “Midshipmen, when an officer leaves the room, you come to attention. Is that understood?”

  There was a smattering of discontent muttering. King reached into his belt and pulled out the starter. The officer to his right grabbed his arm. “That’s not appropriate here, Mister King.”

  The midshipmen began to disperse, emptying the room.

  “Don’t ever touch me again,” King said to the other officer, Ensign Reynolds, as soon as all the students were gone.

  “You’re an ass,” Reynolds said.

  King stiffened, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Apologize.”

  Reynolds laughed. “You’re a murderer, King. I heard about the Somers. How you betrayed a confidence. How you talked the Captain into hanging those men without trial. How you rigged the ropes. How you were first on the rope of the son of the Secretary of War. How you—”

  King slapped the starter across Reynolds face, knocking him against the wall. King leapt to deal another blow but the other two officers grabbed him, pinning his arms back.

  Reynolds shook his head, blood dripping from his mouth. He stepped up to King and slapped him across the face. “On my honor, I challenge you.”

  “Let me go,” King hissed at the two officers holding him.

  They released his arms.

  “Challenge accepted,” King said. “Dawn at the sea wall.”

  The next morning King put on his uniform and strode into the early morning fog to the sea wall. He was a bit surprised to see all three men already there. Each second had a wooden box in hand and Reynolds was also in uniform, his face as cold as the water battering the wall.

  “You can back down,” Reynolds said. “I’m an expert marksman and have stood my ground in three duels. My opponents are all in the grave.”

  King ignored him. He turned to the other two officers. “Seconds, are you ready?”

  The two glanced at each other, then walked between King and Reynolds. They flipped open the lids to the cases. Inside each was a flintlock pistol.

  “Choose,” one of the seconds said. “They are identical.”

  King picked the gun furthest from him and Reynolds took the other.

  “Your positions are marked,” the other second said, indicating small stones set ten paces apart.

  King marched to his and turned to face his opponent. Reynolds took his mark. “Once more, Mister King, I implore you to use common sense. Death awaits you if you continue.”

  “I am ready,” King said to the seconds.

  One of them held up a handkerchief and looked to Reynolds. “Sir?”

  Reynolds nodded. “I am ready.”

  The second let go of the small piece of cloth.

  King swung his arm up, leveled it steady as a statue, and pulled the trigger. The hammer hit the flash pan, ignited and the gun jumped lightly in his hand as the powder inside the barrel fired. He heard the pop of Reynolds’ gun at the same moment.

  The jump of the gun had been too light.

  “Damn you!” King cursed, turning to the seconds. “You gave me an unloaded weapon.”

  “Reynolds’ is also unloaded,” one of the seconds said. “We—”

  King dropped the worthless pistol and pulled the starter out of his waistband. He headed for the two seconds, intent on beating them, when a commanding voice called out of the fog: “Halt, Ensign King.”

  King spun on his heels
and then snapped to attention when he recognized Commander Buchanan accompanied by Secretary of the Navy Bancroft walking toward them, with two armed marines as escort. “Sir!”

  Buchanan stopped two paces away from King. “Gentlemen, what are you up to so early in the morning? And with pistols?”

  King said nothing.

  “Target practice, sir,” Reynolds called out.

  “And what—or who—would be the targets? Seagulls?” Buchanan asked. “Never mind. You other gentlemen are dismissed. We must speak with Mister King.”

  The three officers quickly gathered up the weapons and disappeared into the fog. King remained at attention, his eyes directly ahead.

  “Relax, Mister King,” Bancroft said, gesturing for the two marines to step out of earshot.

  The best King could do was drop his shoulders a fraction of an inch and look at the Secretary. “Yes, sir.”

  Bancroft shook his head. “Dueling is stupid and a waste of manpower. Are you stupid?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ve been told you aren’t. Yet, you were dismissed from the Military Academy for dueling, and we have barely begun this School and once more you duel. Maybe schools are not the place for you.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Silence.” Bancroft continued. “I read the report reference the Somers. And have discussed you with Commander Buchanan. He feels you are an excellent officer. But, he also feels you are not appropriate for what we want to achieve here at the Naval School and this event supports that inclination. We must educate first, Mister King. The military aspects will come later.”

  King opened his mouth to say something, but Buchanan cut him off. “This is not a discussion, Ensign. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I did not come here to debate,” Bancroft said. “I came here to give you orders.”

  “Yes, sir.” King stiffened. “Sir, may I ask a question first.”