Mexico to Sumter

by Bob Mayer

“So why here?” St. George insisted.

  “Heard about all this. I wanted to see it. And the house. We always meet on the river. I wanted to see what was above and beyond the river.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you ever want to see what’s above and beyond?” Skull asked.

  St. George frowned, apparently deep in thought.

  Skull didn’t want him to hurt himself. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  St. George wasn’t overwhelmed with grief. “He was old and hurting. He in a better place now.”

  “Where that be?”

  St. George was surprised. “Heaven.”

  Skull held back her laughter, knowing it was one of the things that easily triggered anger in men if misplaced. “That’s good for him.”

  “He’s not in any more pain,” St. George said, as true a statement as any he’d said so far.

  Skull looked up at the angel. “Lot of dead folk down in Mexico.”

  “You called that one right,” St. George said, spitting into the fountain, which bothered Skull for some reason. “But I think them Army boys bit off more than can chew. There be millions of Mexicans and just a couple thousand of them fellas.”

  “The Mexicans will lose,” Skull said it as a fact.

  “What? Why?”

  “They’ve got no good bosses. Your average Mex, he’s tough as nails. Work from sun-up till sun-down. Fight like a demon. But he needs a good boss. The Mex army got bosses like your Tiberius up on his porch. Their officers get their rank cause they born to right people, not cause they earned it. All fancy and fine, but they don’t know what really be going on or how to get things done. And killing, that’s a job that needs getting done well.”

  “It is,” St. George agreed. He pulled off his slouch hat and wiped the sweat off his bald head with a dirty rag. “Not as easy as most think.” He looked up at the angel. “Stupid thing.”

  “It’s pretty,” Skull murmured in a low voice, so low that St. George didn’t really hear her.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Skull said. “All of this, it gonna change.”

  “How?” St. George demanded.

  “I was right about war in Mexico. I’ll be right about the U.S. winning. And this, all this, the building, the slaves, the house. The way of life. It doomed.”

  “What you mean?”

  She ignored the question. “That’s why I wanted to see it. Before it all gone.”

  St. George shook his head, having little idea what she was trying to impart. “Say. That slave girl you bought. What you do with her?”

  “Gabriel?”

  “You gave her a boy’s name?”

  “She told me her name. The one her mother gave her.”

  “Slaves don get to name their children unless the master be dim.”

  “I like the name,” Skull said. “It’s an angel’s name.”

  They both tensed as voices approached. A child’s voice raised in excitement and happiness and a woman’s. A young boy came running into the clearing surrounding the fountain and skidded to a halt upon seeing Skull and St. George. He was six years old, small for his age, with red hair and blue eyes.

  “Ben Agrippa,” St. George said, as if ordering an item off a menu.

  A young black girl appeared. She halted upon seeing St. George.

  “Echo,” St. George said, as if the main course had appeared.

  “Sorry, master,” Echo quickly said, backing up a step. “Didna know you was here, master. Boy just wanted to splash. So sorry. I’ll take the boy—“

  “Shut up,” St. George snarled.

  Skull walked over to the boy and knelt in front of him. “So this is the famous Ben Agrippa Rumble. I heard of you.”

  Though she was kneeling, Ben still had to look up at her. “Yes, ma’am. And whom do I—“ he halted, searching for the words he’d been taught—“have the pleasure of talking to?”

  Skull smiled. “My name is Sally.”

  “Yes, Miss Sally. Pleased to meet you.”

  St. George snorted. “You sure, boy?”

  “Where’s your daddy?” Skull asked, ignoring St. George.

  Ben’s blue eyes locked into hers. “Why do you want to know, Miss Sally?”

  Skull laughed. “So polite, yet so guarded.” She looked at the slave girl. “You teach him that?”

  Echo seemed to shrivel under the gaze. “No, mistress.”

  “I taught young Ben some of his fine manners.”

  Everyone turned as Rosalie Rumble walked into the clearing. She was wearing an elegant dress and carrying her parasol, but there was ice in her voice. “Pray tell, what are you doing in Miss Violet’s garden, St. George? And who is your—” Rosalie tapped a finger against her lips for a moment as if in thought—“conspirator?”

  “What?” St. George said.

  Skull stepped in between St. George and Rosalie. “I heard enough of you to know who you are, Miss Rosalie of Natchez.”

  Rosalie gave a bright smile. “The knowledge is mutual, Miss Skull of Texas. Your reputation precedes you. Or is it Mrs. Skull? There was a Mr. Skull once upon a time, was there not?”

  Skull took a step closer. “If you have knowledge of me, then you might want to watch that mouth of yours.”

  Rosalie shut her parasol and tapped the end of it in her other hand.

  Skull could see that the steel tip was honed to a needlepoint. “Well, Mrs. Rumble, you sure put on a purty show and all.”

  “She certainly does, doesn’t she?” Violet Rumble swept into the clearing with Samual just behind her right shoulder.

  “What that nigra doing here?” St. George said before he thought it through.

  “What are you doing in my private garden?” Violet asked. “How dare you invade my privacy?”

  “I’m just visiting,” Skull said.

  “Not at my invitation,” Violet snapped.

  “My apologies,” Skull said, without a hint of apology in her voice. She placed her hands on her hips, inches from her pistols. The movement was not lost on Violet who reached out and placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder.

  “We come here every evening because young Ben loves to play in the fountain and it does my heart well to see him do so.” She glared at St. George. “It’s much safer than the Mississippi, don’t you agree? As Mistress of Palatine I’m entitled to this, at least. And I think as overseer of Palatine, Mister St. George, you have other places to be. Perhaps down low, across the river in Vidalia where there’s a steamer docked with a load of cotton?”

  St. George was befuddled, looking between Violet, Skull, Rosalie and the young boy.

  “You are most correct, Mrs. Rumble,” Skull said. “I was saying just that a moment ago. To my--” she paused—“friend.”

  “You choose your friends poorly,” Rosalie said.

  Skull stiffened and her hands moved toward the guns. Rosalie stepped closer, holding the parasol with one hand, the tip drifting in Skull’s direction. Samual stepped past Violet, toward St. George whose hand was on top of his sash.

  “Now, now, let’s all be civil,” Violet said. “It’s a pleasant early summer evening. No need for everyone to get tense. I think this was a most intriguing meeting. For us all to finally make acquaintances and get to meet face to face. To know each other.” Her voice gained an edge. “To know who is who and where they stand.” She looked directly at Skull. “You did pick this place, didn’t you? Because St. George, he wouldn’t have thought of it.”

  Skull said nothing.

  “I suggest,” Violet’s voice went back to charming, “that you all go on down to the river and do what you do and we all will just stay here and let the young boy enjoy his splashes in the fountain. And we will all await whatever else may come in the future for him. And for the two of you.”

  Chapter Three

  28 June 1846, San Pablo Bay, California

  The flag was homemade and new, but men were dying for the movement it represented as men often did for flags
, new and old. Two men had been killed the previous day and the Bear Flag rebels who had rallied to the standard in Sonoma were in a foul and bloody mood. The Bear Flag had been completed by William Todd, a cousin of Mary Todd, married to a member of the House of Representatives, Abraham Lincoln. There was a distant irony in that fact because young Lincoln was a fierce opponent of President Polk’s expansionist plans in Mexico and California, calling both a desire for “military glory—that attractive rainbow, that rises in showers of blood.”

  But there was an entire continent between speeches in Congress and the reality of battle in California.

  Cord stood with Kit Carson watching the flag, tied to a tree branch over the makeshift camp of the rebels, flap in the breeze. The camp was on the shore of San Pablo Bay, just north of San Quentin, California. They were passing Cord’s flask back and forth, the contents having been replenished many times over as the army made its way through the vineyards that dotted the California countryside.

  The flag was made of some brown cloth on which a broad reddish stripe was marked across the bottom along with a single star in the upper left and a grizzly bear, apparently floating in air, in the upper center.

  “You think that stripe stands for all the blood that going to flow?” Cord asked.

  “It already been flowing.” Carson spit some tobacco juice into the dirt. “Probably stands for earth or dirt or wine or some such. The star is from an old flag. Back in ’36 a couple of fellows tried to capture Monterrey and call California an independent country. Call it the Lone Star State. Didn’t work. Got strung up for their trouble.”

  “It’s working now,” Cord said. He noted George King was with Fremont, standing on the shore of the bay, looking through a telescope. Turning in that direction, Cord could see a small boat being rowed across the water toward the camp. “Visitors.”

  “Your friend thick as thieves with old Fremont,” Carson said.

  “Bother you?” Cord asked, knowing that the scout and the Pathfinder had a long history.

  Carson shrugged. “I like John and we been through a lot together. But last couple of years he been getting, well, ambitious. I just like getting paid to travel round the land, see things no fella ever saw before. Don’t need to conquer it. Especially don’t need to civilize it like all these here fellas want to do to California. Grab the land; break it to make money. It aint good. I like it as it is. Wild and free.”

  Cord took in the lush countryside. “It’s a wonderful place. A far cry from the Eastern coast.”

  Carson was watching Fremont and King. “You think they see the land like we do?”

  “I think they believe in bigger and different things,” Cord said. “Some I don’t understand, but appreciating the land for its beauty isn’t one of them.”

  It was late June, 1846, and the weather was pleasant. Indeed, Cord was finding California to be quite an oasis, a far cry from Norfolk and the High Plains and deserts they had come across to get here. He understood Carson’s desire for things to stay just as they were. The large bay in front of him and the one further down south, San Francisco, made the anchorage at his birth town seem trivial by comparison. The narrow passage that opened both bays to the Pacific was a magnificent sight and Fremont had named the strait Chrysopylae (Golden Gate) since it reminded him of the harbor in Istanbul named Chrysoceras (Golden Horn).

  “Mister Carson, Lieutenant Cord.” King was being overly formal as he walked up to them, which put Cord on alert.

  “Yes?” Cord said. He didn’t bother to hide the flask and King didn’t bother to hide his disdain, though he was almost the only one not drinking in the camp besides Fremont.

  “I’ve been instructed that we have no more capacity for prisoners after all we captured at Sonoma. I’ve been ordered to execute whoever gets off of that boat, unless they have come to enlist in our army.”

  “’Our army’?” Cord said. “This isn’t an army, King. And you can’t be executing people who haven’t done anything.”

  “Those are my orders,” King said, avoiding eye contact. “We must continue to make a statement showing our resolve.”

  “I’ll have no part in committing murder,” Cord said.

  King was reciting words given to him. “There’s also the matter of revenge for our slain soldiers from yesterday.”

  “Armies don’t do revenge,” Cord said, taking a drink from his flask.

  “Soldiers don’t drink while on duty either.” King turned to Carson. “Major Fremont specifically requested you to assist me, Mister Carson, as chief scout.”

  “What scouting got to do with killing folk?” Carson looked past King to the small boat, which was closing on shore. There were several rowers and three men standing. An old man from the shock of white hair, and two younger men. All definitely of Spanish descent. They were not coming to enlist.

  “Let me talk to them, figger out what they want,” Carson suggested.

  “That was not an option I was given,” King said.

  “It is now.” Carson hefted his Lancaster rifle and made his way to the shore, leaving Cord with a nervous King. Several of the Bear Flag rebels gathered round and the mood was turning uglier as the boat touched shore about a hundred yards away and Carson greeted the men.

  There was an animated conversation, then Carson came walking back, long rifle in the crook his arm. “The old man’s son was the mayor of Sonoma. He heard that we hold him as prisoner. He just wants to visit his son and go back home.”

  “Who are the two young men?” King asked.

  “The old man’s nephews,” Carson said. “Twins; sons of the mayor of San Francisco. They’re all peaceable and got no weapons. Just want to visit with their kin.”

  The three Mexicans waited by the shore, their boat back offshore about a hundred yards away. King looked at them and then over at Fremont who remained by his tent, arms folded, watching. “Wait,” King ordered. “I’ll talk to Fremont.”

  The Bear Flag rebels muttered, but complied. King strode swiftly to Fremont.

  Cord observed King with their nominal commander. “Isn’t good,” he said to Carson. It was obvious King was arguing with their commander.

  “No, it aint. Old Pathfinder wants to make a statement, not just to the locals, but to these Bear Flag jokers before we move on to the main Mexican forces.” He indicated the motley crew of drunken civilians pretending to be an army.

  King came striding back and the dismay on his face indicated the result of the discussion with the Pathfinder. “Are you with me?” he asked Cord.

  “No. It’s illegal and murder.”

  “You, sir?”

  “Sorry,” Carson said. “Can’t.”

  King turned his back to them and addressed the dozen or so Bear Flaggers, as he slid his boarding axe out of its sheath and drew a line in the dirt with the pike. “Gentlemen, we have no room or provisions to take more prisoners. Major Fremont has ordered they be executed immediately. It’s our duty. Those who follow orders, on this line.”

  All the men, half of them fully drunk, the others well on their way, staggered to the line.

  “Ready,” King ordered.

  The men lifted their rifles and pulled back the hammers on the flints in a ragged cacophony signaling imminent violence.

  The three Mexicans finally became aware something was amiss. The old man stepped forward, arms upraised and called out that they had come in peace and unarmed.

  “Aim.” King dropped the boarding axe and grabbed his rifle, joining the firing squad.

  “Lieutenant King,” Cord said. “Don’t!”

  “Fire!”

  The rattle of musketry was uneven. The old man was hit by two rounds and slammed backwards to the ground. One of the twins was hit in the head, the large caliber round exploding it and showering his brother with blood, bone and brain. The other twin was wounded in the stomach and fell to his knees, hands pressing against his body vainly trying to keep the blood from flowing out. He was crying out something in Span
ish.

  “Ah, Sweet Jesus,” Carson cursed. “Damn stupid bastards.” He lifted his Lancaster, pulling back the hammer while bringing it to his shoulder, and fired, all in one smooth motion.

  The bullet pierced directly through the last survivor’s heart and he toppled backwards onto the shoreline.

  Cord headed for the camp, directly to Fremont who was peering at the bodies through his telescope.

  “Major!” Cord stopped three paces from the Pathfinder, just as he had been trained on the Plain at West Point.

  Fremont slowly lowered the telescope and looked at Cord. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “That was murder.”

  “That was war.”

  “Against unarmed civilians? You don’t have the authority.”

  “Do not talk to me like this in front of my command,” Fremont said. He took a step closer. “Especially after you’ve been drinking.”

  “Everyone here’s been drinking,” Cord said.

  “I have not,” Fremont said. “Nor has Lieutenant King.”

  “I resign my commission as of this minute. Sir,” Cord added.

  “You cannot resign during a time of war,” Fremont said. “And any action you take against me will be treason. Punishable by execution.”

  Cord took a step closer. “I will—”

  “Easy, now,” Carson said, placing a hand on Cord’s shoulder. “It’s done, son.”

  Fremont nodded. “It is indeed.”

  “It was murder,” Cord said. “I’m going to San Francisco harbor and find Commodore Sloat,” Cord said. “I’ll formally—”

  “Sloat is under orders to take San Francisco,” Fremont said. “And then we’ll move south by ship and capture the rest of the Mexican positions in California. He’ll have no time for your dramatics. Also,” Fremont added, a cunning smile curling under his mustache, “your good friend—and mine—Mister Carson, was complicit in what you call murder. He did fire the last fatal shot.”

  “He did it to put that poor man out of his misery,” Cord argued, but realized that he was out-flanked.

  “We head for Monterrey immediately,” Fremont cried out in a loud voice. “We must beat the British to the capitol.”