Mexico to Sumter

by Bob Mayer

  The priest grudgingly swung the door open. Grant led the way to the stairs. Rumble could feel the priest’s glare as he passed him. He directed the artillerymen to carry the pieces and ammunition up to the belfry. It was crowded once everyone was up there. The men quickly began putting the gun together.

  While they were doing that, Rumble leaned the barrel of his musket on the surrounding wall and aimed. “Wait for the howitzer?” he asked Grant.

  “If you please.” Grant was looking through the scope.

  “You know, Lieutenant Grant,” Rumble said, “why don’t you keep that?”

  Grant was surprised. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Major.” He tried to hand it back, but Rumble waved him off.

  “You make much better use of it than I do.”

  “No,” Grant said, stepping close. “It was a gift to you—“

  Rumble spoke in a voice only Grant could hear. “To direct their fire, you need it more than I do for now.”

  The artillerymen were experts at their job. Not only assembling the small gun, but also wedging wood under the carriage so that it could fire over the wall and toward the Mexican lines, which were about three hundred yards away.

  “Gentlemen,” Grant said calmly, “give me a spotting round.”

  The howitzer spit out a ball. Grant saw the shell explode in the air and then began to adjust. “Thirty yards further and twenty to the right, gentlemen.”

  As he finished the sentence, Rumble fired his rifle and began reloading. In concert, rifle and howitzer let loose. After several iterations, Grant extended the scope to Rumble. “Observe the effect.”

  Rumble paused in his shooting and looked through the device. The Mexican line was in turmoil. Some troops were retreating, officers chasing after them. Others were firing blindly in various directions.

  “They don’t know from where they’re being fired on,” Rumble said.

  The barrage continued as the sun slid lower in the west. Around six in the evening, a courier came galloping up to the church. By now, the gunners were exhausted from hauling ammunition up to the belfry and servicing the gun. Rumble had run out of balls for his rifle and was seated with his back against the wall, sipping water from his canteen. The courier popped his head up through the door, looked around, then climbed the rest of the way.

  “Captain Pemberton, sir,” he said to Grant.

  “You have the rank, sir,” Grant replied.

  Pemberton squinted and finally spotted the small bars sewn onto Grant’s shoulders. “Ah, yes, Lieutenant?”

  “Grant, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Grant, I’m General Worth’s aide-de-camp. He very much appreciates the service your howitzer has been doing. Every shot has been quite effective. He wishes to bring up another gun to assist.”

  Rumble looked at the cramped space in the belfry, where there was barely room for Pemberton to squeeze in.

  Grant gave a slight bow. “Certainly, sir. We would welcome the assistance.”

  “Very well,” Pemberton said. He seemed about to say something else, then abruptly left, disappearing down the ladder.

  “What are you doing, Sam?” Rumble asked. “We couldn’t fit a rabbit up here, never mind another howitzer.”

  Grant shrugged. “I don’t think Lieutenants have much latitude in telling Generals their ideas are not sound. He might’ve taken it as a contradiction. Besides, the new gun will mean more ammunition, which we’ll certainly need for the morrow. And,” Grant raised his voice so the other men could hear, “these gentlemen who have done such a fine job with their weapon could use a break and have their fellow gunners relieve them for a bit.”

  Rumble shook his head. “Sam, you are wicked.”

  It was too dark to keep firing and Grant dismissed the gunners, leaving the two of them alone in the belfry. Fires were burning in all directions. Some campfires, others buildings consumed by the flames of war.

  Grant was staring morosely out at the flames. “I might be wicked, but war is much worse.”

  Chapter Nine

  14 September 1847, Mexico City, Mexico

  “The Halls of Montezuma,” Ulysses S. Grant said. “Cortes stood in this square three hundred years ago.”

  The palace of the Mexican government, and before that, Cortes, and before him, the Aztecs, surrounded the courtyard in the center of Mexico City. Along one side, a cotillion of Mexican officers in dress uniforms was lined up, ready to do the hardest task for a soldier: surrender.

  On the other three sides, American troops were deployed, waiting for their commander to arrive to arrange terms and accept the capitulation.

  Rumble had no comment on Grant’s observations, simply satisfied that the fighting appeared to be over. Longstreet was with them, the group standing in the shade of one of the arches lining the square, watching history being made. Old Pete wore his dress uniform in honor of the occasion, even going so far as putting on his old cadet white cross belt with highly polished brass breastplate. He walked with a limp, but a flesh wound, as he called it, wasn’t going to keep him from seeing the final act of the war. Grant was in his usual dusty, field uniform, his rank the same as when the war had started. The sergeant major insignia on the arms of Rumble’s blue blouse were no longer golden, long faded by the Mexican sun and dirt, and less than perfect cleanings in streams and fountains across Mexico.

  General Winfield Scott, who had replaced General Taylor after fierce political maneuvering, finally rode into the square, fashionably and humiliatingly late. He was followed by a massive entourage of staff officers. Scott, the polar opposite of Taylor in deportment, but equally brilliant in battle, was in full dress and wore every accouterment his rank allowed and perhaps some. His corpulent body certainly allowed extra cloth on which to pin medals. Grant felt for the horse that had to carry such a weight. Marines spread out, to guard Scott and cordon off the palace.

  “We do the hard fighting and Marines get to look pretty,” Longstreet groused.

  “Be fair, Pete,” Grant said. “They saw some hard work on the battlefield.”

  Longstreet rubbed his hip, the itch of the wound adding to his irritation. “Where the devil is Cord? I directed him to the quartermaster to acquire a proper uniform. And get sober.”

  “He didn’t listen,” Rumble said, seeing the man in question approaching. “When did he ever?”

  Elijah Cord came walking up, still in his buckskins and plaid shirt, his long rifle in the crook of his arms. A slight sway in his step indicated he also hadn’t achieved any level of sobriety. He had shaved, but his hair was still down to his shoulders. His face was hard and his trademark, mischievous grin was absent. There was a hint of Preacher Cord in the depths of his eyes.

  “Elijah,” Rumble said, extending his hand. “Strange this is where we meet.”

  “Lucius.” Cord briefly shook the hand. “Sam. Pete.”

  Both officers greeted their fellow West Pointer, but there was a tenseness rolling off Cord that put all the men who had seen so much combat on edge.

  “What is that?” Grant pointed at the long rifle, as always trying a diversion.

  “A Lancaster,” Cord said. “A gift from a friend.”

  “I’ve heard of those,” Grant said. “Very special brand of weapon—a rifled barrel and much greater range. Must have been a good friend.”

  “It was a gift for saving his life,” Cord said.

  Rumble and Grant exchanged a glance.

  “So you’ve fought real battles here, with real soldiers,” Cord said

  “Sounds like you’ve been in battle too, if you saved someone’s life,” Rumble said.

  “I saw battles, mostly civilians against civilians, and I saw executions,” Cord said. “I figure that’s what war is. Just plain killing when you get down to it. Not at all like what we were taught at West Point. Just like those hangings yesterday.”

  “It’s politics by other means,” Longstreet said. “You studied Clausewitz at the Academy.”

  Cord asked Grant. �
�So it’s all politics?”

  “There’s a bit more to Clausewitz than that,” Grant said. He smiled at Longstreet’s roll of the eyes. “I did actually read something other than novels while in the library at West Point.” Grant waved a hand taking in the soldiers, the palace, all of it. “Rational decision making at the top political level, fueled, however, by violent emotions and then you have to add in the vagaries of chance. Just damn chance, sometimes, Elijah. Why did Hoskins get shot off my horse the one time he rode it and not me all the times I was on her back?”

  “Hoskins is dead?” Cord asked.

  “At Palo Alto,” Grant confirmed.

  “So, like Hoskins, we’re just pawns of chance?” Cord asked.

  “What’s your problem?” Longstreet demanded, tiring of the angry questioning.

  “I want to know why we’re here,” Cord said. “Why we’ve all done the bloody things we’ve done?”

  “It’s simple,” Grant said.

  Rumble, Cord and Longstreet all turned to him.

  “It’s our duty,” Grant said.

  Cord took a step back as if struck by the three words. He slowly nodded. “Yes. Duty. I understand that finally.” He asked Rumble: “Ben?”

  “He’s at Palatine,” Rumble said. “In Violet and Rosalie’s care.”

  “And you are here.”

  “I’m a soldier,” Rumble said. “Doing my duty.”

  Cord now seemed distant, like a peak far on the horizon where you could only see the cold, snow-covered top, but have no idea what lay beneath.

  “So the war will be over,” Cord said, gesturing toward General Scott, who was being received by a coterie of Mexican officers.

  “Looks likely,” Grant said.

  “And we won,” Cord said.

  “Yes,” Longstreet said.

  “What did we win?” Cord asked. He seemed to be convincing himself of something more than talking to them. “Land we can tame? More people we can conquer?”

  “It’s over, Elijah” Longstreet said. “That’s enough for now.”

  “Then I can be done with all this,” Cord said.

  “Done with what?” Longstreet asked, puzzled by the abrupt shift.

  “The army, Pete. That’s why I didn’t draw a uniform. I won’t need one.”

  “Don’t be hasty,” Longstreet advised.

  “I’m not being hasty,” Cord said. “I wrote my resignation before leaving California and I left it at Leavenworth. I came here to fulfill my duty to my oath, as Sam pointed out.” He turned to Rumble. “Now I have to fulfill my duty to my family.”

  Mexican drums began playing a tattoo on the other side of the courtyard, the beat echoing off the walls as the formal surrender got underway.

  “What duty?” Rumble demanded. “What family?”

  “Are you staying in the Army?” Cord asked.

  Rumble bristled. “What business is that of yours?”

  “Answer the question,” Cord said. “I’ve told you my plans.”

  “You have no right to know my plans.”

  “When it involves my son,” Cord said. “I have a right.”

  “Easy now, both of you,” Grant advised.

  “Not your business, Sam.” Cord kept his eyes on Rumble. “Answer the question.”

  “I’m going back to West Point and to my home there,” Rumble said.

  “But you’re here now,” Cord said. “You’ve been at war for a while. That’s not taking care of Ben.”

  “And you could have done better in California?” Rumble snapped.

  “As I’ve said, I’m resigning from the Army,” Cord said. “And is Palatine a good place for Ben? You left it fast enough and insured you wouldn’t have to return to take your place there. Why would it be any better for Ben? Is growing up in a tavern the best place for him?”

  “Watch your tongue,” Rumble warned as he took a step forward.

  “Looks like you spend enough time in taverns,” Longstreet muttered.

  “And why would West Point be a better place for him?” Cord asked. “Won’t it drive him to want to put on the gray?”

  “He’ll never wear the gray,” Rumble said with finality.

  “Why not, if it’s what he wants?” Cord argued.

  “He won’t,” Rumble said. “I will not argue this with you.”

  “So you’re going to control his life? Send him to Palatine when it suits you, but not allow him to enter the Corps, because it suits you?” Cord plunged on. “If there’s another war, I’ll not be part of it. You will,” he said to Rumble. “I’ll take care of my son in a way you cannot.”

  “By being inebriated?” Rumble asked. “By being an uncivilized frontiersman? By babbling like a fool? You don’t even know what you’re saying.” He indicated Cord’s tattered clothes. “Do you have a profession other than being a drunk?”

  Cord’s left fist struck like a rattlesnake, a sharp, fierce blow to Rumble’s nose. Blood sprayed over Rumble’s face as his head snapped back. Cord’s right hit the side of Rumble’s head, stunning him.

  Grant grabbed Cord’s left arm as he pulled back for another strike. Rumble shook his head, trying to regain his senses, splashing the other three with the blood pouring out of his broken nose.

  “Now, gents—“ Longstreet began, but Rumble was faster. He waded forward, fists flying. He hit Cord while Grant still held his arm, knocking him back. Then the two were tumbling in the dirt, flailing away.

  Longstreet glanced over his shoulder at the peace negotiations. No one had noticed the battle in the shade under the building archway yet and Longstreet kept them from being seen by the expedient method of grabbing the back of Rumble’s uniform frock and tossing him further into the building. Cord followed without a toss, leaping toward Rumble on his own power.

  Grant and Longstreet jumped in, pulling them apart. Longstreet held Rumble, while Grant subdued Cord. It took a few seconds, but both finally stopped struggling.

  “Life’s too short and brutal,” Cord said. “There’s only one thing in this world I care about and that’s my son. I’m taking him west, where he’ll have a life free of all this and where he can freely choose his own path in life.”

  The drum roll was picking up speed.

  “I will not allow it,” Rumble said. “He is my son.”

  “No.” Cord said it with finality. “He’s my son. You and I know that.”

  “I’ve raised him,” Rumble argued.

  “And I’ve paid the price for it,” Cord said.

  “Your choice,” Rumble said. “As much as you could make a choice given the condition you were in that morning, which is not much different than the condition you’re in now. There are some things that cannot be undone. I will not allow it.”

  Longstreet moved forward and placed an arm between the two officers. “This is not the time or place.” He looked at Cord. “Lucius is right. You were drunk the morning you had to make a decision and failed to do the honorable thing. And you’re drunk now. Nothing has changed.”

  Cord turned to Longstreet and was about to retort when he saw his reflection in Old Pete’s breastplate. Long stringy hair, face flushed red from alcohol and sun, eyes blood shot.

  “Elijah.” Grant was at his side. “Go get cleaned up and sober and then—“

  Cord walked away, passing through the Halls of Montezuma into Mexico City and then out of sight and out of the Army as the drum tattoo came to an abrupt halt, indicating peace had come to Mexico and the United States.

  UNEASY PEACE: 1847-1861

  What did General Lee say concerning commanders? ------ "I cannot trust with higher command, with command of others, a man who cannot command himself. Discipline of self, as well as others, is the soul of an Army."

  Bugle Notes: Required Plebe Knowledge, United State Military Academy

  ELIJAH CORD

  October, 1849, New Mexico Territory

  “Damn it, Elijah!” Kit Carson grabbed one of Cord’s boots and tumbled him off the card table
onto the plank floor.

  Cord hit with a resounding thump. Bleary, bloodshot eyes opened to the world, or, in this case, the floor level view of the Taos saloon. Which had pretty much been Cord’s world for the past month during his latest binge.

  “I go away for a while and you end up in here and like this?” Carson grabbed Cord’s arm, helping him to his feet. “You’re getting worse, Elijah.”

  Cord staggered and shook his head, immediately regretting that move. “When’d ya get back?”

  “Last night,” Carson said, propelling Cord toward the door.

  “Hold on, hold on,” Cord said, reaching for the bottle that was on the table.

  “It’s empty,” Carson said. “And we’ve got to ride. Jicarilla Apaches attacked a party on the Cimarron Cutoff, near Point of Rocks. Killed most and word is they took some captives.”

  Carson propelled Cord through the saloon doors. The blast of early morning sunlight caused Cord to attempt to retreat back into the saloon, but Carson had a firm grip. Seeing him in the daylight, Carson had to reconsider his timetable. Cord wasn’t just drunk, he was awash in alcohol.

  “Come on,” Carson growled, pulling him along the street to the adobe house he shared with his wife, Josefa, and their children.

  “Coffee, black, lots of it, my dear,” Carson called out as he got Cord through the front door and into a chair.

  Josefa shook her head upon seeing Cord. “He is a pig.”

  The sudden cool darkness inside the house further confused Cord. “You say you got a job for me, Kit?”

  Carson leaned over his old friend, putting a hand on each shoulder. “You get sober today. We ride first light tomorrow. Hard. The Apaches got a few days lead.”

  “Leave him behind,” Josefa said as she carried a large black pot into the room. “He’s no good to anyone.”