Mexico to Sumter

by Bob Mayer

  “Your own daughter!” The outrage in Sheriff Mayfield’s voice was no act. Much was allowed in the shadows, but there were some things that were considered an abomination and tolerable to none.

  Gathering her shattered nerve, Violet stepped to the center of the room. “Enough!” She faced St. George and Skull. “We forget the charges, you let this go.”

  “Mother!” Seneca got the one word out, but beyond that he couldn’t articulate a response to what was unfolding.

  “You forget the charges,” Skull said, “and you tear up those papers, and you never look into anything outside of the four walls of Palatine House again. You’ll be kept in the life you’re used to. Aint nothing really going to change. Is that clear?”

  A muscle quivered in Violet’s jaw, but she nodded. “Yes.”

  Skull smiled in triumph. “Sheriff. The fire.”

  Mayfield tossed the rolls of parchment into the fireplace. The smoldering embers heated the papers and they burst into flames. And with it the Rumble’s nominal control over Palatine.

  BEN RUMBLE

  June 1857, West Point, NY

  “I believe you have the shortest distance to travel today, yet the greatest obstacle to overcome in the next few weeks,” Superintendent Delafield told Ben Agrippa Rumble.

  They stood just inside the door of the tavern, flanked by Benny, who’d had one too many early morning flip in celebration, and Letitia teary-eyed, as any woman would be when her first grandchild leaves hearth and home to make their way in the world. Ben’s sister, Abigail, now a bewitching beauty of fifteen, watched the farewells without quite the same enthusiasm or optimism.

  Ben shook Delafield’s hand. “Thank you for doing this for me, sir.”

  “You deserve your chance,” Delafield said.

  Abigail tossed some ice water on the scene. “Until father returns.”

  Delafield grimaced. “I sent him to Washington on official duty. He won’t be back for almost a month. By then, things will have progressed to the point where he might see reason.”

  Abigail snorted. “You don’t know him that well, sir.”

  “Hush, girl,” Benny Havens said. “Give your brother your best wishes.”

  Abigail stood up on her toes to hug Ben. “I have no idea why you’re doing this, Ben, but I do wish you the best.”

  Ben swallowed hard. He adjusted his satchel, squared his shoulders, walked out of the tavern and took the trail to South Dock.

  Despite spending almost his entire life here, everything looked different to him this morning. The air smelled fresher, the water sparkled more clearly in the early morning June sun, and the trees seemed greener than ever before.

  A cluster of young men was disembarking the steamer from New York and Ben joined them. The excitement was palpable as the young men began to walk up the road toward the Academy.

  The fellow next to Rumble freed up his right hand from the trunk he was dragging and stuck it out. “George Armstrong Custer, Michigan.” He was a bright-eyed man with flowing golden locks that cascaded around his shoulders.

  “Ben Rumble.”

  Custer’s handshake was firm. “Well, Ben, do you aspire to be a general?”

  Ben blinked. “I just want to get through Beast Barracks.”

  Custer laughed. “I’m sure it won’t be that difficult. I’m not too concerned about this place. Someone has to be at the head and someone at the foot. I’ll take the foot as it will be much less work and then in four years we’ll all wear the same blue uniform and start the real work when it will be time to be at the head. I see stars in my future.”

  “It is good to have goals,” Ben acknowledged.

  They reached the level of the Plain and everyone paused. Ben realized that most had never seen the Academy. Indeed, many had never been more than a few miles from their home until the trip here. Workmen were tarring the gutters of the barracks and that odor wafted over the Plain. For many, that smell would always trigger strong emotion ever afterward.

  “Where to now?” Custer voiced the question on all their minds.

  “There.” Ben pointed. “The tents.”

  “Tents?” Custer was aghast. “Why tents when there are all these fine gray buildings all about us?”

  “We spend the summer in encampment,” Ben said. He noticed that the others were all listening to him, clinging to his knowledge in the face of the coming storm. He spotted a pair of cadets heading their way and knew the storm was going to break. “We best get moving.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” one of the cadets demanded.

  “Taking in the view,” Custer said. “A mighty fine place you have here.”

  The two cadets exchanged a glance. “Are you a funny man?” one asked.

  “Some say I—“ Custer began, but then the screaming began. Just the two at first, but like bees to honey, cadets in gray swarmed over the young men, splitting them up, dividing and subjugating.

  Ben was double-teamed. Two upperclassmen, whom he recognized from the time he spent in the riding hall while his father worked and the time the cadets spent in Benny Havens.

  “Drop your satchel!” one screamed.

  Ben lowered it to the ground.

  “I said DROP IT!” the First Classman repeated.

  Ben scooped it up, then let it fall to the ground.

  “Move to the adjutant’s tent,” the other ordered.

  Like cattle to the slaughter, the small herd of new cadets was escorted with many a scream and promise of a dire future to a tent on the edge of the encampment. They were hustled into line, and sent in, one by one.

  Ben was third. The adjutant seemed bored with the ritual, seated behind a field desk in the tent and looking at a piece of paper. Ben came to a halt three paces in front of the desk and waited.

  “Name, new cadet?”

  “Ben Agrippa Rumble.”

  The adjutant responded automatically. “That’s New Cadet Rumble, got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The adjutant finally looked up. “We all know you and we know about you, Mister Rumble. Most of us have, shall we say, shared some libation with you at Benny Havens. We all know your father. But none of that matters now. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then.” The adjutant got to his feet and began issuing orders. “Come to attention when addressing an upperclassman. Heels together. Toes out. Hands by your side, palms out fingers closed, little fingers on the seams of your trousers, head up, chin in, shoulders thrown back, chest out, belly in, eyes straight ahead. Stay like that and don’t move.”

  The instructions came like bullets, Ben contorting his body to comply.

  The adjutant looked past Rumble as another upperclassman entered. On cue the side flaps on the tent were loosened and dropped, darkening the interior. The only light came from a single candle flickering on the field desk. The adjutant left, leaving Rumble alone with the unidentified cadet behind him.

  “We have a problem with you, Mister Rumble,” the newcomer said. “You’ve seen most of us imbibing in your grandfather’s tavern. Which means you’ve seen most of us violating quite a few regulations. Once you sign in to the Corps, you will be bound by the honor code. Do you see the problem?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Duty requires you tell the truth about what you’ve seen. You will be bound to that. If you do not tell the truth, then you are dishonorable. However, if you tell the truth, then many a fine cadet might have their futures destroyed. We can’t allow that to happen.”

  “It won’t, sir.”

  “We can’t take that chance. I think the sooner you leave the Corps, the better,” the anonymous cadet said. “You can’t stay. You’re a threat to too many. And if you don’t tell the truth, the Vigilance Committee will come for you. I very strongly suggest you do not sign the roll, and go back down to your grandfather’s tavern. We are gentlemen here.”

  Ben said nothing, feeling a line of sweat course its way down his back i
n the now-stuffy tent. The seconds passed.

  “Think hard on it,” the upperclassman advised.

  When Rumble still said nothing, the upperclassman came so close, Rumble could feel his breath on his neck. “Don’t push this. It’s more than just about the tavern and the honor code. This is a place for gentlemen. We don’t want your kind here. The lack of honor is in your blood.”

  Ben wheeled. “And what kind is that? What do you mean by lack of honor?”

  “Watch you tongue!”

  “Watch yours!” Ben stepped closer, chest thumping against the upperclassman’s. “Are you a man? Willing to face me?”

  The upperclassman laughed, even as he backed up. “You can fight as many of us as you want. It won’t change a thing. It won’t change your blood.”

  Then with a rustle of canvas he was gone.

  The adjutant returned and took his place behind the desk.

  “Well, Mister Rumble?”

  Ben’s jaw was tight, his muscles vibrating. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you wish to say something?”

  “No, sir.”

  The adjutant sighed and pointed at a piece of paper. “Sign here, indicating you are on the active roster of cadets.”

  Ben went to the table, quickly signed, and resumed the position.

  “You will go to the quartermasters and be measured for uniform, the barber, the surgeon for exam, the armory to draw a weapon, and you will do all this within the next hour and report back here.” The adjutant made a great show of checking his pocket watch and making a notation in the log. “Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will do all this at the double. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know the four answers you are allowed, don’t you New Cadet Rumble?”

  “Yes, sir, no, sir, no excuse, sir and sir, I do not understand.”

  “Use the last one sparingly. Go!”

  Ben ran from the tent, almost crashing into an upperclass cadet who halted him and berated him for his unmilitary appearance for almost ten minutes, eating into his hour allotment and clearly trying to provoke him into action he would not be able to take back. With every fiber of his being, Ben bore the insults and hazing.

  The days passed in a blur for Ben. Within a week he learned how to march, carry his musket and some basic maneuvers. It seemed as if the drum rattled out the marching cadence all day long at the encampment. The days were long with reveille at 5:00 am. Then there was roll call to account for everyone. Then ‘policing’ the tent city, removing anything that wasn’t supposed to there, and it seemed as if the upperclass went out of their way to place disgusting objects in the strangest places for the plebes to find. And woe unto them if they did not find the objects. Then drill from 5:30-6:30. Then arrange their bedding, raise the walls of their tents so it was open to the air, and inspection, and prepare for morning parade. They marched to the mess hall for breakfast. Ben had eaten in the mess before so he was prepared for the terrible repast that awaited.

  Right after breakfast, which was wolfed down as there was never enough time allowed to properly eat, the guard was mounted. Then artillery drill from 9:00 to 10:00. Then back to the tents to clean and polish gear, a never-ending task. No matter how shiny a cadet made his brass, an upperclassman could always find fault with it. The march to lunch at 1:00. Then dancing from 3:00 to 4:00, because every cadet would be an officer and an officer was a gentleman, and a gentleman knew how to dance. Then another police call. Then Infantry drill from 5:30 to 6:45 followed by evening parade and inspection. Then dinner. Followed by final roll call at 9:30 and lights out at 9:45.

  Besides making soldiers, the strict regime forged a class of men that grew tight and developed bonds that would last a lifetime. Cooperate and graduate was a maxim beat into each plebe from the first day at the Academy, but, strangely, Ben felt his classmates separating from him as each day passed, rather than bonding, no matter how hard he tried to be one of them.

  Of course, there were those who couldn’t make it. By the end of the first week, three had already resigned. And more would follow.

  But Ben knew he’d never resign even though it was clear the threat in the adjutant’s tent was not hollow. More than any of his classmate’s Ben faced the full force of the upperclass. He bore it with courage and resolve, but each day the pressure grew more relentless and a gradual silence settled onto him like a heavy, stifling blanket, keeping him distant even from his own classmates, and he knew, but could not accept, that it was the path to inevitable failure.

  “He’s but seventeen!” Rumble yelled, adding a belated “sir”.

  Major Delafield sat behind his desk and weathered Sergeant Major Rumble’s outburst.

  “He needed my permission to enter the Corps,” Rumble added.

  “He needed a parent’s permission to enter,” Delafield said.

  “I did not give it and Lidia cannot send it from the grave,” Rumble said. “Nor would she, I can tell you that for certain.”

  Delafield shifted uneasily as he pulled a file out of his desk. “But he did get his father’s permission.”

  Rumble was thunderstruck. “I’m his father, sir.”

  “Are you?” Delafield asked gently. “I’ve a notarized letter from Elijah Cord. It states that he’s Ben’s father and he gives permission for Ben to do as he wishes with regard to the army and the Academy. It did not urge him to apply, but it did not say he could not.”

  “That acknowledgement is seventeen years too late,” Rumble said. “It carries no legal weight.”

  “It is notarized.”

  “It could be fake, sir.”

  “The lawyer who notarized it is William Tecumseh Sherman, whose office is in San Francisco. And who also has some first-hand knowledge of the incident at the core of this.”

  “Cump?” Rumble blinked as the deeper implications hit target. “Did Ben see this letter? Does he know?”

  Delafield shook his head. “No. Benny Havens wrote to Mister Cord. Apparently he wasn’t easy to track down out west. The letter went via Kit Carson who still scouts for the army. He got it to Mister Cord, who then went to San Francisco to visit Mister Sherman. The return letter came to Benny, who came to me to facilitate the application. Ben doesn’t know about the past.”

  “So Benny is behind all this.”

  “No. It’s Ben’s desire.” Delafield got up and walked around the desk, putting a hand on Rumble’s shoulder. “Ben’s a good boy. It’s what he wanted.”

  “It’s not what I want for him,” Rumble said.

  “Be that as it may--” Delafield began, but Rumble cut him off.

  “I made a deathbed promise to Lidia that he would not wear the gray or have anything to do with the Academy. That’s a solemn promise that I must honor, sir.”

  Delafield looked like he’d been slapped. “I did not know of this.”

  “I told no one,” Rumble said. “But I give you my word, sir, it was the last she spoke. I gave her my word of honor that I would make it so.”

  Delafield went back around the desk and wearily sat down. He rubbed his hands together. “This is most difficult.” He slowly began to nod. “I see it now. Lidia was wiser than any of us.”

  Rumble was confused. “How so, sir?”

  “Ben might not know the truth of the past,” Delafield said, “but the Corps knows. The Corps always knows.”

  “What’s happening?” Rumble demanded.

  “He’s being cut out from the Corps, practically silenced,” Delafield said. “I didn’t understand. But now I do. Lidia knew he would never be accepted.”

  “Sons-of-a-bitches!” Rumble was ready to head out and take on the entire Corps.

  Delafield waved a hand. “Not all are treating him poorly. But enough. Enough to make it impossible for him to stay in the Corps.”

  “I raised Ben,” Rumble said. “He has my name. I’m his father, no matter what Cord says. I’m here. Cord is on the other side of the c
ountry, doing God knows what. Sir, with all due respect. I have always done my duty. Above and beyond when you asked me to. I’m asking you now to help me honor my pledge to my wife. I will make sure Ben receives an education. A fine one. My mother has connections. We had already planned this. He will attend Bangor Theological Seminary in Maine.”

  “Did you tell him of these plans?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “I wish I had known,” Delafield murmured. “I wish I had known of your pledge to Lidia. Ah, the wisdom and truth in a dying mother’s desire for her son. Women are so much wiser than us men.”

  Ulysses S. Grant

  March 1859, St. Louis, Missouri

  The crisply uniformed Lieutenant from Jefferson Barracks paused in shock in the middle of the St. Louis street. “Sam? Sam Grant?”

  The man he was calling out to was dressed in shoddy clothes and held a wicker basket full of firewood, which he was hawking from the street corner.

  A bright smile split Ulysses S. Grant’s haggard face as he recognized his friend. “Old Pete!”

  Grant dropped the firewood and the two men embraced. The two had seen nothing of each other since Longstreet had stood in as Grant’s best man when he married Julia Dent back in ’48. Eleven years later it was clear the two men had gone down vastly different paths.

  “You look quite sharp indeed,” Grant said to Longstreet. “Back at the barracks?”

  “For now,” Longstreet allowed. “And you, you’re in the city?”

  Grant gestured at the wood. “Here for the week to work. I rent a room. Then walk home each weekend to see Julia and the children at White Haven.”

  “Walk?” Longstreet was surprised. “It’s over twelve miles.”

  “An easy jaunt,” Grant said. “I’m glad we’ve met. There’s something that has been troubling me all these years.” He reached into his pocket and emptied it of the only coin he had, a five dollar gold piece. “In all the excitement of the wedding I’d forgotten I have a debt I owe you.” He held out the coin, but Longstreet didn’t take it.