Mexico to Sumter

by Bob Mayer

  “Double-time to the stables, Mister Custer, and bridle your horse.” Rumble made a show of looking at his pocket watch. “You have three minutes.”

  Custer dashed off.

  “Cadets, at ease,” Rumble ordered.

  An instant buzz of excited conversation filled the riding hall. War was in the air. And not just war, but Civil War. Many southern cadets had already left the Academy, the first as early as the previous November, when a South Carolinian had departed, in anticipation of his state’s secession. He was followed by all the rest of the cadets from South Carolina, three Mississippians and two Alabamians.

  The divide touched the highest ranks of the Academy as the Superintendent appointed back in January, G. T. Beauregard, had lasted only five days before being relieved for his southern sympathies after advising a southern cadet who sought consul on whether to resign: “Watch me; and when I jump, you jump. What’s the use of jumping too soon?” With his departure, old Delafield resumed the post for several months before a permanent replacement was appointed. Delafield was still on post, awaiting his next assignment.

  The overwhelming feeling in the press was that most of the Academy was pro-slavery. But that was only to those outside of the gray walls. Rumble knew the cadets better than they knew themselves and it was more the fact that the southerners who remained were the loudest and most outspoken, airing their opinions freely and to anyone who would listen. The northern cadets had some sympathy for the plight of their southern brethren, but that sympathy had not been put to the test. There was a sullenness and brooding among the Northerners that few could interpret.

  Behind Rumble, seated in the corner of the stands, writing in a leather journal, was Ben, now a young man of twenty. He’d grown with a spurt when he was sixteen, and was now two inches shy of six feet, but as slender as Grant had been as a cadet and Rumble feared his son would never fill out. Ben had his mother’s face, soft, freckled and open. His most distinguishing feature was his bright red hair. He could be recognized all the way across the Plain from that alone.

  This was his first trip back to West Point since Rumble had maneuvered his son’s dismissal from the Corps and his entry into college in Maine. The few days had not been enough to thaw the chill between the two and Rumble had little idea where his son’s feelings lay or what his thoughts were. But he had kept his promise to Lidia and saved his son from four years of hell and that was enough for now.

  Custer came galloping back into the riding hall with a flourish. He urged the large horse toward the far end of the hall. Despite it’s size, the horse was no York, at least a hand smaller than the long-deceased legend of the riding hall,

  “Cadets,” Rumble cried out. “Attention!”

  The line snapped to. Rumble called out the names of two cadets to take the center position. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Delafield, his hair whiter than ever, had entered the hall.

  “Gentlemen, hold in place, wings forward to observe,” Rumble commanded.

  Using the two cadets as anchor, the lines on either side moved forward until all could see the two men in the center.

  Custer reached the far end of the hall and waited.

  Rumble turned to the line of cadets and raked his gaze left and right. He remembered Matamoros and the Mexican line, the steel glinting in the sunlight. He shivered and focused, once more grateful Ben did not wear the cadet gray. “Mister Custer, you may—“

  A plebe came running into the riding hall, uniform collar unbuttoned, face flush with excitement. “It’s war! Fort Sumter has been fired upon!”

  Discipline vanished as the remaining southern cadets broke into cheers.

  Rumble had no desire to restore order, nor would it be possible. The southerners ran out of the stables, yelling in excitement. The majority of cadets, northerners, filed out, engaged in earnest discourse, their faces serious.

  Rumble went to the bleachers where Delafield stood, arms folded, looking grim. Ben came down to stand next to him.

  “So it begins,” Delafield said.

  “Yes, sir.” Rumble climbed up the steps and joined the two.

  “How many copies of your report from the Mexican War did you make?” Delafield asked.

  “Three. I gave you one and I kept one.”

  “And the third?”

  “Lieutenant Grant asked for a copy. Seeing as he was present for most of the events in it, I thought it appropriate.”

  “Ulysses Grant? ’43?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rumble replied.

  “Interesting,” Delafield said. “I still have my copy. Gave it to some in the War Department to read, but they had little interest. We won the Mexican War, so they didn’t see any point to reading a report on it. After all, whatever we did, must have worked well.”

  “We could have done better, sir,” Rumble said. “Saved a lot of lives.”

  “Of course.” Delafield checked his watch. “It’s late. Would you care to join me for dinner?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Mister Ben?” Delafield asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’d be delighted.”

  The three walked up to the Plain and across it to one of the officer’s houses lining the wide grassy parade ground. Excited chatter echoed over the Plain from cadet rooms. Delafield let them into his small quarters, where a servant bustled about, laying out a meal.

  The former superintendent sat down, his old joints protesting.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t keep you on after replacing Beauregard, sir,” Rumble said.

  “I barely turned command over to Beauregard,” Delafield replied, “before the War Department sacked him. Damn fool.” Delafield sighed. “I’m an old war horse. They trot me out of the stables when they need a steady hand on the Academy.”

  “A most steady hand is needed now, sir,” Rumble said. “Why don’t they keep you on?”

  “Because I’m old,” Delafield said. “I held the fort for a little while. I’m sure your new superintendent will fare finely.” He turned to Ben. “I am sorry about forcing you to leave the Corps.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, sir,” Ben said.

  “A death-bed promise,” Delafield said, shaking his head. “The words are like iron chains.”

  “I’m sure my mother had my best interests at heart,” Ben said, “and events seem to be proving her correct.”

  “Ah, Lidia Havens.” Delafield nodded. “She was a wonderful young woman. And quite prescient. It was a shame she passed before her time. And what of your sister? Abigail, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s in Mississippi,” Ben said. “With Grandmother Rumble, Miss Violet.”

  “Natchez, is it not?” Delafield asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Rumble answered. “My parent’s place is just south of there.”

  “So they are in secess country,” Delafield noted.

  “Yes, sir.” Rumble sat a bit straighter.

  “How will they go?”

  “With their state, sir,” Rumble said. “They are Mississippians before they are Americans. But to be more accurate, they are slaveholders before they are Americans. It’s their way of life. They know no other.”

  “Do you have kin of military age?” Delafield asked.

  Rumble reluctantly nodded. “I have a younger brother. I’m sure he’ll serve the state before the country although I’m afraid he’s not made of war-like material.”

  “Brother against brother,” Delafield muttered, as if to himself. “It is so sad.” He tried perking up by focusing on Ben. “So how have you been doing at your school, young man?”

  “I’ve been at the Seminary four years,” Ben said. “I returned this past week to visit father and grandpa and grandma Havens.”

  Delafield shook off his moroseness. “Ah, your grandfather is quite the scoundrel. I heard he and Superintendent Lee did not mix well during that tenure.”

  Rumble nodded. “True, sir. Major Lee enforced the rules rather strictly, but the cadets still found their w
ay to the tavern. And Benny outlasted Lee.”

  “As he has outlasted every superintendent,” Delafield said, “including my repeated journeys back here. Benny Havens is the one constant we can count on.” He turned back to Ben as the servant came bustling in with a large pot from which she began ladling stew. “Will you continue your studies at Bangor?”

  Once more, Ben glanced at Rumble. “No, sir. The plan is for me to travel to Europe this summer to further my studies.”

  “Ah!” Delafield smacked the table with his open palm, making the silverware rattle. “I traveled to Europe five years ago. By order of all people, the now Confederate President, Jefferson Davis, who was the Secretary of War. We went to the Crimea to observe that conflict.” He pointed at Rumble. “Much as your father went to Mexico. I made copious notes. McClellan went with me. Interesting fellow. We saw the siege of Sevastopol. Bloody and brutal affair. Nothing noble about it at all. Nothing noble at all,” Delafield’s voice once more slipped into a murmur. “Unlike what these southern fellows here think.”

  “I know, sir,” Rumble said. “I believe Ben will enjoy Europe greatly.”

  “Are you removing him further from the fray?” Delafield quickly held up a hand in defense. “Pardon me, I mean no insult. If I had a son I would send him overseas by the fastest possible means. I have done enough service to my country for my family and so have you, Sergeant Major.”

  “I would if I could,” Rumble said, “but this plan was hatched in Natchez by my mother a while ago. She’s always looking ahead.”

  “She sounds like a formidable woman,” Delafield said as he lifted his spoon. The spoon paused halfway to his mouth as he saw the chain around Ben’s neck. “You have the ring.”

  Ben flushed. “Yes, sir. I know I don’t deserve to wear it. But I’ve always had it on this chain. I hope it isn’t inappropriate given that I didn’t graduate.”

  “The ring was earned,” Delafield said. “You should wear it proudly.”

  Rumble looked out the open door and stared at the Plain.

  “I wish I could remember Mister Cord,” Ben said. He glanced at his father. “It must be a great bond between two men to give something so precious to the son of his friend.”

  Delafield coughed, his face turning red. “Ah, yes. Shall we stop this talk of war and the past and focus on our meal and discuss Europe and more pleasant things?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rumble said.

  “Were you ever in Paris, sir?” Ben asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Delafield replied. “I went there before—“ he paused and cocked his head. “Do you hear that?” He shoved back his chair and went to the door, stepping out into the cool April evening air.

  The sound was clear now. Young voices, singing at the top of their lungs, from the vicinity of the barracks. The cadets were into the third stanza and gaining volume with each line. The Star-Spangled Banner roared across the Academy:

  Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.

  Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,

  And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."

  And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

  O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!”

  “Look.” Delafield pointed as the last line floated away over the Plain, over the Hudson and into the Highlands. A small cluster of cadets was staring in the direction of the barracks. Southerners. For the first time since South Carolina had seceded, they were humbled and quiet. “Now they know what they face.”

  Chapter Twelve

  21 Apr 1861, Norfolk, Virginia

  “Ensign Brooke, what do you see?” King asked the young Naval Academy graduate standing next to him on the dock.

  A Union frigate, the USS Merrimack, was burning so brightly it lit the skyline of Norfolk. King had supervised sinking boats in the channel earlier in the night, trapping the ship, leaving the crew of the Federal ship no recourse but to abandon it. Scattered shots echoed through the night, but in celebration, not battle, as the Federals abandoned Norfolk, scurrying like rats aboard what ships they could get to sea.

  “I see potential, sir,” Brooke replied. “She’s settled in the mud and the flames won’t reach below the waterline. The engines will be intact along with the keel. We can raise her.”

  “Can you build your ironclad off her keel and engines?”

  “Yes, sir. I can do it.”

  King slapped Brooke on the back. “Good man. We’ll build it, then sail up the Potomac and shell the devil Lincoln in his own home. They won’t be able to stop us.”

  “Well, there’s a fellow named Ericsson in New York, whose screw design I—“

  “Ensign!” King cut him off. “We will prevail because we are the more honorable and faithful people.”

  8 June 1861, Mississippi River

  “He killed the Matlock brothers with a two shot derringer,” St. George said.

  “So he’s a good shot and don’t waste bullets,” Sally Skull acknowledged.

  The steamer fought against the Mississippi, paddle wheels churning muddy water. To the right, the lights of Vicksburg glittered on a bluff overlooking a sharp bend in the mighty river. Skull and St. George sat on crates up top of the boat, just behind the pilot house, left alone by the rest of the passengers out of tacit acceptance this was the boat owner’s private area.

  “He more than that,” St. George said. “He—“

  “I know who Nathan Bedford Forrest is,” Skull cut him off. “You think I was born yesterday? He one of the biggest men on the river and worth over a million Yankee dollars. I know he’s mean as a rattlesnake and cold as a blizzard. I know he owns this boat we riding on. I wouldn’t be here for this meeting if I didn’t know who I be meeting.” She took a swig from the whiskey bottle on the shipping crate that served as a table between them. “The thing you got to remember, St. George, is that he smart. Wicked smart. He started with nothing, now he one of the richest men on the river. And he didn’t get it cause his pappy gave it to him.”

  St. George bristled. “What you saying?”

  “Just what I’m saying,” Skull said, earning a confused furrow in the middle of St. George’s forehead. She handed the bottle to the overseer. “Listen. This war that’s here now. It aint gonna be short, it aint gonna be easy, and your people, they aint gonna win.”

  “What do you mean my ‘people’?”

  “The south” Skull said. “I was down in San Anton when Texas voted to secede. I—“

  “Why was you there?” St. George interrupted.

  “Always deals to be made,” Skull said. “Especially to armies. Some Confederate big-wigs went to the old Alamo and got the Federal commander to surrender the arsenal, hand over ten thousand rifled muskets.”

  “That’s good,” St. George said, eyes always on the immediate.

  “Let me finish,” Skull said. “There was another Fed officer there, Robert Lee, a Virginian. I heard of him from the Mex War and he the one that trapped old John Brown. And I could tell he was surprised things was happening so fast. Heard him talking to another officer, saying the secces was fools. When they paroled him, he went back to Virginia, back to the Union. Struck me as a sensible man. And Sam Houston, the governor, let me tell you, he fought a lot of battles and he a smart man too and he was against seceding.”

  “Why?” St. George asked.

  In response, Skull reached into one of the many pockets on her dress and retrieved a folded newspaper article. “Here what Ole Sam said and the damn fools still out-voted him to secede: ‘Let me tell you what is coming. After the sacrifice of countless millions of treasure and hundreds of thousands of lives you may win southern independence, but I doubt it. The north is determined to preserve this union. They are not a fiery impulsive people as you are for they live in colder climates. But when they begin to move in a given direction, they move with the steady momentum and perseverance of a mighty avalanche and what I fear is that they will overwhelm the South with ignob
le defeat.’”

  “’Ignoble’?” St. George spit. “I don’t know what that mean, but it sound bad and he damn wrong. Any southerner worth ten Yankees.”

  “Houston’s right,” Skull said. “And that’s why I’m here. Your tit at Palatine is going to run dry.”

  “We can grow cotton forever,” St. George argued.

  The steamer rounded the bend and Vicksburg was behind them. The sound of revelry from whiskey, gambling and other dark arts echoed up from the main deck.

  “But can you ship it to them who buy it?” Skull asked.

  “Why not? New Orlean still there. Aint going no place. War or no war.”

  Skull shook her head and grabbed the bottle back. “You don’t know what’s going on and I don’t mean no insult, St. George. You’re bound by that plantation. I travel. Mexico, San Anton, New Orlean, St. Louis. Up and down the river and beyond. I got ears everywhere that tell me what’s going on. Those pompous asses who call themself the government of the Confederacy, you know what they got planned? They’re going to let all the cotton sit for a year. No more trading.”

  St. George sat up straighter. “I aint heard nothing of that. Why?”

  “They’re fools. They think they can make England and France join their side if they be hurting for cotton.”

  “I don’t get it,” St. George said. “That sound stupid.”

  “We agree for once,” Skull said. “What we need—“ she paused as three men approached. One was a big man, two inches over six feet, with broad shoulders. He had a dark beard and, in the dim lights from the boat, his black eyes glittered with intelligence and danger. He had a curved cavalry saber dangling from his waist, an incongruous image on the riverboat. The second man was not quite as tall but also big, in the way of one who enjoyed his food, his belly bulging, his face swollen from drink. The man between them was much smaller and looked like a river rat cornered and trapped.