by Bob Mayer
Violet paused. “If he wishes to know what’s happening to his family, he can move off his damn porch.”
Rosalie walked over and stood on the other side of the bed, Seneca between them. “His unit was practically wiped out at the battle from what I’ve been told. And he was captured by the Yankees.”
“Then how did he end up on the train to Vicksburg?”
Rosalie held out a letter. “Lucius.”
Violet used a cloth to clear the sweat from Seneca brow, and then took the letter.
Dear Rosalie,
This letter prays Seneca reaches you safely. I did not trust to the doctors in either the Confederate or Union camps. All is in turmoil here in the east after the great battle of Bull Run Creek. I took him to the first doctor I could find. The leg was gone, so it was a matter of cleaning the wound, bandaging and handling the pain. I believe the man did an adequate job.
Although he is technically a prisoner, I received dispensation from the very highest authority for his release and return back home. As part of the condition, Seneca must swear never again to carry arms against the United States. He was not coherent enough to understand this when I told him, so please remind him. If caught bearing arms for the Confederacy, he will be shot or hung if captured.
“What ‘very highest authority’?” Violet asked.
“He never says,” Rosalie replied. “You know Lucius.”
I have been able to arrange transportation by rail on the morrow. The doctor says he is stable enough to travel and I believe it best he go home to you, for I can think of no greater care than that of one who loves.
Violet paused and glanced up at Rosalie. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, Seneca’s hand in hers.
The war, at least, is over, for my brother. I came upon Seneca upon the field of battle. He had been wounded while bravely charging a Union battery.
There is other dark news. You must tell my mother that Ben is not en route to Europe. Without my permission he enlisted in the Union Army.
“Oh dear,” Violet whispered.
“Ben?” Rosalie asked.
Violet nodded and returned her attention to the letter.
I have been given a great responsibility in this conflict, one that I cannot put in writing to you. My apologies. Still, Ben weighs heavy on my mind. As does Seneca’s wound. And your place at Palatine in the great struggle that is coming. I fear you may not be safe at Palatine and you should consider alternative locations to remain sequestered for the duration of the conflict.
Abigail stays with Mister Havens and Letitia. I trust them and hope you understand that she will not be traveling to you any time soon. She has grown into a most handsome young woman and Mister Havens has strict instructions to keep her safe from the interest of both cadets and officers.
This war will not be as most think. Bull Run has opened eyes in the North to that. From what I hear, it has not had a similar effect in the south. Because McDowell’s forces were routed, the Confederates believe victory will be swift. I can tell you from where I stand in Washington, this will not happen as it is quickly growing into a heavily fortified city. We thought we would have quick victory in Mexico and look at all the years I spent there.
Take care of my brother. Give my love to my mother.
Lucius K. Rumble
Sergeant Major, Master of the Horse
United States Military Academy
Violet folded the letter and placed a hand on her son’s forehead. “This damn, damned war! It will consume us all!”
Chapter Five
11 Aug 61, In The Field, Missouri
Cord noted the two books resting on Grant’s field desk as he parked a cup of coffee between them.
“Hardee’s Tactics?” Cord asked.
Grant laughed, picking up the bound book. “A gift from a fellow officer who believes I need some schooling in the art.”
The formal name enscrolled on the cover was Rifle and Light Infantry Tactics for the Exercise and Manoeuvres of Troops When Acting as Light Infantry or Riflemen. “Traitor Jeff Davis, as Secretary of War, got Hardee to write it and now General Hardee is about thirty miles south of here, fighting for Jeff. So.” Grant tossed the book off the table to the dirt, and picked up his pipe from a makeshift ashtray made from a food tin lid. “I do not believe I will study his tactics, other than what I have already gleaned from it of the ways he might take action against me. I, on the other hand, have no book of my own that he can read. I believe, therein, lies a slight advantage for me.”
“What’s the other?” Cord asked as he grabbed a newspaper off a stack and sat down on a crate.
“Rumble’s Report. My other advantage.” The paper in the notebook was stained and faded with the years, but the words brought the Mexican War back to life for Grant. He was seated in a camp chair, report in one hand, pipe in the other. His command was in northern Missouri, having crisscrossed the state several times at the behest of conflicting orders emanating from whomever seemed to be in command. Cord had suggested, more than once, that they simply sit still and await reversal of whatever the next order was, as it would obviously bring them back to wherever they started from.
Grant wore a private’s blouse with his rank pinned on it, as he had since the beginning of the war. The general’s uniforms he’d ordered had not yet caught up with him. He presented a most unmilitary appearance, yet there was a calm presence about him that indicated to all who came by that he was the one in command.
Cord opened the Missouri Daily Democrat, often a more accurate source of intelligence than the muddled reports that were being brought in by couriers. “Got a new commander in the east,” Cord noted.
“McDowell got sacked?” Grant asked, without looking up from Rumble’s Report.
“Yes. And McClellan now reigns there. And Fremont has finally arrived to take his throne in the west.”
Grant shook his head. “I am not overly fond of McClellan, but he is a good organizer and Lord knows, the army needs organizing.”
“Well, well.” Cord shook the paper, getting Grant’s full attention.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to have to watch my words around the general now,” Cord said.
“What general?” Grant was confused.
Cord folded the paper and tossed it to Grant. “Brigadier General Grant.”
Grant unfolded it and read the list of appointments to the rank. “This is a surprise. First of seven to receive a star from Illinois and backdated to May. How did this happen?”
“The army works in mysterious ways,” Cord said. “Sometimes bad, sometimes good. I place this in the latter category.”
“I need you by my side more than ever,” Grant said to Cord. “I want a man around me who can say no.”
“To who?” Cord asked.
“To all who will come asking me for things. And, more importantly, to me.”
“That I can do,” Cord said. “And I think it’s time I go visit the Pathfinder in St. Louis and get you a position that’s more in line with your new rank.”
Grant put the paper down and grabbed a map. “Here’s the key to the west right now.” He jabbed his finger at the point where the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers met in Illinois.
“Cairo,” Cord said, without looking at the map.
“Yes,” Grant said. “We must hold it on the defensive for now or else lose it and Kentucky. But then, when we are stronger and better trained, we must eventually take this.” He slid his finger down the Mississippi, passing Tennessee and Arkansas, then Louisiana and Mississippi, halting at a sharp bend in the river.
“Vicksburg,” Cord said, again without looking at the map.
Grant smiled at his friend. “How do you know without following my mighty finger?”
“I spent many years in the west,” Cord said. “I understand the terrain and the importance of rivers. The Mississippi is the key to this war. All those ‘On To Richmond’ fellows are wrong. The rebs can just move out of Richmond and pitch gove
rnment in some other town. This war is going to be won or lost out here. We take the Mississippi, we split the Confederacy just like the British tried to split the colonies via the Hudson in the Revolution.”
“Vicksburg is the strategic West Point of the Mississippi,” Grant said.
Cord nodded. “And you’re right, we’ve got to keep old Sidney Johnston’s Army of the Mississippi from taking Cairo. As much as we’ll need to take Vicksburg, he needs Cairo and he’s a lot closer to it. He’s a sharp man and can read a map better than most and has the daring to take chances.”
“Which McClellan won’t,” Grant said.
“One thing at a time,” Cord said. “Let’s focus on what we can do.”
They were interrupted by a courier galloping up and handing a pouch to Grant’s aide. The lieutenant quickly sorted the messages, bringing the bulk to Grant and a single letter to Cord.
“What news?” Grant asked as he perused the topmost report.
Cord recognized the flowing script on the envelope. “From Palatine.”
He was about to open it, but Grant’s words interrupted him.
“Nathaniel Lyon is dead. There was a battle yesterday between his forces and the Secessionist Missouri State Guard at Wilson’s Creek. Lyon’s men were driven from the field and he was shot through the head. But even in defeat, they did break the back of the secess men. Missouri will stay in the Union.” Grant shook his head as he put the report down. “His men didn’t recover his body. No one knows where it is. You remember Lyon from the Academy, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Cord said. “He spoke to me one time and then never again. But he’s been a force in this state and will be missed.”
“What’s the news from Mississippi?” Grant asked, putting the report aside.
Cord ripped open the letter and scanned the lines. His jaw clenched as he read.
“Bad news?” Grant asked.
“Ben enlisted. Rumble sent him to come to serve under you, so he should be en route.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open for him then,” Grant said.
“We will,” Cord vowed. “It’s good to know Ben has spirit, although I will sleep much less easily with the knowledge he wears the uniform.”
“Lucius wrote you from Palatine?” Grant was confused.
“No,” Cord said, distracted as he continued to read. “His mother. Violet Rumble.”
“Ah,” Grant understood. “A formidable woman as best I recollect.”
“And Rumble’s brother, Seneca, lost a leg at Bull Run fighting for the Rebs,” Cord said.
“The war strikes home,” Grant said. “At least he lives.”
“Violet also says she induced a slave to run away, that Samual fellow.” He looked up at Grant. “Remember? The huge negro? He’s escaped with her assistance and is heading to Clarksville to claim his daughter whom she’s freed and then north to Canada. She asks my assistance in any way, if I might be nearby.”
“Clarksville?” Grant was looking at the map with renewed interest. “On the Cumberland.”
Cord was reading the end of the letter. “She says Lucius has some big assignment that he couldn’t tell her the nature of. That he was the one who found Seneca on the battlefield and that’s how news of Ben’s enlistment made its way west.”
That drew Grant’s attention from the map momentarily. “Lucius is in battle and not at West Point? He must be spying for Delafield once more.”
Cord angrily folded the letter and slid it in his pocket, next to the faded sketch of Lidia and Ben, which Grant had done so many years ago. “Rumble couldn’t keep Ben out of the war. I knew it! And he ran me off in Mexico. He pulled Ben out of the Corps, but still fails.”
Grant stood and walked around the map table, looping his arm over Cord’s shoulder. “Everyone is going to get drawn into this war, Elijah. At least he’s on the right side.”
“I have to go find Ben and—”
Grant squeezed the shoulder. “The Army isn’t the same as it was before the war, Elijah. You must trust to providence that your son will make his way through this ordeal safely. I promised Lidia that I would allow no harm to come to him. At the time, I thought such a promise foolish, but it seems she could see the future straighter than any of us. If we have the opportunity, we’ll see that promise through,” Grant said. “But for now . . .” He led Cord to the map, attempting a diversion. “After we secure Cairo—if you can convince General Fremont that it is to be my job, and I have no idea how you will do that, but I do trust you on it—and before we can look down the Mississippi for the offensive, Mrs. Rumble’s letter made me think of something. We must protect our flank to the east.”
Cord tried to focus. “The Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers.”
“Indeed,” Grant said. He slid his finger along the map. “Paducah, Forts Henry and Donelson, Clarksville and probably even Nashville must be subdued first. And the Tennessee River is a dagger right through Tennessee and into Alabama.”
“You’re thinking far ahead, Sam.”
“Someone has to,” Grant said.
“Tell me something, Sam. That night the vigilance committee came for me. You were cadet in charge of quarters. That wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”
Grant smiled. “After all these years, you wonder about that? I knew Fred had the duty and it didn’t take much hard thought to know that’s when they would come for you.”
“Thank you,” Cord said.
“You’re welcome,” Grant said, “but now I have a special mission for you. After you see General Fremont.”
“And that is?”
“Go to Clarksville undercover. Find this Samual fellow. If he can make it safely from Natchez to Clarksville—and we know he made it from Natchez to West Point and back without being stopped-- then he’s a man we can use. The people who are going to know the land the best are the slaves. I need someone who can talk to them. Who understands them. If I can team you with Samual, I’ll have the most formidable pair of scouts any commander could desire.”
“He’s supposed to take his daughter to Canada. And himself.”
“I’ll give them protection,” Grant said.
“You’re breaking the law,” Cord pointed out. “Fugitive Slave Act? Remember?”
“I think it’s one of the negatives of seceding from the Union to believe that Federal law still applies in your favor,” Grant pointed out. “I need to know the lay of the land down the Cumberland, the Tennessee and the how things go on the Mississippi.”
“That’s all?” Cord laughed. “Find a man who doesn’t want to be found? Go behind enemy lines? Tall orders and ones that could get me hung if caught.”
“Aren’t you the intrepid mountain man, with all your experience in hunting and tracking?” Grant asked. “Who better to do this?”
“I’ll do it. But if I discover where Ben is, I must make his safety my priority.”
“He’s my Godson,” Grant said. “I’m with you on that.”
27 August 1861, St. Louis, Missouri
There were guards on the four corners of the block, guards in front of the mansion, guards in front of the door, guards inside the door and Cord imagined there’d be guards sitting on top of Fremont’s head at this rate. His dispatch from Grant eventually got him in the front door, but no further.
A lieutenant, looking very important indeed, in full dress uniform with a ceremonial sword strapped to his belt held out his hand. “I will relay that to the proper authority.”
“Nope.”
The lieutenant was confused. “Sir, I am the aide to the assistant to the adjutant to the chief of staff to General Fremont.”
“That’s a mouthful,” Cord said. “You tell the assistant to the adjutant to tell the adjutant to tell the chief of staff to tell Fremont, that his old friend Elijah Cord is here to see him. He’ll make some time for me.”
Cord leaned the Lancaster against the wall and grabbed a chair, sinking into it, stretching his legs out.
The lieute
nant still hadn’t moved. “Sir, I must insist—”
Cord twitched his buckskin coat aside, revealing the foot long Bowie knife. “Son, I get irritable when I have to wait.”
The lieutenant scurried off. Cord pulled an apple out of his haversack and unsheathed the Bowie knife. He sliced a piece off the fruit and popped it in his mouth.
It took a couple of minutes for an older man to appear, dressed in a uniform the like of which Cord had never seen. “I am the Commander of the Bodyguard,” the man said in a heavy eastern European accent. “It is reported you have threatened one of our officers.”
Cord carefully carved out a piece of apple with the Bowie, then impaled it with the needle point of the knife. He waved that at the officer. “We’re going in the wrong direction. Thought at least I’d get the adjutant or maybe even the chief of staff. Commander of Bodyguard is a step of the trail sideways. Fremont know I’m here?”
The Commander gestured and two soldiers flanked him, muskets at the ready.
Cord sighed. “Tell General Fremont that Elijah Cord is here with a letter from his father-in-law, Senator Benton.”
“Senator Benton is not alive,” the Commander said.
“That’s the point,” Cord said. “General Fremont will understand and he won’t appreciate you blocking my way to him and making me even more irritable than I already am.”
The Commander left in a huff, but the two guards remained. Cord finished his apple, wiped the blade of the Bowie clean on his sleeve and slid it back into the sheath.
The Commander of the Bodyguard reappeared and brusquely gestured for Cord to follow, along with the two guards. They passed many officers, almost all outfitted in uniforms befitting a king’s court rather than a general’s field staff, and all appearing very, very busy with the papers in their hands. The three-story house was impressive, one of the hulking mansions that lined Chouteau Street in St. Louis’s richest neighborhood. Impressive, but an odd place to put the headquarters of the Army of the West. Two more guards opened a set of double doors and Cord walked inside, the Commander of the Bodyguard close by his side.