by Bob Mayer
Rumble shifted uneasily as Grant took a step toward the horse. “Careful, Sam.”
Grant was focused on the horse. His piercing blue eyes stared deeply into the bay’s. Grant took another step closer, within hoof range, but it was also close enough for something to pass between man and beast.
The horse twitched, began to rear, but stopped, nostrils flaring. The bay shivered, took a step back and glared at Grant. Outside the stall, Rumble remained perfectly still. Grant slipped the bit in the horse’s mouth, whispering all the time to the beast, calming, forceful, reassuring. The horse’s ears had been laid back, but now they relaxed, twitching forward to catch the young man’s soft voice.
Grant led York out of the stall, Rumble making sure to get out of the way.
“Where’s your former roommate, Cord?” Grant asked as he ran a hand over York’s neck.
“Restricted to quarters.”
Grant gave a low laugh. “Again?”
Rumble shook his head. “He’s no Robert Lee,” he said, referring to the legendary cadet from ten years prior who had graduated without a single demerit. It was a feat most cadets viewed as a result of divine intervention of some sort. Either God or Satan, depending on one’s perspective of the disciplinary system, and the touchstone by which many cadets could clearly gauge their own lack of self-discipline. “Cord’s never going to get ahead on demerits. He’ll spend the next three years restricted to his room if he has any hopes of graduation. Superintendent Delafield has him in his sights.”
“And it causes you no great trouble that Cord is locked up,” Grant said.
“That is true,” Rumble allowed.
“Because he’s your rival for young Lidia’s attention or because he’s over on demerits and deserves the punishment?”
“Both.”
Grant was heading toward the stable doors. “Bring the other mount, if you don’t mind, Lucius.” Grant said it casually, one friend to another, but Rumble followed as if it were an order, unaware of his reaction. Such was Grant’s way with people as well as horses.
“The storm will be upon us soon,” Rumble said, leading the more compliant, and smaller, horse Grant had saddled toward the stable doors.
“We’re the first to bridle York,” Grant said, making Rumble feel part of something special, the type of comment as natural to Grant as breathing was to the horse. “Waste not to ride him.”
They stepped out of the stables into the dark pre-dawn, occasionally illuminated by the approaching lightning. Rain was pounding on Storm King. Rumble resigned himself to getting wet soon. Grant had decided to ride, and ride they would.
“That Hell Beast will kill you,” a cadet coming down the road called out. He was instantly recognizable by his size, towering over his classmates.
Grant grinned at his best friend. “Well, I can’t die but once, Pete.”
James ‘Pete’ Longstreet addressed the small cluster of upper-class cadets who had gathered upon hearing his deep voice, always a herald of some interesting activity. “I bet that Sam here eats dirt within a minute of mounting.”
Some of the cadets nervously peered about, checking for the duty officer, or of greater consequence, the Superintendent. Major Delafield was a good soldier, a solid officer who had the cadets’ respect, but also a leader who had little tolerance for rule breaking. Not that Longstreet seemed to care as he took the bets, as good with the money as Grant with horses.
Rumble spotted Cord’s current roommate and couldn’t resist a needle. “Too bad Cord’s restricted, Fred. He’d love to get in on the action.”
Frederick Dent hunched his shoulders, looking particularly guilty. “Cord snuck out of the room earlier.”
“I told you that would happen,” Rumble said.
Longstreet let out a booming laugh. “Cord’s a marked man. Crazy Virginian. Supe finds out he’s gone, he’s done here.”
The cause of Dent’s discomfort was that officially he should report Elijah Cord’s disappearance to the duty officer or risk an honor violation. The saber’s edge of duty and honor that cadets tiptoed around almost every day because strictly following the honor code might entail betraying a classmate.
It was more personal for Rumble. “Did he ‘run it’ to Benny Havens?”
Dent shrugged, wanting no part of this. “He left after midnight. He didn’t say where he was going, but he’d been imbibing most of the night, so where else but a run to Benny Havens?”
“Many cadets made a run to Benny’s last night,” Grant noted.
“Many firsties,” Rumble said, referring to the senior cadets who would graduate shortly.
“Easy,” Grant said to Rumble in a low voice. “You know Cord. Maybe he just went for a flip?”
“I do know Cord,” Rumble said, “and that’s exactly what worries me. Lidia’s a good girl but—” he shook his head, focusing on the more immediate problem. “Be careful.” He pointed toward York, who had that look back in his eye and whose nostrils were flaring.
Grant put a foot in the stirrup and York sidestepped away, twisting and turning, trying to rip the rein from Grant’s hand. His foot slipped out of the stirrup and he stumbled, but didn’t fall. Grant’s grip on the rein was tight though the horse outweighed him by a thousand pounds. Grant kept whispering to the horse the entire time, a low soothing tone. York tried to jerk his head back, but Grant anticipated the move and pulled sideways, surprising the horse. Grant’s foot was back in the stirrup and then he was swinging the other leg over the saddle as York reared, trying to throw the interloper off.
However, Grant was firmly on board. York bucked and spun as if chasing its own tail. Grant was leaning forward, his slight body melding into the horse’s back, his mouth next to York’s right ear. The horse stopped spinning for a moment and glared at the cadets. Grant twitched the reins and gave a slight kick of his boot heels. Grant and York raced off as one, sprinting along the dirt road between stable and riding hall.
“You should’ve known better and been more careful with your money,” Rumble said to Longstreet, tightly clutching the rein of the other horse as it strained to follow Grant and York.
The Georgian laughed once more. “Damnation, Lucius, I just wanted to see him ride the Hell Beast. It was worth it. Besides, I took all the bets on Sam conquering it.”
In a minute, Grant returned, the horse at a steady trot, the young cadet’s face split in a wide grin. “York is superb.” He swung down off the horse and held the lead. “Come, Lucius, let’s walk him off post and put him through his paces on an open trail. We’ll switch off once we get a few miles under us.”
“I think we should pay a visit to Benny Havens,” Rumble said, desiring to find out what Cord was up to, and no longer as concerned about taking a turn on York.
Grant laughed. “In search of Mister Elijah Cord and his latest adventure? Certainly. At least we’re authorized to leave post today.”
The two, horses in tow, walked away from the other cadets. They headed toward the south gate and the path to Benny Havens. Grant nodded toward the Library, where he was known to spend a considerable amount of time, curled up with some novel, rather than reading the texts and military treatise a cadet ought to. “Maybe Cord is in there studying, rather than at Benny Havens?”
“You jest,” Rumble said. “You know where he is and what he’s trying to do.”
Grant’s blue eyes focused on Rumble. “Cord enjoys himself. You, on the other hand—” Grant stopped, concerned he had gone too far.
“It’s true, I’ve no claim on Lidia,” Rumble acknowledged. “Nor could I have one. But she’s a good friend and I fear Cord might take advantage. And I do take things seriously.” There was more tension on the lead. “Sometimes I look at my life as one of those novels you read, Sam. The book of Lucius Rumble is written—and not by my hand. I’m just following the words as they’ve been determined for me. I accept Lidia isn’t my future because there’s another woman who’s been chosen for me, even though a future with her is an
empty one in the most important of ways. Still, Lidia is dear to me.”
“No one’s life is written like that,” Grant argued. “You can always rewrite it.” Grant considered Rumble a grave and dependable man, and dependable went a long way in his book.
Rumble shook his head. “I’m truly not the author of my own life. I must do my duty to my family.”
“Certainly you write your own life. And your family back in Mississippi is as rich as Midas, aren’t they? What do you have to be concerned about?”
“They’re not as rich as they appear,” Rumble said. “And what money they do have is tainted.”
“Tainted how?”
“By the blood of slaves.”
“All money is tainted, and usually by blood,” Grant said. “My father makes his running a tannery. Have you ever been in one? I will never go back inside such a place as long as I live. Blood and guts all over the place; it’s disgusting to see. But what’s worse, what’s unbearable, is the stench. It’s indescribable.” Grant shook his head. “Graduate, Lucius, serve your time in Army blue, go back to your plantation and enjoy your life and the woman to whom you are betrothed.”
“How important is family to you, Sam?” Rumble asked.
Grant considered the question. “I would like to find a woman who is lively, have children with her, and raise a family. I can think of nothing better, especially raising children.” He grinned. “And perhaps attain the rank of major and be able to retire some day.”
Rumble nodded glumly. “That’s the—” he began, but paused as a mud-splattered rider came racing toward them. York began to shy, and Grant put a hand on the horse’s head, murmuring to it.
Sherman reined in his horse, both breathing hard. Sherman was the mouthpiece of a small dark angel flitting about in his brain, always predicting the worst. Unfortunately, he was almost always right.
“You best get down to Benny Havens,” Sherman called to Rumble. “It’s going to be bad.”
“Steady now, Cump,” Grant said. “What’s going on?”
“Elijah Cord,” Sherman got out between gasps. He took a deep breath. Like a scout coming back with a report, Sherman spit out the essential information. “King and Cord got into an argument. Then Lidia came into the room and it seems Cord was in her quarters. Then it turns out, Lidia is with child from a previous visit by Mister Cord. King challenged Cord to a duel and Havens sent his man for the Supe.”
“With child!” Rumble was shocked.
Grant took the information calmly. “Let’s ride.”
***********
“Now Benny, please allow me my—” Elijah Cord searched for the word in the murky recesses of his brain—”freedom.”
“And then what?” Havens demanded. He had an old flintlock pistol in his hand and it was pointed at Cord. Letitia and Lidia were huddled in the corner of the tavern. “You’re done for boy.”
Cord was seated in the corner furthest from them and Havens held court in the center. Benny Havens was a legend among cadets. Not just for his service during the War of 1812, but after it, for the small cottage he’d occupied just west of the Cadet Hospital where he’d dispensed hot flips, ale, cider and wheat cakes to home-sick young men. Among cadets, the oft-repeated story was that Edgar Allan Poe, during his short stint at the Academy, had found Benny Havens to be the only congenial soul in the entire place. Many in the years that followed agreed.
The Academy had not looked at either Poe or Havens with similar empathy. Poe departed within a year of his arrival at the Academy, dismissed for ‘gross neglect of duty’ and ‘disobedience of orders’. The rumor in the Corps was that Poe had shown up for parade formation, the uniform order to be ‘with cross belts and under arms’—wearing just cross belts and carrying his musket. True or not, it made for a good tale and good tales made many a gray night pass by a bit lighter.
Benny Havens was also banished from the military reservation. Only to set up a new tavern down by the Hudson River, just south of post limits. It was a magnet for the young cadets, many of who were away from home for the first time and thrust into a harsh disciplinary environment that reshaped their boyish spirit into captains of war. Everyone needed an occasional break from that and Benny Havens was the person to give it.
Right now, though, all the old man wanted to do was break Elijah Cord.
“You best hope the Superintendent gets here before Mister King,” Benny Havens said, “although I’ll be hoping for Mister King and his pistols.” He waved the barrel of the gun toward the door. “Let’s move to the river field and wait for whoever shows up first.”
As Havens gestured for Cord to move to the door, the cadet whispered a prayer. “Please, God. I’ve never asked for much. And I never got much, neither, if you really look at it. I asked you to spare mother, but that wasn’t to be, though she really believed in you. I know that’s the way things are and that you and I have never been close. But if you can help me out of this, please, I’ll be a better man. And besides,” he added, as he stumbled outside, “Lidia rejected me today, but you can’t blame a fellow for trying one more time especially after, well, I suppose you know about that last time. Surely I shouldn’t be punished for that?”
“What was that?” Havens demanded, catching a bit of the last.
“Nothing, sir.”
“You best be praying, boy. You’re gonna need all the help you can get.”
************
The storm broke upon the three riders, sheets of rain descending. Grant led the way, galloping cross-country toward Benny Havens, ignoring the road that followed a more gentle, winding route that switched back several times to the river’s edge and the tavern.
Rumble was using every ounce of horsemanship and strength to keep his horse from tumbling headfirst down the steep slope. Sherman was behind, muttering darkly. They both kept their focus on Grant’s slight form on top of the huge horse. Grant came to a sudden halt at the edge of a creek.
Normally a small, insignificant trickle of water, it was now a torrent, sending water cascading toward the Hudson to begin a journey downstream to New York City and thence the Atlantic Ocean. Sherman pulled up beside Rumble and Grant, his forage cap drooping over his deep-set, solemn eyes.
“We can’t cross,” Sherman said flatly. “It’ll kill us. We have to go back to the road.”
Rumble shifted in the saddle. “The Superintendent will be taking the road. He’ll likely get to Benny Havens before us. And King stores his guns with the smithie in town and will make it back to the river field quickly.”
“No point going if we don’t get to Cord first,” Grant said mildly. “Besides, we set out to get there, we get there. No turning aside.”
“I don’t like water,” Rumble said, hands clutching the reins. “I had a bad experience.”
“You won’t make it across,” Sherman repeated.
Grant turned and placed a hand on Rumble’s shoulder. “We’ll make it.” He looked closer, reading Rumble’s eyes. “You really do fear the water, don’t you, Lucius?”
Rumble bit his lip, looking between Grant and Sherman.
“If you can’t make it,” Grant began, “then—”
“Let’s do it,” Rumble said.
Grant spurred York forward into the surging water. Rumble glanced at Sherman who shook his head. Summoning every ounce of will, Rumble directed his reluctant horse into the stream.
“Damn fools,” Sherman yelled. “I’ll see if I can delay Delafield.” He headed for the road.
The horse shook beneath Rumble as they hit the torrent. He was being shoved down-creek despite his best efforts. Ahead of him, Grant almost got swept away, but mighty York managed to hold against the force of the water. Rumble cried out in panic as his horse lost traction. In a second he was dismounted and underwater, one hand gripping the rein, his only anchor from being washed away.
Grant leaned forward, his head against York’s neck, exhorting the horse in a calm, yet firm, voice. Hooves caught in mud and rock dee
p beneath the water and with a powerful surge, York hauled Grant onto the far bank.
Grant twisted in the saddle and looked back. The only sign of Rumble was a hand above the turbulent water gripping the rein. Grant jumped off York.
“Hold!” he ordered his horse. Using the lead as a safety line, he leapt into the water. The current grabbed his slight frame and tried to rocket him downstream, but York was like a rock. Grant pushed forward to Rumble’s horse.
“Steady.” Grant grabbed the other rein and held it in place, while staring into the horse’s terrified eyes, calming it. Rumble splashed to the surface, blood pouring from a gash over his right eye, flailing to get out of the stream.
“Easy, Lucius,” Grant urged, as if he were talking to York, not Rumble.
Using all his strength, Rumble reached out and also grabbed York’s lead. He pulled, hand over hand, to York and the shore, while Grant maintained contact with the terrified horse caught in the current.
As soon as he had his feet on solid ground, Rumble turned. There was no sign of Grant, just the horse, head above water, eyes wide with fright. The horse’s taut bridle disappeared under the churning water.
Rumble used York’s lead as Grant had done. He jumped back into the water, reaching with his free hand for his friend. His fingers grazed across cloth and he grabbed. Hauling with all his might, he lifted the slender Grant up.
Grant spit out water, but he didn’t let go of the other horse’s bridle. Together, Rumble and Grant heaved on the lead.
“Come on,” Grant urged the horse. “Come on.”
York must have picked up the urgency because the large bay took a step back. Together, the two men and York pulled the other horse to shore.
Grant tumbled onto the creek bank, breathing hard. Rumble collapsed on his back, staring aimlessly up at the rain pouring down through the leaves.