West Point to Mexico

by Bob Mayer

  Fifty miles up the Hudson River from New York City, the river narrows and makes a sharp bend to the west. The craggy highland on the left bank is called West Point and was first fortified to keep the American colonies united during the Revolutionary War. The placement of a military outpost at West Point was dictated by both strategy and terrain. The strategy insisted that the fledgling colonies stay connected and the British had seen the obvious: control the Hudson River and they could sever the particularly troublesome New England colonies from the Confederation of rebelling states to the west and south.

  The terrain was the dictate of geography on military tactics. At West Point, the narrow twist in the Hudson causes any sailing vessel to tack and slow to a crawl. Add a massive chain floated across the river on rafts, covered by heavy artillery lining the bluffs above, and the small American garrison at West Point kept the colonies united throughout the Revolution.

  After the Revolutionary War, the founding of the Military Academy at West Point had been dictated by necessity. The country’s third president, Thomas Jefferson, detested the idea of a standing army, but accepted the reality that the country had to have such a beast. So Jefferson determined to place a leash on the animal. To keep the officer corps from becoming filled with sycophants who would support a particular party or person over the country, in 1802 he ordered the establishment of an Academy to train a professional cadre of officers that would draw its cadets from across the country and across the strata of society. As West Point was a chokepoint in the geography of the new country, the Academy located there was to be a chokepoint to the power of the military that had to sustain a democracy. Cadets would swear an oath—the very first law the First Congress enacted, an indication of its importance to the young country—to defend the Constitution, not any party or individual.

  Thirty-eight years after the founding, two of these cadets, one from Ohio and the other from Mississippi, were in the Academy stable, preparing horses for a ride on a rare day exempt from duties and training.

  “You can surrender now, sir, or you can fight me and suffer inevitable defeat,” the young Mississippian, clad in West Point dress gray, declared. “This is going to happen, one way or the other.”

  Standing with arms folded across his broad chest, the boy-man considered his opponent. The massive horse had refused to be bridled for ten minutes and Lucius Kosciusko Rumble was beginning to take it personally. Rumble desired to be the first to ride York, but the magnificent beast wasn’t being agreeable. He’d tossed a coin with his friend, Sam Grant, for first try at York, and gotten what he’d thought was a lucky break. Grant had dawdled saddling the horse in the next stall, giving Rumble some leeway to have his chance with the Hell Beast.

  This early morning, in the midst of the summer of 1840, was not the best to go for a ride. To the northwest a dark halo of clouds gathered round Storm King Mountain’s forested slopes. Flashes of lightning preceded the thunder from summer squalls scattered across the Hudson Highlands with dawn yet twenty minutes off.

  Rumble was a solidly built young man, filling out the dress gray coat as if his body had been tailored for it. Broad shoulders cut in to a tapered waist. His dark hair matched his dark eyes. For all his strength and intensity, he had met his match. York was a bay stallion, at least a hand taller than any other horse in the stable, well muscled and newly arrived. It had already achieved a reputation as intractable and unridable, thus the Hell Beast. There was a gleam in the horse’s eye that indicated more resistance would be forthcoming.

  Rumble cautiously took a step into the stall, bit in hand. As he reached for the horse’s mouth, thunder reverberated through the stables and York reared, lashing out with a massive hoof, narrowly missing Rumble’s head and splintering wood. Rumble beat a hasty retreat, bumping into the young Ohioan who’d finished equipping the other horse.

  “You can’t force him,” Ulysses S. Grant said in a level tone. “You have to lead him.”

  While Rumble filled out his uniform coat, Grant was lost in his. He was slender to the point of emaciation, his frame slightly stooped, and the dress gray tunic hung loosely from his shoulders as if they were a thin hanger. He was several inches shorter than Rumble’s six feet and dwarfed by York.

  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 g
ood 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.