West Point to Mexico

by Bob Mayer

  Grant shook his head. “The Vigilance Committee holds no official sway. Most of the Corps, though, will follow their dictum and ignore you for the rest of your tenure here. Three years like that will be a long time.”

  “I did two years before the mast,” Cord said.

  “This’ll be different, besides longer,” Grant said.

  “I won’t get seasick at least.” Cord lay back on his bed with a groan. “Why won’t you honor the Silence?”

  “It’s a false honor they enforce,” Grant said. “I was there that morning at Benny Havens. Rumble is content with his new place with Lidia. Happier than I’ve ever seen him. I don’t think you were dishonorable, just drunk and confused.”

  “And now I’ll pay for it,” Cord acknowledged. “But I will not resign.”

  “That kind of spirit is what the Corps needs more of,” Grant said.

  Cord held out his red-stained hand. “But you will talk to me, won’t you, Sam?”

  Grant shook the hand. “I don’t shed classmates so easily. I don’t think that is honorable.”

  Chapter Three

  1 January 1841, West Point, New York

  Winter greeted the first day of 1841 by howling off the Hudson River and screaming among the leafless trees on the high bluffs. Inside the Academy stable, three cadets, bundled against the cold, fumbled with frozen fingers to gear up their horses. York was still the pride of the stables and Grant still the only one to master the Hell Beast. In adjoining stalls, Elijah Cord and Pete Longstreet worked on preparing more amendable mounts in complete silence.

  Sam had been born Hiram Ulysses Grant, but was now stuck with Ulysses S. Grant. The congressman from Ohio who had given Grant his appointment to West Point had gotten the name wrong on the paperwork he sent the Academy. In the military once a piece of paper changes your name, the name is changed. So it was written and so it would be, despite all Grant’s efforts to right the mistake.

  Grant and Longstreet had the Superintendent’s blessings to depart post on this particular day and for this particular mission. Cord, as always, was on restriction, but for the first time since the incident at Benny Havens half a year ago, he was going to break the rules once more. The months since his beating and Silencing by the Corps had been sufficient time for his wounds to heal and for the effect of the Silence to settle in. As his body grew stronger, his spirit grew weaker.

  Everything took twice as long in the cold and the cadets were focused on their tasks until all three horses were ready. Grant led the way to the stable doors, where the Master of the Horse, Sergeant Herschberger, hastened to open the gate, holding it against the wind, then slamming it shut as they rode into the darkness. They were three ghosts in long gray overcoats, forage caps, and mufflers wrapped around their faces.

  “Taking the road this time, Sam?” Cord asked as they trotted out the Academy’s south gate, no sentry posted in such severe weather to challenge him.

  “We take the road.” Grant’s words were grabbed by the wind and dispersed into the surrounding woods.

  Leaning forward, the three made their way through the thin layer of snow on the ground until they reached the turn for the switchback to the river and Benny Havens’ tavern. As they slipped below the crest of the highlands, the wind was less severe and more amendable to conversation. Cord had little experience at discourse lately, but Longstreet could not bear the lack of conversation any longer. “Sam. Excited about your summer furlough?”

  Grant glanced over his shoulder with a wry grin. Only Old Pete would be asking about the summer furlough coming in five months whilst in the midst of a snowstorm and on the eve of such an important event. After two years at the Academy it would be the first time Cord and Grant would be allowed to depart for an extended period of time. Longstreet, a year ahead, had gone on furlough the previous summer.

  “I’ll be going home,” Grant said. “It should be pleasant enough.”

  “Such excitement and anticipation,” Longstreet said dryly.

  “It’s a ways off,” Grant said, his focus on the road ahead.

  Longstreet turned in the saddle toward Cord, the question forming, then he paused as he remembered the Silence. Torn between the informal injunction and his desire for conversation, the latter finally won.

  “What about you, Elijah?” Longstreet asked. “Going back to Norfolk? I thought you never wanted to return there?”

  Cord stiffened in the saddle, in no mood for idle chatter this evening, especially not on this topic, but appreciating the gesture on Longstreet’s part. “I don’t want to. But there’s something I must do in Virginia, so I might as well swing by my home also.”

  That caused Grant to look over his shoulder. “What do you have to do in Virginia?”

  Cord pulled back on the reins. “Try to partially repay a debt.”

  “It’s to Lucius Rumble you owe a great debt,” Grant said in a level tone.

  “I know, and this touches on that,” Cord said. “I talked briefly with Rumble and he’s received news from George King. He’s in need of some assistance.”

  “What can you do for him?” Longstreet asked.

  “I’ve made arrangements to visit Major Robert Lee on my way back to Norfolk,” Cord said. “He has connections to my family in business via one of his relatives. I will plead with the Major to help Mister King get into the Navy midshipman program.”

  “You think that makes what you did acceptable?” Longstreet said in a tone as harsh as the wind. “And what of Lucius?”

  “Lucius is content,” Cord protested weakly.

  “You aren’t Lucius,” Longstreet said. He shook his head in disgust and moved into the blowing snow.

  They were halfway to the river when there came the howling of wolves, louder than the wind. Grant pulled up, Longstreet and Cord behind.

  “They’re right in front,” Grant said.

  Cord slid a hand inside his long overcoat. All he had was the whalebone knife stuck in his belt, but it was better than nothing.

  Longstreet spurred forward. The others hesitated, then reluctantly followed.

  “How many do you think there are?” Longstreet asked, as if discussing a matter of no consequence.

  “Perhaps twenty,” Grant offered.

  “Care to wager on the number?” Longstreet asked. The howling was louder, closer.

  “I suppose no one thought to arm themselves with a pistol?” Grant asked.

  “We’re going to a lying in, not a hunt,” Longstreet said. He was still moving forward and Grant, being Grant, was right at his side. “A wager?” Longstreet was nothing, if not persistent.

  “How many say you?” Grant asked.

  They hit a place where the road switch-backed and Longstreet pointed. Two gaunt wolves sat on their haunches near the side of the road, gleaming eyes peering at the travelers for a few moments, before they bounded off into the woods.

  “There are your twenty, Sam,” Longstreet said. “There are always more of them before they are counted. Their noise is much greater than their true strength.”

  Cord halted his horse as they reached the edge of the wood-line just above the tavern. “I’ll wait here as I have not been invited.”

  “A prudent move,” Longstreet said dryly. He moved forward.

  Grant edged York close to Cord. “I’ll step outside and give you a signal when all goes well.”

  “And if it doesn’t go well?” Cord asked.

  “Now you sound like Cump,” Grant said. He slapped a mittened hand on Cord’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a cigar. “Here.”

  “A bit premature, don’t you think?” But Cord accepted it.

  The wind slicing off the ice-cluttered Hudson battered, but could not penetrate, the log cabin Rumble had built in the woods behind Benny Havens tavern. It was solidly constructed, no chink left unfilled between logs, and the fire was built up, bathing the interior with warmth. A large black kettle hung over the flames. A thick curtain se
parated the single room. On one side was a plank table at which Lucius Rumble and Benny Havens sat. On the opposite side of the curtain was the bed in which Lidia was preparing to give birth. Letitia was assisting the West Point Post Surgeon, sent on order from Major Delafield to attend to Lidia.

  Lucius Kosciusko Rumble was from just south of Natchez, the wealthiest city in the United States. Cotton was king and Natchez funneled the cotton onto the Mississippi River. Rumble was the eldest scion of the family that owned Palatine, a rambling plantation along the eastern bank of that mighty river, extending miles inland. His middle name had caused him considerable grief his plebe year as Thaddeus Kosciuszko, a Polish officer, had designed the original fortifications at West Point during the Revolution and was revered in Academy lore.

  Rumble had gained the Polish officer’s last name third-hand from a town that had taken it incorrectly second-hand. His mother had been pregnant and on her way back to Palatine from her family’s home in Clarksville, Tennessee, when biological necessity had caused her to stop in a small Mississippi town short of home: Kosciusko. Out of gratitude for the kindness shown her during her labor, she’d given her newborn son the town’s name in between the last name forced on by family and the first name forced on by spouse. She could not have known the misspelling by the founders of the town would cause her son to be hazed twenty years later. All for lack of a Z.

  There was a knock on the wood door. Rumble hastened to the door and held it against the wind as Sam Grant and Pete Longstreet slipped inside, stomping to get the snow off their boots. He slammed the door shut and secured it.

  Grant smiled as he pulled off his long gray overcoat. “Corporal Rumble.”

  “Cadet Grant.” They clasped hands, neither withdrawing the grip for long seconds. Then Rumble greeted Longstreet, warmed as much by their presence as by the fire. He asked them to join him at the table.

  Grant nodded toward the curtain. “How goes the campaign?”

  Rumble grimaced as they all sat down. “Fraught with peril. The Surgeon says her carriage isn’t the most felicitous for birth.”

  Benny Havens poured generous portions of rum into mugs and shoved them around the table. He had his own halfway to his mouth when there was a cry of pain from the other side of the curtain. He downed the entire cup. Rumble idly picked his up, but his focus was on the curtain and the cup remained in his hand. His other hand rubbed the scar over his right eye.

  Grant demurred, waving his hand at the cup as if it were about to attack him. “I have never partaken of spirits. It has a bad history in my family.”

  Longstreet finished his off in one long gulp and slammed it down. He turned to Grant. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Sam.”

  Reluctantly, Grant picked up the mug and took a sip.

  The cry from beyond the curtain was not repeated and there was the murmur of voices: the post Surgeon, Letitia, and occasionally Lidia’s weaker, anguished whisper. None of the words could be understood so the men had to wait in ignorance.

  “I remember when Letitia had Lidia,” Havens said, a slight slur indicating he had been at the jug for a while. “Damn mid-wife said same thing about Letitia. They always warn, try to get you to think the worst so you’ll feel better when all goes well. They distribute warnings like I do rum. Don’t you fret. Lidia will be fine. She’s made of fine stuff.” He slapped his belly to emphasize the point.

  Rumble was not consoled. He got up and began to pace back and forth in front of the curtain.

  Grant rubbed the edge of the mug, and like the tactician he was, tried a diversion. “Lucius, you’d have enjoyed the lecture old Pete had to give the other day. The military science instructor caught him sleeping. No one could miss that snoring.”

  Rumble tore his eyes away from the curtain, allowing his friend the weak attempt at a flanking movement. “What did he have you speak on?” he asked Longstreet.

  “First,” Longstreet said, holding out his mug to Havens for more rum, “I was not sleeping. I was merely resting my body while my brain was engaged deep in thought about the subject matter at hand.”

  “Which was?” Rumble asked, playing along.

  “The strategy of war,” Longstreet said. “The old Clausewitz thing. Hannibal, Cannae.”

  Rumble shook his head. “The battle of annihilation is a thing of the past.”

  “It’s the strategy being taught,” Grant noted mildly. “Army on army until one prevails. That is war, or so the ‘experts’ say. Who are we to disagree with the masters like Clausewitz?”

  “How come no one ever mentions that despite killing fifty-thousand Romans at Cannae and obliterating their army, Hannibal never defeated them?” Rumble asked. “And he eventually lost the war and Carthage was no more? Strategy is not about destroying the other’s army.”

  “What is it then?” Longstreet challenged. He punched Grant lightly on the shoulder. “If we’re going to argue, you might as well drink.”

  Grant took a deeper draft from his mug.

  “You must destroy their will to fight,” Rumble said. He looked to Grant. “Correct, Sam?”

  Grant inclined his head, his eyes slightly unfocused. “You might well be right.”

  “I don’t think he is,” Longstreet said. “Rome should have surrendered after Cannae. The Romans were insane not to.”

  That got Grant’s attention. He drained his mug and held it out to Havens for a refill. “But the fact is, the Romans did not surrender. I think when engaged in war, sanity is lost pretty early. Would you surrender, Pete, if you suffered a serious defeat?”

  Longstreet stared into his mug as if the answer were in there, but said nothing.

  Rumble leaned over the table toward Grant, almost knocking over the freshly filled mug in front of his friend. “Do you want to know something, Sam, since we’re speaking of Rome?”

  Grant nodded and took a drink. There was another short cry of pain from beyond the curtain. Longstreet and Havens looked in that direction, but Grant kept his eyes on Rumble.

  Rumble spoke in a low voice. “My father’s name is Tiberius. His grandfather named his plantation, Palatine, after the tallest of the seven hills of ancient Rome and began the tradition of Roman names in the family. Ostentatious don’t you think? My father named me Lucius. And my younger brother Seneca. He’d have renamed my mother something awful, like Servilia, if she’d have allowed him.”

  “Why your family’s fascination with Rome?” Grant asked.

  “It’s a way for us to feel we’re more important than we are and that things are grander than they are.”

  “But aren’t things rather grand at Palatine?” Grant asked over the lip of his mug.

  “They appear to be,” Rumble said, “but appearances can be deceiving.”

  “And if it is a son?” Grant asked, draining the mug. “What name will you give him?”

  “If I have a son, I will name him Ben Agrippa Rumble.”

  Grant frowned. “But why the odd middle name? It sounds as if you don’t fancy your family’s habit of Roman names.”

  Around the table, the others were following the conversation.

  Rumble shook his head, his dark eyes seeming to withdraw deeper into whatever pit consumed his past. “I’m not doing it for my father, I’m doing it because of my father. I had a friend on the plantation, a dear friend, who was named Agrippa. He—” Rumble paused—then continued: “died. But he had also saved my life years before that. I’m doing it in his honor.”

  “You never wanted to go back to Palatine,” Grant said with a slight slur, finally understanding. “That’s partly why you—” he paused, glancing at the others, and abruptly switched the topic back. “And if it’s a girl?”

  Rumble almost smiled, shaking off memories. “I wouldn’t saddle a young girl with a Roman name. I think—” he was interrupted as Letitia came hustling from behind the curtain, to the black kettle over the fireplace, and dipped the ladle into the boiling water. She didn’t spare the men a glance. As soon as
the small pot she carried was full, she disappeared back behind the curtain.

  The men could hear heavy, pained breathing. In the half year since he’d been forced to resign his cadetship because of the incident at Benny Havens, Rumble had worked in the stables, accepting the Superintendent’s gracious offer to remain at the Academy as an enlisted man while Lidia grew with child.

  He’d seen Cord only occasionally at the riding hall when the cadets were doing cavalry training and the two had not had a chance to exchange many words, not that there seemed much need to. The deeds were done all around and now it was all playing out.

  The sound of deep and ragged breathing continued, each man at the table remaining still, as if hypnotized. Grant turned to Rumble to speak, but then stopped as he peered at his distraught friend. Rumble could take it no longer and abruptly jumped to his feet. He grabbed his overcoat and stomped into the snowy night, embracing the blast of cold wind on his face. He felt the wetness on his cheeks and reached to brush away the snow, and then realized tears were mixed with the snow.

  Rumble looked up into the sky. The storm was tapering off. There was a small hole in the clouds and he saw a single star. “Let this page be a good one,” he whispered. As he lowered his gaze he saw a small glow in the forest above the tavern. A taut figure was standing there smoking and Rumble stiffened as he recognized his former classmate. He was about to call out when the door swung open behind him and light spilled out of the cabin.

  The Surgeon held up a hand and beckoned. “Come in and meet your son, Corporal Rumble.”

  Rushing into the cabin, Rumble almost knocked the Surgeon over. Grant and Longstreet were waiting for him and followed as Rumble darted behind the curtain where Benny and Letitia Havens hovered on one side of the bed. Lidia was luminous, glowing with pride and happiness. There was a bundle on her chest, making little mewling noises, and all that was visible were the tiniest of hands, reaching as if they could pluck something out of the air.

  Rumble went to the side of the bed and slid his pinkie inside the slightly curled fingers of the child. He looked at Lidia and smiled. “Welcome to the world, Ben Agrippa Rumble.”