West Point to Mexico

by Bob Mayer

  Cord started forward when the door opened, but then recognized Rumble’s form. Cord remained still, the cigar clutched in his hand. He saw Rumble look in his direction, but the door opened once more and the Surgeon gestured Rumble back inside.

  The howl of a wolf was somewhere to Cord’s left. He’d welcome the beast right now. Have it leap, tear into his flesh, devour him, take away the hole in his chest as he looked down at the log cabin and the bright glow from the small windows, openings into a world where things were safe and cordial.

  He could not blame Longstreet or the others for the way they treated him. The entire Corps had an idea of what had happened. There was no such thing as a secret, especially one involving Benny Havens and his tavern. No one would ever speak of it openly, but the whispers were always there and the Vigilance Committee had issued its decree and the Silence.

  Cord had excuses for last summer: he’d been drunk; he’d been tired; he’d been confused; he’d been surprised—four points of a compass framing a hurricane around his life. But in the center, in the eye of the hurricane, where there was stillness, it was the void inside of him that had caused this.

  Cord looked up. “All right, God. You kept George King from shooting. Maybe I did a wrong thing that day. And three months before that day. But don’t take it out on the child, please. I can bear any further wrath you wish to bring down on me, just spare the child.”

  Hooves clattered on the frozen ground above. Cord stepped off the path. The storm had dispersed and the night was colder. A slight tinge of dawn showed to the east across the Hudson and a few more stars glittered among breaks in the clouds.

  A thickset rider swathed in a heavy black cloak and sporting a brown slouch hat came ambling down the path. The man had a wide black sash tied around his waist. Not a cadet. Cord reached under his long overcoat and grabbed the handle of his whalebone knife. He drew it and hid the blade up his left sleeve.

  The way the man rode indicated he’d never fallen under the verbal lash of Master of the Horse Herschberger’s commands on how to be one with the horse. The wolf howled again and the rider paused, hand snaking inside the sash and coming out with a large revolver in his meaty paw.

  Cord stepped out of the darker shadow of the trees. “The wolf won’t attack.”

  The hand, with gun, swung around and Cord was faced with not one barrel, but two, a smaller one on top of a larger. Cord held his hands away from his sides. “No harm, my friend, no harm.”

  The stranger said nothing for several moments and the barrels didn’t waver, pointed right at Cord’s heart. “Who you be, boy, and what you be doing skunking about in the dark?” The voice was deep southern, Alabama or Mississippi, and one used to issuing orders.

  Cord took an instant dislike to the voice and the speaker, because there was also something in the tone that reminded him of his father. “Who the hell are you? And lower that gun.”

  The gun didn’t move. “I got the advantage on you, boy, so you do the answering.”

  “Elijah Cord, third classman, United States Corps of Cadets.”

  “Third class, eh? What that make you? Some kind of servant?”

  “It means I’m in my second year at the Academy.” Cord wished he hadn’t answered as soon as the words left his mouth.

  The gun slowly lowered, but the stranger didn’t put it back under the sash. “So down there be this Havens Tavern, aint it? I hear tell you keydets cluster there like bees ‘round honey.”

  Cord bristled at the mis-pronunciation. He took a step forward. The man was built like a tree trunk: solid torso, solid arms and legs. No hair poked out from under the slouch hat. His face was broad, burned brown from the sun, strange to see during winter in New York, and the eyes were like dark stones, set wide apart by a nose that had been broken badly and never set. He sat on the horse like a barrel on a plank, no love lost going either way. And for some reason he couldn’t pin down, Cord had no desire to point the man in the direction of Benny Havens or any other place else for that matter.

  “I think you’re lost,” Cord said.

  “I don’t never get lost.” The man looked past Cord. “That it down there aint it? The big building? And the little one behind it? Who live there?”

  “A man.”

  “What this man’s name?”

  “What’s your name?”

  A smile that didn’t reach the eyes crossed the man’s face. “St. George Dyer. I been traveling a long way, and waiting about here a while longer, to deliver a message. Saw that army doctor fellow head down a while ago, so I figure today’s the day to do that.”

  “Who’s the message for?” Cord asked.

  “A former one of you keydets. I got a message for young Lucius Rumble, from his father, Master Tiberius Rumble.”

  Like George King, Rumble had been disowned by his father; every cadet had heard the story. As soon as word of the marriage to Lidia and his dismissal from the Corps had reached Mississippi, a letter had come back to West Point stating Tiberius’s position in no uncertain terms. That had not helped Cord’s status with many in the Corps and the Silence had tightened down further.

  “I can give him the message,” Cord lied.

  St. George looked past Cord to the cabin. “Maybe you can, boy, but when Master Tiberius wants something done, it get done right. Damn fool boy got hisself married. Now she squirting out a young ‘un. Been waiting round here two weeks for tonight. I don’ like waiting.” The man tapped the double muzzles of the pistol idly on the pommel of his saddle, deep in whatever passed for thought in his brain. “You suppose it possible he leave that poor tavern wench he married and come home and marry who he supposed to, when he was supposed to?”

  “And who is that?”

  “So young Rumble aint said nothing ‘bout that. Damn fool he be.” The sly grin crossed St. George’s face. “But that boy always did like his secrets.”

  When the men were forced to retreat behind the curtain under Surgeon’s remonstration, they were a much lighter lot than had sat there prior. Benny headed directly for the jug. Rumble stopped Grant and put both hands on his friend’s shoulders. “I want you to be his godfather.”

  Grant blinked, trying to think, the slur more pronounced. “But what about Cord?”

  “What about him?”

  “Shouldn’t he have a role?”

  “He had one,” Rumble snapped. “He let it go. I saw him out there earlier. In the trees. I want you to always be a part of Ben. If not for you, I would not be here. And there is no house, no palace, no spot on this world I would rather be than here.”

  Grant bowed his head, unprecedented tears in his eyes. “I would be honored to be Ben’s godfather.” He put a heavy hand on Rumble’s shoulder and leaned close. “Do you want me to fetch Cord?” When Rumble didn’t answer, Grant backed the question down a notch. “At least let him know all went well?”

  Rumble bit his lip, then gave a very slight nod.

  Havens held out a mug for Rumble, having already given one to Longstreet. “Cord should keep away. He has little honor, like Mister King told ‘im.”

  Grant buttoned his long overcoat incorrectly; one button off, but no one mentioned it. “Now, now. Cord is a good man deep in his heart.” Grant tapped his chest. Rumble and Longstreet exchanged a confused glance as Grant continued his slurred ramble. “He’s just not a responsible man. He’s like a wide, but shallow river. Sparkling in the sunlight and pleasing to the eye, but with little substance at first glance. But a shallow river can grow deep with time. He has courage, I’ve seen that. Remember, who knows where we’ll all be in twenty years time and who we will be?”

  “Getting sentimental on us, Sam?” Longstreet asked.

  “Phew,” Havens snorted, blowing the topic out of the room like stale cigar smoke.

  “Enough stalling,” St. George said, pulling up the reins and making to move past. “I got a job to do.”

  “Rumble won’t leave her,” Cord said.

  St. George gave a sly
grin. “If she dead, then it be real easy for him to leave.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It a thought.”

  “Rumble will never leave her.”

  “I’ll be hearing all this from young Rumble’s own lips, so the Master knows I heard it first-hand-like.”

  “And you won’t get close to her,” Cord added.

  “Out of my way, boy.” But St. George paused, peering past.

  Cord looked over his shoulder. Grant’s slight, stooped figure was on the threshold, backlit by the light from inside. Grant brought a cigar out of a pocket and lit it on the second attempt. A wave of relief washed over Cord.

  The baby gave a cry and Rumble picked Ben up, after giving Lidia a kiss on the forehead. “I love you,” he said to her.

  Lidia nodded, her red curls plastered to her scalp, wet with sweat. “I love you and he is ours.”

  “He is ours,” Rumble agreed, holding the baby as if he was the greatest and most fragile treasure a man had ever found. “Our son.”

  Lidia closed her eyes, spent.

  Rumble carried the child around the curtain, closer to the roaring fire. Through the open door, he could see Grant, cigar in hand, leaning against the log wall for support. Rumble held Ben up over his head, as if offering him to the Gods, marveling at the lightness of new life.

  “Ben Rumble,” he whispered to himself.

  And little Ben let out a piercing cry.

  St. George started to ride around Cord.

  “I won’t let you pass,” Cord declared with such certainty that St. George swung the gun toward him. Cord’s hand was on the hilt of his knife.

  “You willing to die, boy, to try to stop me?”

  Cord held the knife in a tight grip, blade glinting in the moonlight, and readied for combat. “Yes.”

  “Now why that be?” St. George said. “Young Rumble that good a friend of yours?”

  “You cannot pass.”

  St. George pointed those large barrels at Cord. “Then you gonna die.” With a loud click, St. George pulled back the hammer.

  A baby’s cry echoed up the slope.

  “So it’s done,” St. George said. “The child made it. I was hoping she might die, pushing the thing out.” St. George pondered the situation. “Can’t be killing a wife and a child. At least not tonight. Better for me he not come back anyway.” He gently lowered the hammer back in place and tucked the pistol inside his black sash. “I got my answer, boy, and so does Master Tiberius.”

  St. George pulled the reins, lumbered the horse around, and disappeared up the trail. With a shaking hand, Cord put his knife back in its leather sheath and wrapped the long overcoat tighter around his body. He looked down at the cabin, knowing it was warm inside and that Rumble, Grant, Longstreet, and Benny Havens were celebrating the birth. The concept that he had a son washed over him like a rogue wave, staggering him with its immensity.

  “Easy, sir.”

  Cord spun around, grasping for the knife once more.

  “Easy, now, sir.” The voice was soft, in tone like Grant’s when he was with horses, except it was deep south, similar to St. George’s. But different.

  Cord peered into the darkness. “Whoever you are, let me see you.” He had the knife at the ready, the leather wrapping around the bone handle tight in his grip.

  A giant stepped out of the woods. At least six and a half feet tall, the man was dressed in a ragged collage of blankets tied around his body with ropes. His skin was as black as the night had been during the storm. His bald scalp gleamed in the faint starlight. On the right side of his face, scars were scrolled, testament to some wicked event in the past.

  “My name be Samual, sir,” he said.

  “Are you with St. George?”

  “I been following him, sir. For a long time. For a long way. From Mississippi. Been hiding out here in woods for near on two week. Waiting while he wait in town.” Samual grinned, revealing startlingly white and smooth teeth. “He think he smart. He’s not. But he mean. Mean as any snake in da swamp. You need remember that, sir. He meaner than that wolf howling ‘bout earlier.”

  “You’re from Palatine?” Cord asked.

  Samual nodded. “I be, sir. I be sent by Mistress Violet, Mister Rumble’s mother to follow.” He reached inside the collage of blankets and pulled out a worn leather Bible. “If you pardon me, I don’ know how you Yankees stand the cold, sir.” He opened the Bible and carefully retrieved a letter. “You please give to Mister Rumble in a few months. When the weather be warmer. When it good to travel and the baby I jus’ heard be older.” He shook his head. “Weren’t hard to follow a fella when you know where he be going.”

  “You know Lucius Rumble?”

  “I know’d him all his life until he left for here, sir.” Samual turned to go, then stopped. “Sir, might I ask you name? So I can tell Mistress Violet when I gets back who I gave letter to.”

  “Elijah Cord.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Samual paused. “This be dangerous, sir. As da good book say: ‘And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.’”

  A chill ran down Cord’s spine, stronger than the cold wind off the Hudson. “What do you mean?”

  “Bad times be coming, master, real bad times, and we all best be prepared to pay what the Good Lord will extract from us.”

  Cord put the knife away and took the proffered letter. Before he could speak, Samual was gone, back into the darkness of the forest just as the first direct rays of sunlight slid above the eastern horizon and struck West Point.

  Benny Havens held out two full mugs, one to an obviously inebriated Grant, the other to Rumble, who had Ben tucked in one powerful arm.

  “Perhaps not for Sam,” Longstreet said, gently removing the mug from Grant’s hand, replacing it with a cup of water, and taking the mug for himself

  “To my grandson, Ben Agrippa Rumble,” Benny Havens toasted.

  “To Ben Agrippa Rumble,” they replied.

  It was a day of firsts: Lucius Kosciusko Rumble had his first taste of contentment, Ulysses S. Grant had his first taste of alcohol and Ben Agrippa Rumble entered the world.

  Chapter Four

  June 1841, West Point, New York

  Civilian clothes felt strange to Cord after two years in uniform. They were also too tight. He’d worn them as a boy on the journey from Norfolk two years ago and now he was wearing them on the return as a man. The top few buttons on his shirt had ripped away after he put it on and reached for something, so it was open halfway down his chest. He had no money to buy a new outfit; Old Pete Longstreet and his constant series of late night barrack card games had seen to that. They might not talk to him, but they’d take his money at cards.

  Cord stuffed a few toilet articles in a sack and that was the sum total of his existence outside of what the Academy had given him and the whalebone knife, which occupied its usual position in the center of his back, covered by the tail of his shirt.

  And the letter he’d been given months ago by Samual. That had weighed heavy over the months intervening. There had been times Cord had dangled it over the small fire in his room, but he always stopped.

  June exams were over—Cord had passed all courses, barely—and now the cadets in the class of 1843 were free until the 28th of August. Summer furlough between the second and third years at the Academy was the highlight of most cadets’ time at West Point, being a time when they didn’t have to be at West Point. Finishing their Yearling year, cadets went home and came back to be called Cows, due to the additional weight most gained away from the meager fare of the cadet dining hall and the strictness of the training regime.

  Cord left his room and met Sam Grant, also in mufti, in the hallway of the barracks. Grant held a small haversack containing all his non-military clothing and gear. Unlike Cord, Grant had not put on weight, although like him, Grant had gained his adult
height. Over the course of two years Grant had grown six inches, but still remained a paltry one hundred and twenty pounds.

  “Looking very civilian,” Cord said to Grant. “To Ohio?”

  Grant was enthused. “Yes. I’ll be there in a few days.” He slapped Cord on the back. “Be careful you don’t split those britches.”

  “I’m moving slowly for just that reason. Already ruined the shirt.”

  Grant looked at the damage. “What’s that?” The edge of a black scroll was visible etched into the skin on Cord’s chest.

  Cord grabbed the left side of his shirt, covering the tattoo. “Something I got at sea in memory of my mother. You know how the Supe feels about inking the skin.”

  Grant sighed, looking back into his room, like an inmate let out for a little exercise but knowing he’s going to be locked up again. “I feel like I’ve been here forever. Gray, gray, gray. Buildings, uniforms, mood.”

  “I don’t mind the gray,” Cord said. “Better than being on some ship. I just thought some things would be different coming here.”

  “Different how?” Grant asked.

  “I don’t know,” Cord said. “Why’d you come to West Point?” he suddenly asked Grant.

  Grant laughed bitterly. “I didn’t want to. My father arranged my appointment without consulting me. When the appointment was a given, I was informed and told in no uncertain terms that I would be going to the Academy.”

  “Why’d your father want you to come here?” Cord pressed.

  “My father is very conscious of pecuniary matters. It pleases him to no end that I am receiving my higher education on the government’s teat. He also told me that he sensed I had little skill in the world of business.”

  “So you are at odds with your father,” Cord said.