West Point to Mexico

by Bob Mayer

  “No.” Grant shrugged. “One has to trust family. He has my best interests at heart. It’s what a father does.” Grant hefted his haversack over his shoulder. “Why’d you come here?”

  “To escape.”

  “From your home?”

  “My journey here is the opposite of yours. I wrangled my appointment from an uncle on my mother’s side of the family who has political connections. I informed my father after it was a given.”

  “His reaction?”

  “He was probably as pleased to hear of my appointment as you were to be informed of yours.”

  “And now we both go back,” Grant observed as they walked out of the barracks together, mingling with other former Yearlings. They were heading for South Dock to catch the ferry to New York City, where they would scatter across the country for their few months of freedom. It was a pleasant, early summer day. The trees were green, the sky was blue and one could almost forget the misery of the dark winter and shake off the gray stone on the buildings.

  Grant stopped to shake hands with Pete Longstreet. Old Pete, entering his senior year, a Firstie, was assigned to the cadre that would whip the new plebes into shape. Longstreet looked imposing in his dress uniform and crossed white belts, his brass breastplate reflecting the sun, a saber strapped to his waist. The day after the Yearlings went on leave, a group of frightened, boys about to become men would come marching up this same road and cower before upperclassmen like Longstreet. No West Pointer ever forgot their Reception Day.

  “Enjoy yourself, Sam,” Longstreet said, ignoring Cord. “You’ll be back here to our rock-bound highland home all too soon. I remember my furlough went by like a flash.”

  “That’s cheery,” Grant said. “You sound like Cump.”

  Longstreet laughed. “I’ll lay you odds, three to one, you’ll have the fastest few months of your life.”

  “I’ll never take a wager against you,” Grant said.

  “A man has to gamble every once in a while,” Longstreet said.

  “Only when the odds are in his favor,” Grant said.

  “That’s not a true wager,” Longstreet said, “and cautious.”

  “Prudent.” Grant reached out, finger stopping a quarter inch from Longstreet’s highly shined breastplate.

  Longstreet stood his ground. “That took over an hour to prepare.”

  Grant pulled his hand back. “Don’t be too hard on the Plebes. Remember what it was like.”

  Longstreet slapped the hilt of his sword. “I’ll have them whipped into shape by the time you get back, count on it.”

  Cord was invisible. The isolation of the Silence had descended around him with the tacit acceptance of most cadets. A few, like Grant, acted as if nothing were different. Most didn’t care but abided by the tradition. And a handful were outright hostile as if Cord had insulted them personally in some manner.

  For a moment Longstreet grew serious. “There are strange winds brewing, Sam. President Harrison dying is an ill omen. When you return, you must tell me how people are responding. We’re in our own little world here. And it’s certainly not the real one. Harrison was from Ohio and you’ll find out how the people there feel. The letters I receive from my kin in Georgia are disturbing.”

  Just a few months ago, in March, newly elected President William Henry Harrison, an old army man and hero of the Battle of Tippecanoe, had spoken too long at his inauguration, a cold and rainy day in Washington. He’d taken ill and died, an unprecedented event for the young country. The government had been thrown into upheaval as the constitutional rules of succession were found to be lacking. John Tyler, the Vice President, had eventually been sworn into office as President with all powers despite debates whether he should be acting President or true President. Of more importance, Harrison’s antipathy toward expanding slavery westward, and particularly the issue of Texas, had been reversed.

  Thus the potential annexation of Texas was now an issue all cadets were following closely, because Mexico still claimed the territory as part of its sovereign nation. The Mexican government had promised war if annexation happened and there was no reason to believe they would not follow through on their threat. They had given Texas a great deal of autonomy after the Battle of San Jacinto, but took the stance that the treaty the defeated Santa Anna had signed was not legitimate as the general did not have the authority to negotiate for all of Mexico. While Texans claimed independence, the reality was much murkier. France, Britain and the United States had recognized Texas as a nation, but, so far, no one had pushed the issue. Mexico claimed a good portion of the western part of the continent, from Texas, up along the Rocky Mountains and to the Pacific Ocean.

  “It’s a mess,” Grant said. “I fear a storm brewing that will lead to worse things.”

  Longstreet smiled. “Now you sound like Cump. Always the worst coming.”

  Grant nodded. “Cump always seemed to end up being right.”

  “Forget I asked,” Longstreet said, with a sidelong glance at Cord. “Enjoy your furlough. Both of you,” he added with a slight nod toward Cord, a thawing of the Silence.

  They took their leave and continued on the road.

  “I must stop briefly at Benny Havens,” Cord said, the letter in his breast pocket a burden he needed to be relieved of.

  Grant shook his head. “They have a bar on the steamer.”

  “Not for that,” Cord said. “I have to leave something there with Benny.”

  Grant shrugged. “If you must, you must.”

  That plan was interrupted when, just before they reached the cut off to the tavern, they spotted Rumble and Lidia strolling up it, each holding the handle of a baby basket with Ben inside. Cord fought his instinct to head in the opposite direction.

  Over the past year, Rumble had grown more popular with the Corps than when he had been a cadet. Young Ben was the darling of the cadets and many stopped by the small log cabin on their way in or out of Benny Havens to see the child and visit with Rumble and his wife. Teaching riding fit Rumble and he appeared happy. As much as Cord had been pushed away by the Corps, Rumble and his family had been brought into its bosom.

  “Corporal and Mrs. Rumble,” Grant said, with a tip of an imaginary cap.

  “Sam, almost didn’t recognize you out of the gray.” Rumble touched a finger to his forehead, a ghost of a salute. He looked at Cord. “Elijah.”

  “Lucius, Lidia,” Cord said, shifting his feet uneasily. He had not been back to Benny Havens or talked to Lidia since that fateful morning.

  “Off for furlough, eh?” Rumble said.

  All Cord could see was the baby in the basket. Pale blue eyes stared back at him with curiosity. Lidia snatched the other handle from Rumble’s hand and turned away from Cord. “Let us be on,” she said to her husband.

  Rumble gently put his hand on her shoulder. “Have an enjoyable furlough,” he said to the two cadets. “I’m glad not to go home.”

  “Your home is here,” Grant allowed. “But your family, the rest of your family, is in Mississippi. Even though you might not want to have anything to do with them, you should think of Ben and his future.”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” Rumble said.

  Grant shrugged. “One needs all the family they can possibly have. I imagine your parents might view their grandson, and perhaps you, in a different light now.”

  “Perhaps,” Rumble allowed.

  Grant leaned forward and surprisingly gave Lidia a peck on the cheek. “Take care of my God-son.” Then he headed toward the ferry, leaving Cord facing Rumble. Lidia was still turned away from both of them, the baby-basket gripped tight in her hands.

  “What do you want?” Rumble demanded.

  “We need to speak,” Cord said.

  “The time for that is past.”

  “There is something—” Cord began, but he halted.

  Rumble rubbed the scar over his right eye without realizing it. “What?”

  “The night—the night Ben was born. You know
I was in the woods above the tavern.”

  “I do.”

  “A rider came down the road. He was bringing you a message. From Palatine.”

  Rumble stiffened. “Who was it?”

  “He called himself St. George Dyer.”

  Rumble took his hand off Lidia’s shoulder. “Wait for me over by the stone wall, my dear.” His voice was hard, brooking no protest, something Lidia had not heard before. She walked away with Ben and sat down on the wall, out of earshot, but watching anxiously.

  “Why are you only telling me this now?” Rumble demanded.

  “I’ll get to that,” Cord said.

  “You’ll ‘get to that’?” Rumble folded his arms across his chest. “What was the message?”

  “He said his master, your father, Tiberius, would welcome you home if you left Lidia.”

  “And?”

  “And then he heard Ben’s birth cry. And he said he had his answer.”

  “What did you say?” Rumble asked.

  “I told him you would never leave Lidia. That was before he heard the cry and--” Cord sputtered to a halt.

  Rumble’s eyes had a distant look. “Tiberius would do that. My life was his plan. He thinks everything and everyone is his to plan. And then I broke his plan; failed in my duty to Palatine. And he would send St. George, of all people, with the message. It would be like sending Hannibal to Scipio Africanus to discuss peace between Carthage and Rome. My mother must have forced him to make a gesture. But gestures are all my father is good for.”

  “Did I do wrong?” Cord asked.

  “When?” Rumble snapped. “No. You answered truthfully. I will never leave Lidia or Ben.”

  “Someone else was there that night. Came up to me after St. George rode off. Do you know a large Negro named Samual?”

  Rumble stiffened. “Yes. He was with St. George?”

  “No. He said he secretly followed St. George here.”

  “Then my mother sent him without my father’s knowledge. What did Samual want?”

  “He gave me a letter.” Cord reached into his shirt for it. “He told me not to give it to you for some months, to wait until the weather got warmer,” he hastily explained as he handed it over and noted the look of anger that flashed across Rumble’s face.

  “Then you did as you were told,” Rumble allowed. “Samual is always very exact in following instructions. He’s a good man.” Rumble ripped open the envelope and pulled out a piece of rose-colored stationery. “As expected, from my mother. She knew my father was sending St. George and that I would never listen to him. So she sent Samual with this.” His eyes were racing back and forth as he took in the lines written in his mother’s flowing script. “She asks me to visit this summer. She says that there are things that must be talked about. That my father is ill.” Rumble sighed deeply as he folded the letter and slid it into his uniform breast pocket. He glanced over at Lidia and Ben. “I do not wish to leave them, even for a short trip. My duty is here.”

  “Benny and Letitia can look after them,” Cord suggested.

  “I must think,” Rumble said, more to himself. He looked at Cord. “It’s best if you leave.”

  Cord glanced at Lidia and the child and Rumble moved into his line of vision. “They’re not your concern. You made that choice.”

  “Stop acting so damn noble.” Cord stepped up to Rumble, face flushed with anger. “St. George also told me you’d been betrothed. That there was someone you were supposed to marry back in Mississippi. Have you told Lidia that?”

  Rumble grabbed Cord’s shirt, pulling the smaller man’s face within inches and popping another button free. “What I tell my wife and what I don’t tell her is none of your business either.”

  Cord spoke each word slowly and distinctly. “Let. Go. Of. Me.”

  Rumble’s hand unclenched but Cord didn’t retreat. “You’re turning your back on your family in Mississippi and some girl there. Why do you think you can build a family here? Didn’t you have a duty to those in Mississippi?”

  “I did,” Rumble said. “But that was before—” he stopped himself. “Don’t you dare to lecture me about family.”

  Cord took a deep breath, turned on his heel and headed toward the ferry.

  Rumble watched him for a few seconds, breathing hard. He walked toward his wife. He sat down next to her on the low wall, observing his former classmates at South Dock.

  “Are you having regrets?” Lidia asked.

  Rumble was startled. “What?”

  “To not be going back to Palatine on furlough. To not being a cadet.”

  Rumble didn’t have to think. “Never.”

  “Then what’s your problem with Elijah? Ignore him like everyone except Sam does. He isn’t worth it.”

  Rumble blinked in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

  She glared at him, holding Ben’s basket to her chest. “You’re my husband. You’re our son’s father. I do not want that man anywhere near Ben.”

  Rumble looked at his wife and the child, leaning into her ever so slightly. “Yes, my dear. But we cannot deny reality. It’s the great unspoken, but known, secret among the Corps, that he was with you. It is the major reason he has been Silenced, besides what happened to my cousin, George. His lack of honor.”

  “I do not like him,” Lidia said, her body tense under his large hands.

  “You liked him well enough once,” Rumble replied without forethought,

  Lidia twisted away from him, toward Ben. “I wish to forget that.” But Lidia’s pale face was flushed.

  “So do I,” Rumble said, “and that’s my problem with Cord.” He reached around her and placed his hands over hers, taking up the weight of the baby.

  Lidia relaxed, her body melting against Rumble’s solid form. “There’s something you must know.”

  “And that is?”

  “I am with child.”

  “Thank, God.” Rumble closed his eyes briefly in prayer. “And there is something you must know,” he said, pulling the letter out of his pocket. “I think my mother and Sam are right. I must see to it that our children have a complete family.” He looked about. “There is more to the world than West Point.”

  June 1841, Arlington, Virginia

  The massive white door swung open and a Negro dressed in fine livery was dwarfed by the opening into Arlington House. “Sir?”

  “I have this,” Cord said, not quite sure of the etiquette. He held out a sealed envelope.

  The servant did not accept it and Cord felt a trickle of sweat slide down his back. It wasn’t just because it was Northern Virginia in July. Cord extended his arm further, practically shoving the letter of introduction into the servant’s chest. Reluctantly, the man took it. He was old, with close-cropped white hair. He stared at the envelope as if it might attack him.

  The servant looked up. “Who are you calling on, sir?”

  “It’s on the envelope,” Cord said. “Major Robert E. Lee.”

  A voice echoed in the large center hall. “You must be Cadet Cord.”

  The Negro stepped aside and there stood the distinguished member of the class of 1829, who had graduated second in his class of forty-six and with zero demerits, a feat Cord couldn’t manage for one week, never mind four years. Lee was resplendent in his blue uniform, a red sash around his waist, gold oak leaves indicating his rank of major on the epaulets adorning his shoulders. It didn’t occur to Cord to ask Lee why he was in uniform while at home, in between assignments. And if it had occurred, he most certainly would not have asked. Lee’s hair was long and dark, just beginning to show a touch of gray in the mustache.

  He walked up to the door and gestured at the servant. “You may go.”

  “Sir.” The servant held out the envelope.

  “You should know better than that,” Lee admonished the servant as he took it. Behind Lee, another, younger slave hovered, also dressed in the same well-cut livery.

  “Yes, sir.” The old servant bowed his head, like a scolded dog.r />
  “I gave it to him, sir,” Cord hastily explained.

  Lee held up a single finger, hushing Cord. “Go.”

  The old black man limped away. Lee stepped outside, glancing at the envelope. “One would think being from Virginia, you also would know better. Giving writing to a slave. The poor wretches can’t read nor do they desire to. We take care of their every desire, and reading, Mister Cord, is not something they need. It will only make them discontent with the good life we have given them.”

  Cord had no idea what to say, so as taught while a plebe, he said nothing. He followed Lee onto the front porch, as did the other slave. The major stopped near one of the massive columns that lined the front of the house. Six across the front, one on either side, the columns framed a portico larger than the house Cord had grown up in. It was like visiting some Greek temple and one of the gods themselves had deigned to grace him with an audience.

  “Some day they will finish that,” Robert E. Lee said, pointing across the Potomac, to the incomplete dome of the Capitol building.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cord followed Lee down the wide front steps of the house onto the lawn. He was uncomfortable in his tight and tattered clothes, stained from two days of travel. He belatedly realized he should have borrowed money from Longstreet and bought something more appropriate to the mission.

  Arlington overwhelmed him. From the white columns to the extensive and well-manicured lawn and gardens that stretched down to the Potomac, it seemed less a house, than a monument. It commanded the high ground on the west side of the Potomac, and thus commanded Washington itself. Lee had married the great-step-daughter of General Washington and had thus become part of this noble place.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Lee continued. “The man who designed Arlington House also made the original designs for the Capitol Building, but he got into an argument over the final form, so his vision was not fulfilled. A shame really, although it does make our house all the more special.”

  The slave was following five steps behind Lee. What purpose the slave served, Cord had no idea.

  “And your father?” Lee asked. “Is he well?”

  “I will see him tomorrow,” Cord said.