West Point to Mexico

by Bob Mayer

  “Samual,” St. George yelled, irritated the slave wasn’t already in place.

  Several slaves stepped aside and the massive Negro walked through them. Samual’s face was a scarred, obsidian slab, showing no emotion.

  “This is your fault,” St. George said to him. “You shoulda taught this boy better.”

  Samual halted in front of the young slave.

  St. George stepped closer. Though he was a big man, Samual towered over him. “You know what happen to your woman and girl if you don’ keep your people in line,” St. George hissed in a voice only the big man could hear.

  A muscle twitched in Samual’s jaw, but there was no other sign he registered the threat.

  St. George gestured and another slave came forward, carrying a water-bucket. St. George took it from him. He lifted the bucket and poured the water on the rag covering the boy’s face. Within seconds, the boy was convulsing, desperate for air as water flowed in his nostrils and mouth every time he tried to breath. The boy tried to hold his breath, but couldn’t do it for more than a few seconds. He moaned in extreme agony, the sensation of drowning, of dying, searing through his nerve endings. His hands were shaking uncontrollably and the two slaves were struggling to keep him in their grip.

  “More water,” St. George ordered.

  “James learned, Master.” Samual’s right hand was over his heart, as if protecting it.

  St. George leaned closer. “I’m taking Mary to the House today. Do you want to make sure she comes back unhurt? I can’t say nothing about what else happen to your wife there. Remember, Echo now in the big house too.”

  Samual half-turned toward St. George, but halted. The slave ran and came back with another bucket.

  St. George poured.

  James’ muscles were contracting from lack of oxygen.

  “You let him go you be next,” St. George threatened the two holding James. He’d learned the water-rag technique in the East Indies during a two-year stint on a Clipper ship plying goods across the Pacific. The traders of the East India Company used it on people they needed information from. St. George had immediately seen the effectiveness of a technique that caused so much pain but left no marks.

  Seconds passed, everyone’s eyes riveted on the boy’s suffering. St. George jerked the rag off the James’ head. “Let him go.”

  James collapsed to the ground, gasping. St. George kicked the boy in the stomach and an explosion of vomit and water spewed out of his mouth.

  St. George faced the slaves. “The south fields. Ten wagons loaded by sun-down and ferried across the river to Vidalia.”

  He stalked away with his father as the slaves hustled to work. Looking down at James, Samual reached inside his shirt and pulled out a worn, leather-bound Bible. He knelt next to the teen. He placed the Bible over James’ heart. “‘Suffering produce endurance, and endurance produce character, and character produce hope.’ It says it right here in da book.”

  James looked up and Samual saw the anger in his eyes. “No, boy. No. You die if you show that.”

  “I die if I don’t,” James said and then spit more water and vomit out of his mouth.

  Samual nodded, before looking up to the heavens. “Our day will come.”

  James struggled to his feet. “We be needing our time here on this earth, not in some place the white man make up to keep us crawling.”

  “Hush, boy. Don’t speak blasphemy.”

  “Your son was braver,” James said. “He made his play.”

  “And he pay for it,” Samual said. But Samual’s eyes were now on St. George. If the overseer had looked over his shoulder and seen the expression, there would have been worse than the water-rag for Samual even though he was under the protection of Violet Rumble.

  “Father.”

  Tiberius Rumble did not get up from his wicker throne. He raked his son with an angry glare. His hair was white and thick, combed straight back. His clipped beard was also pure white. Deep pockets under his eyes showed weariness. There was a twitch under the old man’s right eye that had not been there two years ago. A slave girl was in the dark shadows behind him, a vague figure against the wall of the upper porch. From here one had an excellent view of the Mississippi River and the haze of Louisiana across the river.

  “Greet your son,” Violet urged as she sat down in the wicker chair next to her husband, the slave extending a glass of something. Rumble knew it was a powerful something. One needed powerful libations to sit next to Tiberius Rumble. The slave did not offer Rumble a drink and he knew his father had to have specified that upon seeing them ride up.

  Tiberius did not acknowledge his son’s greeting.

  “Where is Seneca?” Rumble finally asked.

  Violet’s face grew pinched, as if speaking of her youngest boy pained her. “He is at Rosalie.”

  “At Rosalie, seeing Rosalie,” Rumble said.

  “Is there any other reason to go there?” Violet asked in a reasonable voice.

  Rosalie was the richest plantation in Natchez, which meant the richest house in the entire country. It had been built in 1823 on the site of a French outpost—Fort Rosalie. The slight detail that the Natchez Indians had massacred the French occupying the fort in 1729 had not seemed to be an issue when Peter Little bought the land and built the house. He had subsequently named his first daughter after the house, although those not quite up on history often thought the house named after the daughter. Upon meeting Rosalie Little, one could readily believe such a spectacular house should certainly be named after her.

  “So,” Rumble said. “Seneca is to take my place. The wedding will still take place.”

  Tiberius deigned to address his eldest son. “You have no place.”

  “I stand here,” Rumble said.

  Tiberius looked away, toward the Mississippi. “Seneca is my son and my heir. I have no other son.”

  Violet sipped her drink. “And there will be no more Rumbles if you think Seneca and Rosalie are the answer. You know that, my husband. Let’s not be short-sighted. Lucius has given us a grandson. How does that play into your precious plans, my dear?”

  Tiberius snapped his head toward his wife, his already red cheeks blazing with fury. “Rosalie will bring money to Palatine and—”

  “Money without blood is doomed,” Violet said. The long lines in her face told how old she really was. “Calm down, dear. We can at least be civilized. And you should not strain yourself.”

  With a deep sigh, Tiberius slumped back in his throne. He lifted his left hand and the slave was there with another tumbler of alcohol. He downed it in one gulp. Held up his hand again.

  Rumble finally got a good look at the slave girl. “Echo?”

  The girl’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t raise her eyes or answer.

  “Hush!” Violet hissed.

  Tiberius glared at his eldest son. “Don’t you talk to her. Don’t you talk to any of the nigras here. You already caused enough trouble. No more. No more.” He slumped back in the chair, the effort exhausting him.

  Lucius Rumble grabbed another chair, sat in it, and realized that nothing of significance would be spoken of again. It never was at Palatine. Because it was a civilized place.

  There was a clear sky and the moon was a quarter full. A perfect night for deeds to be done on the sly. Enough light to accomplish the act, but not enough for the casual observer to uncover what was happening.

  At the foot of an old, abandoned dock on the south side of Vidalia, Louisiana, St. George Dyer waited impatiently. A tall, raw-boned, weather-beaten woman garbed in a black dress and wide sunbonnet walked down the dock toward him.

  “Ten?” she asked, wasting no time on greetings.

  “Ten wagons,” St. George confirmed. “Took most of the early evening to ferry them across. Simpler if we just done this on my side of the river.”

  “Simple is dangerous,” Sally Skull said.

  “This not be a dangerous time at Palatine.” St. George jerked a thumb to the north and e
ast, across the Mississippi. “The not-so-prodigal son returned and the great house in an uproar. Those people think themselves kings and queens and princes and that sort. All worried about their blood. I could show them some blood. They don’t earn their money; I do.”

  Skull sported a pistol on each hip in reverse grip. The holster leather was well oiled and supple. She’d gotten her last name from a husband who had disappeared shortly after their marriage. If anyone asked her about his whereabouts, her reply was short and to the point: ‘He’s dead.’ She said it in such a tone, that no further questions were ever asked on the matter.

  “If you hate it so much, why do you stay?” Skull asked. “Why be their lackey?”

  St. George’s hand slid toward the Le Mat tucked in the black scarf around his waist.

  Skull’s hands were on her hips, scant inches from her own pistols. “Be careful, man. We have a profitable business arrangement.” She lifted one hand and pulled a flask out of some hidden place on top of her copious bosom and offered it to him.

  St. George took the flask and sipped. “Ah! What be that?”

  She retrieved the peace offering and took a slug. “It’s called Tequila. From Mexico. I been looking at the prospects for trade there.”

  “New Orleans does us well enough.” St. George held out his hand for the flask.

  “True,” Skull acknowledged. “But times are changing. In Texas, when you’re out on the plains, you can feel a storm coming on your skin and in your hair. The cattle are the same. I’ve seen the flame leap across their horns just before the storm hits. And I feel a storm coming.”

  St. George was confused. “Any storm comes, it will be Texas and Mexico. Those fools think they got their own country after Santa Anna, but you and I know that aint true. Mexico still claims Texas.”

  “I suppose that makes me a fool?” Skull said.

  St. George gritted his teeth. “Didn’t mean you.”

  “Sounded like maybe you did.” Skull’s hands were back on her hips, close to her guns.

  St. George tried to look relaxed as he leaned against one of the dock posts. His hand drifted toward the Le Mat hidden in his sash

  “You say things like that down in Texas, you won’t last long,” Skull said. She held out her flask.

  St. George took it once more, but resented the un-solicited advice. “I don’t plan on ever being in Texas.”

  “Maybe,” Skull said. “And Texans are their own country.”

  “If Tyler sends troops to Texas,” St. George said, “then it be war. Don’t see why you want to run trade that way.”

  “Wars are always ripe with opportunity,” Skull said.

  “They what?” St. George shrugged. “I got no interest in Mexico.”

  “And after that war?” Skull asked.

  “Huh?”

  Skull sat down on a bale of cotton as slaves hurried past, loading the steamer she’d leased in New Orleans. “You got to think ahead. Past the right now.”

  “I been thinking ahead,” St. George protested. “My father and I been sucking Palatine’s tit for near ten years now. No one the wiser.”

  “And ten years from now?” Skull asked.

  “We could all be dirt.”

  “And if we aint?”

  “The tit will still be here to suck.”

  “And if it aint?”

  St. George frowned. “Why won’t it be?”

  “Who knows?” Skull said vaguely. “Every tit dries up sooner or later.” She pointed across the river, where lights from the plantation gleamed. “You hate them, don’t you?”

  St. George still had the flask and took a deep drag. “They get money and land and slaves just ‘cause they born to it’. Why they the lucky ones? They don’t have to work for it. I been working for everything I got since I could walk. It not be fair.”

  Skull snorted. “’Fair’? There aint no fair, St. George. There’s what you take out of this world while you’re breathing.” She pointed at a slave walking by with a bale on his back. “We’re taking that.”

  St. George blinked, his eyes slightly unfocused. “That be true.”

  Skull stood. “Harrison dying. That was a gift from heaven. Tyler’s going to stir things up. We have to be prepared. For Mexico. And after Mexico.” She reached into another fold in her dress and brought out a thick wad of currency. “My flask?”

  St. George held it out.

  She swapped out the flask for the money. “Think ahead.”

  Chapter Six

  June 1841, Norfolk, Virginia

  Cord was seated in a waterfront tavern in Norfolk, Virginia. It was a narrow room squeezed between a warehouse and a boarding house, badly lit, with a single, dirt-smeared window squinting over the harbor opposite the door. There was as much room on one side of the bar as the other. The bartender had given Cord a bottle of whiskey and Cord had given up his last dollar. The bartender had also raked Cord with a strange look, as if debating whether to serve him or not.

  The city was alive with commerce, the port’s skyline a forest of masts, rigging and sails. The rigging was the Cord family business and Cord knew his father looked out at the port as a farmer looked to his fields. The problem was, there were less masts every year as steam ships became prevalent. It would be convenient for Cord to associate his father’s ill temper with the shrinking business, but the reality was that Preacher Cord was like those few upperclassmen at West Point who tormented plebes simply because it gave them some perverse pleasure. Cord sensed that even if the great fleet Agamemnon and Achilles had sailed from Greece to assault Troy pulled into Norfolk for rigging, his father would be the same.

  Cord knew he was putting off the inevitable collision with his father, but he also knew he could not approach the old man sober. That would be too hard to bear. He took another drag from the bottle. A woman was seated in a dark corner, her details impossible to make out in the gloom, but she was half-dressed, and appeared passed out. There were no other customers yet. The bartender went back to filling a spittoon with a long arc of brown slime.

  Cord tilted his head back and drank deeply. When he brought his head level, he saw that the bartender had a short piece of heavy, stiff rope in his hand. Cord had seen the like before and felt its sting. Bosun mates used it to get sailors moving. They called it a ‘starter’ on board ship because that’s what it did. It was a step below the cat-o-nine-tails because it was less painful and didn’t break the skin. Still, a hard strike from one in the wrong place could break bone.

  “I know you,” the bartender said, taking a step closer.

  “Don’t think so,” Cord said. His non-drinking hand drifted toward the knife in the center of his back.

  “The Acushnet.” The man spit across the bar, splattering Cord with tobacco juice and saliva. With a solid thump, the bartender brought the starter down, but Cord was a split second faster, jerking his head back out of the way and getting the whalebone knife out of its scabbard and pressing up under the bartender’s chin, causing the man to tilt his head back.

  “Drop the starter,” Cord hissed, “or I’ll jam this into your brain.”

  The bartender released the starter and it thudded onto the bar.

  Cord kept the knife pressing into the man’s skin as he reached with the other hand for the bottle. “What’s this about?”

  “You owe me money,” the bartender said, a line of spittle running down his cheek as it spilled out the side of his mouth. “I was second mate on the Acushnet. You gambled. You lost. You promised to pay when we berthed Boston. But you ran.”

  Cord laughed and took a drink, the knife steady. “Damned if I remember. By the end of that voyage we were all going a bit crazy.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman in the corner stand up.

  “Takes that knife away from my man,” she said in a whiskey scarred voice, holding up a small derringer for punctuation.

  “At this range, that pea-shooter has a chance in hell of hitting,” Cord said. “And your hand is shaking.�
�

  “Might hit you just by chance,” the woman said.

  “The amount?” Cord asked the bartender.

  “Twelve dollars.”

  “I don’t have it.” Cord pulled the knife back. He nodded. “I do remember you. And I do owe you. Let me work it off.”

  “Why should I trust you now?” the bartender asked.

  “I give you my word, I’ll work here until the debt is filled.”

  “And why should I take your word?”

  “I’m a West Point cadet on furlough,” Cord said.

  The bartender snorted. “A West Pointer! Like that’s supposed to mean something?”

  Cord clenched his fists. “I grew up here and my father runs a business on the other side of the Naval Yard.”

  “Who’s your father?” the bartended demanded.

  “Preacher Cord.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” the bartender snarled. “I don’t want your damn money and I don’t want nothing to do with those types.”

  “What type do you mean?”

  “Trouble-makers. Trying to incite insurrecetion among the nigras. Get the hell out.” He was moving to the side and there was most likely something more powerful than a starter hidden under the bar.

  Cord kept the bottle and backed toward the door. He made it out into the muddy, manure-splattered street. Teamsters driving wagons loaded with cargo rattled by. He slowly walked past the Naval Yard, wondering what had caused the bartender to react that way and what Preacher was up to now. Several warships were tied up to long wharves. They were mostly in sad shape and for a moment Cord had doubts about his plan, but he knew the Somers, the ship on which King would serve, was currently under construction and would be the newest addition to the Navy when commissioned.

  Cord halted and took a drink. He staggered slightly as he tilted the bottom high.

  “Old Ironsides herself,” Cord said approvingly as he took in the USS Constitution being refitted. Forty-four years after launching, the venerable warship was a legend among those who knew the sea.