by Bob Mayer
With a deep sigh, Cord turned from the ships. He took a slug of whiskey, glanced at what remained in the bottle, and then finished the rest. Cord chucked the bottle into the harbor.
He walked to a street one block removed from the water where a cluster of shops that serviced sailors and ships lined the way. Cord looked up at the front of his father’s store. The paint was faded, but the name could still be read: CORD & SON RIGGING. The sign had read the same in Cord’s earliest memories, indicating a master plan, in which the son had had no vote.
The sound of the shop’s door creaking open on rusty hinges reached Cord. He knew who it was just from the sense of dread he immediately felt in his stomach.
“Father.”
Preacher Cord was taller than his son. His hair was pure white, including his long beard, which reached to his chest. He wore a plain black shirt buttoned to the very top and black slacks. A silver crucifix hung from his neck, resting on the black cloth covering his chest as if it could ward off wounds to the body. The left sleeve was empty and pinned back to the shoulder.
“You did not write to let me know you were coming,” Preacher said by way of greeting.
“I have no plan to bother you with a stay. I was in Virginia and thought I should stop by and pay respects to mother’s grave.”
Preacher pointed. “Her grave is in the cemetery, not here.” He frowned at the slurred words. “Have you been partaking of spirits?”
Cord stood as erect as he possibly could, although he was swaying like a mainmast in a heavy swell. “I have, sir.”
Preacher Cord’s jaw tightened. “It is the demon’s work.”
“Then why do you labor so hard at it?” Cord snapped.
“What do you think mother would say if she was alive to see you like this?”
Cord took a step toward his father, fighting for control to keep his knife sheathed. “Mother isn’t here because you let her die, lying in pain in that bed upstairs, too damn cheap to call for a doctor and too damn busy drinking.”
“You were too young to help in the store,” Preacher Cord said. “I had to man the counter.”
“You could have hired someone.”
Preacher Cord halved the distance to his son with an angry stride. “Are you challenging me, child?” his spittle hit Cord in the face.
“I’m not a child any more and you’re not worth challenging,” Cord said.
Preacher Cord’s eyes glowed with rage. He shoved his son, knocking him back several steps. People were gathering, watching the spectacle.
“I will not fight you, father.”
“Because you’re a coward.”
“And you call yourself Preacher? How is that?” Cord asked. “Do you have a direct line to God?”
“He speaks to me,” Preacher said, tapping the side of his head. “He gives me the Word. I did not choose the name. I earned it and it was bestowed upon me.” Preacher Cord pointed at his empty sleeve. “I know what pain is. I’d be a ship’s captain now, running my own trader, if this hadn’t happened.”
“You’re the one who quit,” Cord snapped. “You’re the one who gave up trying. You’re—” he didn’t get the next word out as his father’s powerful right hand slammed into the side of his head. Cord was staggered to his knees by the blow and he once more went for the knife, and once more he halted before clearing leather.
“Easy brother!” A tall man with thick black hair and an angular face put a hand on Preacher’s shoulder, pulling him back. He looked like an undertaker, with pale skin and sunken cheekbones.
Preacher wheeled, fist raised, but lowered it when he recognized the man. “Brother Brown.”
“Is this the son you spoke to me of?” John Brown asked. “The West Pointer?”
“He is, Brother Brown,” Preacher said.
Cord got to his feet as Brown let go of his father and walked up to him. Brown put both hands on Cord’s shoulders. His eyes seemed to glitter, alive with some inner fire. “Where do you stand on the Cause?”
Cord shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. “What are you talking about?”
Brown let go of his shoulders and reached into a pocket. He pulled out a coin and extended it. Cord recognized it: an abolitionist token. On one side it portrayed a male figure, kneeling and bound in chains with the legend, Am I Not a Man and a Brother. The reverse of the coin bore the clasped hands of a brotherhood and the legend, May Slavery and Oppression Cease Throughout the World. Cord handed it back to Brown.
“I’ve got no stand on it,” Cord said.
“Every man must choose,” Brown said. “Slavery must be destroyed.”
More people were gathering and the mood was shifting.
Cord looked past Brown. “Have you fallen in with this, father?”
“It is every man’s duty to fight for freedom,” Preacher Cord said.
“So you let mother die but you can spend time on this?” Cord spit.
Preacher Cord pointed down the street. “Get thee from here.”
Cord shook his head. “You’re my father.”
“You’re my son and you ran away.” Preacher jerked a thumb up at the faded sign above him. “You had a duty.”
“Damn you!” Cord cursed, as he backed away. “Damn you to hell!”
July 1841, Charleston, SC
The Ashley and Cooper Rivers join together at the Battery, then spread out to the Atlantic. In the distance, breaking the clean horizon to the entrance to the harbor was the frowning, unfinished brick stump of Fort Sumter, being built on seventy thousand tons of New England granite dumped on a sand bar. Work began in 1827, but for seven years construction on the fort had been halted because of legal disputes, but just this January, work had resumed, albeit slowly.
George King walked along the Battery, past the cannon guarding Charleston, in the company of his mother, the former Cordelia Pinckney, now the widowed Mrs. King. She paused, as she always did, in front of their former home. Looking over the guns on the Battery, the King Mansion, with its wide verandas, occupied one of the best lots south of Broad Street in Charleston. It was a house built on the hard work and commerce of her grandfather and lost in land speculation in the crash of ’37 by her husband.
“I am grateful the new owners kept the name,” Cordelia said.
“They wanted the prestige,” King said. “I don’t think they were doing us a favor.”
“Hush,” Cordelia said. “You must think positive thoughts.”
“It doesn’t depress you to walk past?” King asked.
“I have pleasant memories,” Cordelia said. “They are about all I have.” She tucked her arm in his and they continued. “Now. Why did Secretary Spencer change his mind about the appointment as a midshipman?”
King shook his head. “I have no idea. I assume someone at West Point called in a favor for me since Major Lee, a graduate, wrote a letter that swayed the Secretary’s mind.”
“Who?” Cordelia wondered. “Your cousin, Lucius Rumble, works in the stables now, married to some tavern girl. I doubt he has any sway. A fine mess the two of you made of things. He’s broken my cousin, Tiberius’ heart.”
“What of your heart, mother?”
Cordelia squeezed his arm. “You’re the only thing keeping my heart beating after all that’s happened in the past few years. I think the Navy would be an excellent place for you. You always loved being at sea.”
“I did. If they’d had a Naval Academy, I’d have gone there instead of West Point. Being a midshipman on a training ship is the path the Navy has to becoming an officer.”
“You know they’re going to make The Citadel a military academy?” Cordelia asked.
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“The governor wants to squeeze out the Federal troops in the Arsenal. And, he needs leaders for the state militia.”
“I wonder,” King said, “if the threat is greater from the Federal troops or the slaves.”
“Let us pray it never becomes both,” Cordeli
a said. “I remember after the revolt of ’22, every man in Charleston enlisted in the militia. I had hoped you might get an appointment on the faculty of the Citadel, but Governor Richardson blocks any attempts on your behalf.”
“He hated father so strongly?” King asked.
“Your father lost the Governor and many others a fortune in the crash. They might speak of many other things, but hit a man like that in the pockets and their memory is long and their revenge is cold.” She brightened. “I am happy you have this opportunity, George, although I will miss you dearly.”
“I will be able to send you money,” King said.
Cordelia looked away, embarrassed.
“I will rebuild the family’s reputation,” King said. “I vow that.”
Cordelia looked back at her son. “I do believe you will.”
They walked in silence, neither looking to the right as they passed one of the many old oaks dotting the Battery. The one from which King’s father and Cordelia’s husband, had hung himself after the crash.
Cordelia halted at the very tip of the Battery and pointed at the pile of rocks far out in the harbor. “Do you think the Yankees will ever finish that monstrosity?”
Chapter Seven
August 1841, West Point, New York
Ulysses S. Grant used slow and deliberate strokes with the pencil. Etched on the sketchpad resting on his knees was the image of Lidia Rumble holding young Ben in her arms, against a faint backdrop of the Hudson River.
Mother and son were seated on a wood bench, across a stone basin from Grant and his pad. He was cross-legged in the grass. A small hole in the side of the basin allowed a spring to flow through it, the water going over the east side, then down the slope to the Hudson eighty feet below. Ben always stared at the spring as if seeing it for the first time—the water had some magical, calming effect on him. They were isolated from the hustle and bustle of the Academy in Kosciuszko’s garden.
Lidia jokingly called it her husband’s garden; that he had earned it not only because of his middle name, but more so for the hazing that missing Z had brought upon him during plebe year. Pre-dating the founding of the Academy, set on a ledge just below the Plain and over-looking the Hudson, the tranquil garden had been designed and built by Thaddeus Kosciuszko in 1778. It had been a place of contemplation for the Polish patriot who had designed the fortifications at West Point during the Revolution. A steep set of stairs cut into the side of the Plain was the only access. The ledge was thirty feet long and only twenty feet at its widest.
Lidia, Ben and Grant had been coming to the garden the last two afternoons as Grant worked on the sketches. He had already done one, but torn it off and put it underneath the blank pages, telling Lidia it was but practice. Grant was morose after his eight weeks of freedom from the Academy and facing two more years until graduation. The class of 1843 was trickling back from furlough, many like prisoners returning to their correctional institution. A new group of plebes, the class of 1845, was finishing up their beastly summer training and the entire Corps was gearing up to transition into the academic year, moving from their encampment on the Plain, into the barracks.
“Worried about Lucius?” Grant asked.
Lidia ran her hand over her belly, feeling the life inside her. “He has told me some things about Palatine and his family that cause concern. And I sense there are dark things about the place he’s holding back.”
“He’s spoken little of his life before the Academy to me,” Grant said as he continued to sketch. He was well known in the Corps as an artist, although it was not quite as respected as his abilities with a horse. Robert Walter Weir, the Professor of Drawing, praised Grant as one of the finest cadets he had ever taught, up there with James Whistler, who unfortunately, not being as proficient at chemistry as he was at painting, had been booted out of the Academy for academic deficiency after only one year.
The Academy did not teach drawing to make artists. It taught drawing to train engineers to trace terrain features. Like every other subject, the Academy twisted the content to fit one goal: the preparation of officers for the art of war.
“He showed me the letter from his mother,” Lidia said. “And the fact St. George never delivered his message directly is troublesome to me. Who knows if Mister Cord delivered it accurately or if the encounter actually occurred as he said?”
“I believe on that, you can trust Elijah,” Grant said.
Lidia ignored the comment. “Lucius talks of St. George in the most negative light. I sense bad blood between the two. I hope he hasn’t had a confrontation.”
“Lucius can handle himself,” Grant said. The pencil paused. “May I ask you something, Lidia?”
She ran a hand through Ben’s hair. “Yes?”
The boy was small for his age. He had blue eyes and his mother’s red hair and a most pleasing disposition for a child.
“Why did you accede so readily to marry Lucius, knowing that Elijah was the one—” Grant searched for a polite word—“responsible?”
“It’s quite simple,” Lidia said. “During the crisis, Lucius was willing and Elijah was not.”
Grant grinned. “Your logic is perfect.”
Lidia raised a red eyebrow. “You understand? Few do.”
“You made the right decision. Calmness in crisis is an admirable trait, more so than genius or courage. Elijah’s not a bad man, but I don’t see him as dependable to others. Perhaps that will change. I sense he has something deep inside that is made of tougher stuff than most suspect.”
“One can hope, but it’s not something that occupies my thoughts.”
Grant drew another line on the pad. “You liked him well enough once upon a time, as they say in fairy tales.”
Lidia stiffened, then reluctantly nodded. “Yes. I did. He is charming. And when he gives that smile—” she did not finish.
“Ah, well,” Grant said, “that is in the past.”
“It is indeed. I’m happy and our child is on the way,” she added, running her hand over her belly once more. Still, she seemed uneasy about the subject. “But we are trying to hide a truth that many suspect.”
Grant looked at Ben’s eyes without comment, then resumed sketching.
“Am I a bad woman to try to live such a lie?” Lidia asked.
“I don’t judge you,” Grant said.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“You aren’t a bad woman,” Grant said firmly.
“But the issue troubles you,” Lidia said.
“It makes life hard for Elijah,” Grant said. “He has undergone the Silence for a while and will continue to bear it until he graduates. And even then, it will haunt his life among graduates. The army is a small place.”
A shadow fell over Lidia’s face. “I’ve heard. But he did abandon me while Lucius stood for me.”
“That is so,” Grant allowed. “Although, Elijah wasn’t exactly in the best condition to make a decision that morning and he was also facing the prospect of getting shot.”
“Which is a point against him,” Lidia noted.
Grant opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself.
“How bad is this Silence?” Lidia asked. “I’ve heard of it, but as long as I can remember, no one survived it long enough to graduate.”
“As I said, Elijah is tougher than he appears,” Grant said. “But it’s extremely hard on him. A principle to succeed in the Corps is teamwork. We cooperate and we graduate. Elijah has few he can count on. It’s not a fate I would wish on anyone.”
“Will he graduate?” Lidia asked.
Grant shrugged. “He was having a difficult enough time before the Silence. Now, he struggles with his studies on his own, although I help him with mathematics. Time will tell. And what about you? Would you ever consider letting Elijah into Ben’s life in some way?”
Lidia ran her hand over her belly again. “Perhaps once our child is born, it might be a good time to reconsider.”
“It might be,” Gran
t agreed.
“The Corps can be harsh, can’t they?” Lidia asked.
“Most of the time it’s for good reason,” Grant said. “They’re being prepared to lead men into combat, the toughest and most chaotic environment imaginable.”
“But sometimes it’s all so petty. You saw how my husband suffered because of his middle name. As if it were his fault that stupid town in Mississippi spelled it the wrong way.”
Grant nodded. “Some of it is petty and mean, but there are many different personalities in the Corps. Overall, they’re a good bunch.”
They sat in silence for a while as Grant continued sketching.
Lidia finally spoke. “Can I ask you something, Sam?”
“Yes?”
“People speak of Texas and Mexico. And then there’s the slavery issue. Lucius tells me the south will never give it up willingly.”
“Most likely not,” Grant said.
“Then we will have war, won’t we? Of one sort or another?”
Grant stared down at the drawing. He ran a finger over the outline of Lidia and Ben. “Cump Sherman says it is likely. I trust his judgment.”
“Cump was a gloomy sort. I’m glad he graduated, although he was always unfailingly polite.”
“I imagine he still is a tad gloomy. And polite.”
“What is war like?”
Grant looked up, his face grim. “I don’t know. We’re taught of it and we read of it, but the reality will be something we can’t comprehend until we taste the fire.”
Lidia gazed at the Hudson. “You seem resigned to it. Some cadets sound eager when they talk of the possibility of war.”
“I suspect those who sound most eager, might end up feeling differently when faced with the actuality.”
Lidia looked back at Grant. “You make it sound so matter-of-fact. I know that’s what they teach here. But what do you think you will feel if you have to fight?”
Grant closed the sketchbook. “Fearful. For those I command.”