West Point to Mexico

by Bob Mayer

  Cord led the way to the table in the other rear corner.

  Benny Havens quickly appeared at the table with a bottle. “On me, Mister Grant, in honor of your graduation and the jump.” He placed the bottle on the table, then walked away without acknowledging Cord.

  “Easy,” Grant advised as King came walking over.

  Conversation in the tavern dropped until it was utterly silent as King stopped at the edge of the table. “Mister Cord, we have unfinished business.”

  With a sigh, Cord got to his feet. “I won’t be dueling you, Mister King. I’ll apologize again to you for any slight, and as far as—”

  King held up a hand, cutting him off. “I think our business would be concluded quite satisfactorily if I bought you a drink.”

  Cord blinked. “A what?”

  “Do you accept my offer?” King asked as Benny Havens came over with a bottle and three glasses.

  “You too, Mister Grant,” King said. “You interfered that morning, so we need to settle things also.”

  “I’m not a fan of spirits,” Grant said, taking a glass, “but for this I will certainly make an exception.”

  King filled all three glasses. “To duty, to honor, to country,” he called out loudly, so everyone in the room heard.

  Slowly, every cadet lifted their glass also.

  “Here, here,” Grant said. The three men clinked glass on glass and without turning their backs, drained them.

  Toast completed, Grant indicated a chair. “Would you join us, sir?”

  “Certainly,” King said. He settled into a chair and ran his fingers over the scarred wood surface of the table. “In fact, I believe this is the exact same—” he paused as Rumble’s wide shoulders framed the doorway to the tavern. En masse the cadets called out greetings, several gathering around him, trying to buy him a drink. But Rumble was like a bullet to a target, wading through the drunken cadets to St. George. He held out two envelopes.

  From across the room, St. George had watched Rumble the way a swamp ‘gator would watch game come to a watering hole. “You got a reply for Master Tiberius?”

  “It’s enclosed. And here is a letter for my mother, also sealed. I have informed my father of the second letter, so if she does not get it, he will know.”

  St. George’s pig eyes narrowed as he took the letters and slid them inside his black sash. “You accusing me of something?”

  “Not yet,” Rumble said, noting that St. George’s hand remained inside the sash and knowing what was secreted there. “Just giving you the lay of the land.”

  “I’m as smart as you, don’t need no talking down to.”

  “Maybe you do,” Rumble said.

  St. George uncoiled from the seat until he stood eye to eye with Rumble. “You aint no favorite son no more.”

  “I don’t know exactly what hold your family has on my father,” Rumble said. “But your time is coming.”

  “Everyone time be coming,” St. George said. “Some sooner than others. Maybe yours is real—” he stopped looking left and right over Rumble’s shoulders.

  Grant, Cord and King were flanking Rumble, their faces grim. “Buy your friends a drink?” St. George asked, flashing his false smile.

  “They’ll drink with me.” Rumble turned his back on St. George, but the overseer wasn’t done.

  “Hold on.”

  Rumble faced him, his friends backing him up. “What?”

  “Where be the seal? I need bring it back to Master Tiberius.”

  “It’s my ring,” Rumble said.

  “I don’ think—”

  “No, you don’t,” Rumble said. “The ring was given to me in the letter. You cannot contradict that, unless somehow you saw the contents of the letter. And giving you the seal negates the effectiveness of sealing the letters. Good night, sir.”

  Rumble headed for the table with his friends.

  “Who the tarnation is that?” Benny asked as he came over with another glass.

  “Don’t concern yourself with him,” Rumble said. “He’s trash.”

  “He’s dangerous,” Cord said.

  Rumble glanced at him. “And how do you know that?”

  “Samual told me. And I’ve met some dangerous men in my life. He fits the bill. They’re dangerous because they’re mean and angry.”

  Rumble nodded. “Samual knows better than anyone how evil St. George is.” He grabbed the bottle Benny offered and filled five glasses. He passed them around to the two cadets, the ensign and his father-in-law. “Gentleman, let’s salute our two graduates of West Point, class of 1843.”

  “Don’t be jinxing me,” Cord began. “I still have to—”

  Grant cut him off, lifting his glass in the air. They clinked glasses and drank deeply.

  Cord was drunk and had overstayed. King had barely sipped the second toast, placed his glass down on the bar and departed. Sam had excused himself after only the two drinks, staggering out the door as he always did when he imbibed. Rumble had kept an eye on St. George until the overseer slithered out the door and into the darkness. Then he immediately made his own good night, heading to the cabin to relieve Letitia of her duties and guard his children.

  Cord stayed and drank until Benny was past ready to shut down. The tavern keep propelled Cord out the door with a bit less force than he would have liked to, locking the door behind the inebriated cadet.

  In the warm summer night, Cord shook his head, trying to gain some clarity. He knew the path from Benny Havens by heart and began the trek back to the barracks. He was halfway up the hill when a figure stepped out of the trees along the side of the path.

  “Hey there, boy.”

  Cord whipped out his whalebone knife.

  St. George laughed. “You got a knife, I got a gun. How stupid be you?”

  In the moonlight, Cord could see the double-barreled revolver in St. George’s paw.

  “It’s murder if you shoot me,” Cord managed.

  “Who be knowing? Oh, Rumble, he’d suspect, but I be long gone before they find your body. If they find it at all. Maybe toss you in the river. Rivers eat bodies. I’ve fed the Mississip a few.”

  “What do you want?” Cord asked, sliding his left foot forward, trying to close the distance.

  “What do I want?” St. George muttered, as if actually thinking about the question.

  “What kind of gun is that?” Cord asked to gain time.

  “One dat has killed and will kill again. Maybe tonight. Then again, maybe not tonight.”

  “I’ve never seen the like.” Cord started sliding his right foot forward. He was about eight feet away. He needed to halve the distance to have a chance.

  “Boy, you move another one of your damn feet, I blow it right off.”

  Cord stopped.

  “Get rid of the knife.”

  Cord hesitated and St. George cocked the gun with a sound that seemed like a crack of thunder to Cord. He dropped the knife.

  St. George continued. “This here be a special gun. Got it down in New Orlean. Made by some French fella named LeMat. He told me he hand made it, never sold one before. Still working on da’ thing. I used to carry me one of them Colts. But had to shoot an uppity nigra one time. Took me five shots to put his dumb-ass down. So I got me this.”

  Cord suspected someone being so chatty probably wasn’t going to shoot him. St. George did indeed want something. He waited as the man rambled on about his gun, as if it were the bones of Jesus and he were a true believer.

  “Got me nine bullets in the cylinder and a big old slug in the bottom barrel. That last one will put someone down permanent like.”

  “So you want to kill them twice,” Cord said.

  St. George raised the gun and both barrels pointed right at Cord’s face. They loomed as big as train tunnels. “Once be good enough for me.”

  “What do you want?” Cord asked, unwittingly retreating the step he’d worked so hard to take forward.

  “How it feel being a daddy?” St. George as
ked.

  Cord’s blood ran cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about that boy. Rumble’s boy. Who he gave middle name after that uppity nigra who tried to escape. You was standing right round here in the trees in the middle of winter, waiting on his birthing. Why would a man be doing that? Why would a man with a knife be willing to die for someone he aint even that great friends with? I got to asking myself all this on the way home. But couldna figure it out and not too concerned. Then I hear some of you keydets talking while bein’ stupid turning backs on each other to drink. And now I know. So how it feel being a daddy?”

  Cord took another step back and St. George took one forward.

  “I’m not—” Cord stopped, trying to search through his alcohol-laden mind to find the right thing to say to deflect St. George’s suspicions.

  “Young Rumble. What he do? He take on being daddy? Now why he be doing that? What he up to? He know about Miss Rosalie not being able to brood children. I think young Rumble maybe smarter than I once think. Maybe he got his own plan for Palatine while pretending he want nothing to do with it, hiding out here at West Point.”

  “He wants nothing to do with Palatine,” Cord argued, taking another step back as St. George continued his slow, deliberate advance.

  “Then why he come home two year ago? Why Master Tiberius send him the letter? Why he sending two letters back, one to Master Tiberius and one to Mistress Violet?”

  “I have no idea.” Cord backed into a tree with a solid thud.

  “Why Mistress Violet invite you to younger one’s wedding to Miss Rosalie?” St. George closed the distance and placed the dual barrels less than a foot from Rumble’s face. “Goodbye, keydet.”

  Cord cringed as the first shot exploded with a blinding flash. Cord heard nothing after the first although eight more followed, then the deeper roar of the lower barrel firing.

  * * *

  Cord woke in a pool of vomit. He reached up to his face, not believing it was still intact. Almost. On his right temple was a burn from a bullet passing so close it had singed the skin.

  But that was all.

  Cord knew there was no way St. George could have missed unless he’d done so deliberately. Cord staggered to his feet. Looking about, he saw that the bark on the tree he’d been backed up against was torn to shreds. Cord saw a distinctive shot pattern. One that matched St. George’s description of his gun: nine holes in a tight circular shot pattern, then in the center, a larger cavity.

  A message.

  But what exactly Cord was supposed to make of it, he had no idea. He had vague recollections of St. George’s talking about Rumble last night.

  Cord clasped his hands together. “God, thank you. I don’t know why you had that crazy fellow spare me, but then again, I don’t know why you made that crazy fellow in the first place. He’s a mean one. Now, if it isn’t too much to ask, maybe you could nudge the Board into letting me graduate? I put in a lot of time and effort here and endured the Silence, best I could. So maybe you could give a hand if it doesn’t trouble you overly much?”

  He picked up his whalebone knife and slid it in the sheath. Getting to his feet, he pulled out a flask, taking a long hard drink. Wiping himself off as best he could, Cord trooped up the hill toward West Point. To discover whether he had been boarded out or would graduate.

  Chapter Twelve

  July 1843, Cincinnati, Ohio

  Second Lieutenant Ulysses S. Grant proudly rode into Cincinnati, his newly tailored, blue uniform fitting his painfully thin body somewhat better than his West Point gray had. His sword hung at his side. Shiny gold epaulettes dangled from each shoulder indicating his rank. The outfit had arrived at his parent’s house just that morning and Grant had rushed to put it on, feeling a swell of pride at the uniform and rank he had earned. Now he was in town to show his old classmates and perhaps a girl or two, what a dashing lieutenant of the Infantry looked like.

  He rode down the street, imagining everyone was looking at him, remembering how resplendent old General Scott had been when he came to West Point to review the Corps. Grant glanced over his shoulder and noticed he had indeed gathered a following. A cluster of street urchins in dirty clothes were following. One ran forward, right next to Grant’s stirrup and looked up at him. At first, Grant thought the glance might be reverential, but the boy’s words shattered that:

  “Soldier! Will you work?” The boy’s riddled pants were held up by a single suspender and his shirt had not seen the inside of a wash tub in weeks. He wore no shoes and no hat, his hair dirty and mussed. “No siree,” the boy continued in a loud voice. “I’ll sell my shirt first.”

  The crowd burst into laughter and Grant spurred his horse, galloping away. He rode hard for home, his embarrassment giving him wings. As he approached his parent’s house, he noticed the stableman from the tavern across the street, staggering around in the street drunk, to the amusement of a small gathering of Grant’s neighbors. The man was dressed in a parody of Grant’s uniform: sky-blue pantaloons with a strip of white cotton pinned down the side, and some straw tied to each shoulder in imitation of the epaulettes.

  As Grant arrived at the house, the crowd pointed from stableman to soldier. Grant hunched his shoulders and fled inside, slamming the door behind. He took off his sword and tossed it down. Then he ripped the epaulets off his coat and threw them away.

  Grant searched for his father’s whiskey bottle.

  September, 1843, Vicinity Natchez, Mississippi

  Fall came to Mississippi slowly, a lessening of the oppressive heat of summer, so slight, but so noticeable by the natives. The slaves building the large tent pavilion in front of Palatine House were certainly grateful for it and worked hard, desiring to keep the whip in John Dyer’s hand from tasting blood.

  None dared look up as a carriage came rolling down the lane in front of the house. Oak trees towered over the road on each side, making a green tunnel through which the carriage passed to emerge in front of the mansion. Lucius Rumble pulled back on the leads, halting the pair of horses as two slaves hustled forward, the first taking the bit of one of the horses, the other flipping down the small step on one side of the carriage.

  Rumble turned in the seat. “Come children.” He lifted Abigail out as Ben followed.

  “Is this where you grew up, father?” Ben asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Pal—pal—” Ben was trying.

  “Palatine. Don’t worry. It’s hard on many people’s tongues.” Rumble held Abigail up so she could see the house. Her jet black eyes took in the white mansion, it’s large columns lining the first floor front, the second floor porch, the slaves bustling about. “Home for a little while,” Rumble whispered.

  Both front doors swung wide open and there was Violet, her entrance, or more accurately, her exit, from the house, staged and grand. “Children!” she cried out. She was dressed in green, deerskin gloves gracing her slender hands, and, as always, a hat with some colorful feather topping it. She swept down the eight broad stairs to the lawn, her hoop skirt making it appear as if she floated toward them.

  “Mother,” Rumble said as she came to a halt a few feet away.

  But Violet only had eyes for the children. She knelt, something Rumble never remembered her doing or thought possible given the skirt, in front of Ben. “My young Ben.” She extended her arms. The boy took a step back in fright. “I’m your grandmother,” Violet said.

  “Go on,” Rumble whispered. “As I told you.” Although Violet kneeling had not been in the briefing.

  Violet wrapping Ben in her arms and pulling him tight hadn’t been either. Ben was lost in the folds of her skirt, just a tuft of his red hair poking out of the cloth. Violet hugged Ben for several long moments, then reluctantly released him and stood. She looked at her son and then the girl. “And Abigail.” She stepped forward, Ben hopping to get out of the way of the hoop skirt, and embraced her son and granddaughter, albeit with a bit less ferocity
than grandson.

  Violet stepped back, looking between Abigail and Ben, a slight furrow marring her brow, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Come! Come in to the house. It is so grand to have y’all here.”

  “Get working!” a harsh voice cried out, followed by the distinctive crack of a whip and a deep hacking cough.

  Rumble looked to the right and saw old John Dyer overseeing the slaves building the pavilion under which his brother would marry the woman to whom he had been betrothed so many years ago. After his exertion with the whip, Dyer was bent over, trying to get air into his lungs.

  “I so despise that man,” Violet said in a voice so opposite what it had just been, Rumble was taken aback for a moment, but then remembered that this was Violet, whose moods came and went like summer storms. “I wish he would die quickly although he who follows the old man might be worse, if such a thing possible.”

  Then the sun was back as she grabbed Rumble’s arm and lightly placed the other one on top of Ben’s head. “Come inside. I have rooms prepared for all of you.”

  “We can all stay in one room, mother,” Rumble protested.

  “Nonsense,” Violet said and that was the end of that conversation.

  Cord and King trotted their horses down the road from Jackson, Mississippi, toward Natchez, miserable from the unbearable heat and the long journey. The two had spoken little in the past few days. To the amazement of everyone, Cord most of all, he had graduated. Last in class, but who cared about that? Indeed there was a distinction to being the graduating class goat, the leader of the Immortals, the last section in every academic branch of study who eked out graduating. Cord’s academic and discipline records had somehow been just enough so that his total ranking was exactly that needed to earn the diploma and commission as a lieutenant. There were whispers Cord must have done something illegal to achieve such an impossible thing after four years of poor performance and being Silenced. But Superintendent Delafield had shaken Cord’s hand at graduation just like every one else’s and wished him all the best in his army career, saying the Army needed honorable men. Which was something else Cord had found strange, but he wasted little brainpower thinking about it.