by Bob Mayer
Bancroft nodded. “Yes.”
“The two of you set this up, didn’t you, sir? The duel. The unloaded weapons. You were testing me.”
“Why would you think that?” Bancroft asked.
“Because it happened and both of you were here when it happened. It is either a plan or coincidence so extraordinary that it bears attribution to the divine.”
A slight smile of approval cracked Bancroft’s face. “I was told you were quick. That is good. Very good. And you are brave, standing fast, knowing Reynolds’ dueling record. While you might not be appropriate for the Navy School faculty, there is a mission for which I now know you are perfect. I understand your brother, a graduate of the Military Academy, is on an Expedition of Exploration to the West with Fremont.”
King blinked. “That was the last I had heard, sir, in a letter from St. Louis. But—“
Bancroft began strolling toward the sea wall, Buchanan on one side, King on the other. “Walk with me, ensign, and I will tell you what you are going to do for the next few years. And, by the way, you’re joining the Marine Corps for the time being. I believe it fits your temperament better.”
October 1845, Vicinity Natchez, Mississippi
Violet Rumble stood on the portico of Palatine House waiting for the riders. She’d spotted the dust cloud rising over the Natchez road from her sitting room window. After decades of watching the road, each plume of dust was distinctive, from that of a heavily laden wagon to a horse being pushed hard. This was the latter, and from the amount of dust, there were at least two, if not more, riders.
Violet’s shoulders were slightly slumped, as if the weight of the large white house behind her and all it portended rested on them. Samual stood in the shadows of the portico, heavily muscled arms folded across his chest. Samual’s daughter, Echo, stood behind Violet and to the left, as still as her father. The day had started out with serious news and Violet did not imagine good tidings were winging their way to Palatine with the horses.
The two riders appeared at the end of the lane, riding swiftly underneath the overarching branches of the oak trees. Violet recognized them immediately. Her youngest son from the stiff way he held himself in the saddle. Seneca had never bonded with horses and viewed them as a necessary evil for transportation. The flowing blue skirt billowing around the saddle of the second horse marked Rosalie, as did the glint of sunlight on her golden hair.
Violet threw her shoulders back and took the steps down to the drive. “My dear,” she said to Rosalie as they arrived, “you simply must wear a hat. And you must ride sidesaddle. It’s most inappropriate for a woman of your standing to be straddling a horse.”
Rosalie dismounted before Samual could reach her to help. “Violet, darling, you haven’t ridden further than the river in years. And the poor beast you ride can barely be considered a horse. Do you remember how much discomfort sidesaddle from Natchez could cause? I’m being practical. Plus, sidesaddle is so much slower.”
Seneca accepted Samual’s outstretched hand to assist getting off his horse. Feet firmly on the ground, he glared at the beast as Samual took the reins of both animals. A younger slave dashed up and relieved him of the horses, guiding them toward the stable.
Violet hugged Rosalie and then her son, his body stiff and unyielding. “What’s wrong?” she asked him.
“I have a letter from Lucius,” Seneca said.
Violet automatically looked over her shoulder at Echo. The young slave girl nodded, indicating that her mother was with Ben and Abigail. There had been so much excitement already today, that Violet had not had time to check on the children.
“And how is your brother?” Violet asked.
“On his way to Mexico,” Seneca said.
“That we knew,” Violet said.
Rosalie took her arm, just above the elbow and leaned close. “He has news that you should hear. Privately.”
“Come then,” Violet said, turning for the stairs. She paused on the third one and stopped. “By the way,” she said over her shoulder, “John Dyer passed on this morning. I’m doubtful he is in a better place now. Tiberius has gone to make arrangements for his funeral. As if the cur deserved one. And for that—” Violet rotated on the step dramatically, “my husband is able to lift himself out of bed. Of all things.”
Shaking her head, Violet reversed once more and headed into the house. Seneca and Rosalie followed. Samual and Echo trailed them. When the whites went through a door and shut it behind, Samual and Echo flanked it outside like guards.
They were in Violet’s sitting room, her private sanctum in the large house. She reclined on a cushioned window seat, one arm draped across a large tasseled pillow. She lolled back, the perfect picture of wealth and leisure, although she felt neither today. Rosalie and Seneca took straight-backed chairs facing her.
“The letter?” Violet said. “What news does my eldest son send, causing you to come here by horse rather than more appropriately by carriage?”
Seneca produced a piece of paper. “Lucius sent it via steamer from New Orleans just before his regiment departed for Texas. He addressed it to me, as he must have assumed I would eventually read it, and since I was most likely in Natchez, it made more sense to do so.”
“Don’t assume anything with regard to your brother,” Violet advised. “If he addressed it to you, then he wanted you to read it first. Lucius always does things with purpose.”
A muscle on the side of Seneca’s jaw quivered. “I would say his purposes have not made much sense so far.”
Violet shrugged. “Who knows what the future holds? Now. What’s his message from New Orleans?”
Seneca unfolded the letter to read, but Violet interrupted. “Tell me what message you think he sends, my son, then read it.”
Seneca stiffened. “You don’t think I can discern my brother’s message?”
“I think you can discern his words,” Violet allowed. “His intent might be something completely different.”
Seneca looked at Rosalie. His wife leaned forward. “Violet. Please. You know why my husband and I have not been at Palatine much. As long as Tiberius let John Dyer run the plantation, there was no point being here.”
Seneca spoke up. “Your news on the stairs was most welcome. A major problem has been removed by the hand of God.”
Violet laughed bitterly. “You think God struck down John Dyer with consumption? If so, why didn’t God do it ten years ago?”
“Hush, mother!” Seneca was shocked. “Don’t speak that way.”
“And you think his son will be any better?” Violet sagged back on the pillow, weariness playing across her face. “Enough. What do you believe your brother’s news to be?”
Seneca licked his upper lip, his tongue brushing the fledgling mustache he was trying to grow. “Lucius saw St. George Dyer in New Orleans.”
“I know St. George went to New Orleans,” Violet said. “Tiberius sends him every year. For his fine liquor and his fancy cigars. As if he couldn’t trust a store in Natchez. St. George is still gone, but his father must be in the ground. I sent word via steamer of his father’s passing. My letter must have passed Lucius’ on the river.”
Seneca shook his head. “That isn’t entirely why St. George was in New Orleans.”
Violet sat up straight. “Go on.”
“Lucius reports that St. George was trying to sell a young slave girl to some northerners. That he had the paperwork from father giving him the right to sell the girl. Lucius further reports that the girl’s skin was most fair, although her features were negro.”
Violet closed her eyes and nodded. “I imagined something like that must be Tiberius’ answer to his problems.”
“’His problems’?” Seneca asked.
Violet waved a weary hand. “What else?”
“The girl was the daughter of Mary. My brother did not say who the father might be. Lucius writes that St. George was confrontative and that he nearly shot St. George.”
“Too bad he did
not,” murmured Violet. “Especially now.” She spoke louder. “Anything else?”
“The rest is of little consequence. Lucius says that St. George was in the company of a woman from Texas. A Sally Skull. She trades cattle and was making a deal with the Army.”
“That was the last thing in the letter?” Violet asked.
Seneca nodded.
Violet looked at Rosalie. “Have you read the letter?”
“I have.” Rosalie had a kerchief in her hand that she was running through her fingers, a most unusual sign of nervousness.
“Speak,” Violet commanded.
“I believe we now know the Dyer’s hold over Tiberius,” Rosalie said. “I imagine John Dyer used to take—” she searched for a word—“Tiberius’ problems to New Orleans and now the task has fallen to St. George. They must have a paper trail of these transactions.”
“What else?”
“I made some inquiries as soon as we received the letter while my husband was preparing for our ride here. This Skull woman is known along the river. She has a wicked reputation. It’s said she deals in more than cattle. That she will buy and sell anything she can make a profit on and the law does not inhibit her in the slightest.”
“Does the letter say she bought the slave girl?”
“It does not,” Seneca said. “Why would you ask that?”
“I love you, son,” Violet said, “but you must rely on Rosalie for advice about people. There are always manipulations being made and being planned.” She looked out the window and the room was quiet for a while. Then she called out in a loud voice. “Samual!”
The door swung open and the slave filled the opening. “Mistress?”
“Close the door behind you,” Violet ordered.
Samual was uncertain. “Mistress, it aint allowed for—”
“My son is here to preserve my honor,” Violet said wearily. “What little I have left of it.”
Samual eased the door shut, then waited.
“I know this isn’t easy for you,” Violet said. “But it’s important. For all of us. How many other children has Mary had besides Agrippa and Echo?”
Samual looked down at the floor and did not answer.
Violet stood and walked to him. She looked up into his dark eyes. “How many?” she asked gently.
Samual’s answer was a whisper. “Four.”
“Why were they allowed to be born?” Violet asked. “That is not the way.”
“Mary was ordered, Mistress.”
“By John Dyer?”
“No, mistress. By Master Tiberius.”
Violet tensed as if preparing for a blow. “And the father? It wasn’t one of the Dyer’s was it?”
“No, mistress.”
Violet took a step back. Her shoulders slumped. Rosalie stood up and hurried over, putting a supporting arm around the older woman’s shoulder.
Samual looked up. “You need know, Mistress. Mary cannot bear again. She saw to it two year ago. She afraid Master Tiberius has caught on. She afraid he looking at our Echo now.”
“He can’t get out of the damn bed,” Violet hissed.
“He’s out of the bed today, isn’t he?” Rosalie said.
“With John Dyer gone,” Seneca said, “we can—”
“We can do nothing,” Violet snapped. “St. George is worse than his father ever was. And this is Tiberius’ plantation. I brought Samual with me from Tennessee and that is the extent of my holdings.” She turned back to Samual. “Is St. George stealing cotton? Selling it to this Skull woman?”
Samual met her eyes. “Yes, mistress.”
“Does my husband know of it?”
“I don’ know, mistress.”
“How much—” Violet began, but the door to the room flew open and Tiberius stormed in, leaning heavily on a cane.
“What’s he doing in here?” Tiberius demanded, jabbing the end of the cane at Samual. “I told you he’s never to be in the house.”
“But you don’t feel that way about his wife,” Violet said.
Tiberius planted the cane on the floor, hands shaking. “I have commanded Palatine for thirty years. I just buried a friend. As long as I breath, I continue to command.” He glared at Violet. “Get your nigra out of here.” He jabbed his cane toward Seneca. “When you are ready to be my right arm, you can return.”
With that, he exited the room, slamming the door shut.
October 1845, Pilot Peak, Nevada Territory
“You were right,” Carson said.
The Expedition’s horses drank from the small spring at the base of the prominent peak Cord had barely glimpsed two days ago. It was dusk and Fremont had led the rest of the column to their signal fire an hour ago. The Pathfinder seemed in a much better mood and was walking about the camp, talking to the men as they settled in for the night. The smell of elk meat cooking wafted over the campsite. Food, water and fire were the lifeblood of the Expedition and all were in abundance.
Cord rubbed his hands together over the small fire he and Carson had built up. They were on the edge of the camp, away from the main body of the men. It was Carson’s way and Cord had never thought to question the habit. “Sometimes a little faith works.”
“You a lucky man,” Carson said. “Back in Saint Louie when—” he paused and grabbed the Lancaster long rifle near at hand.
Cord snatched his rifle. “What is it?”
Carson stepped back from the fire, into the darkness. Cord mimicked the move, standing shoulder to shoulder with the scout. When Carson gently pulled back the hammer on his rifle, Cord did the same.
A figure staggered out of the darkness, heading straight for the fire. An old Indian woman, her body emaciated, a scrap of cloth tied around her waist her only protection against the cold and decency. She held shaking hands over the flames, completely focused on absorbing the warmth for almost a minute, before she looked up with cloudy eyes and called out in her native tongue.
“Paiute,” Carson whispered. “She thinks she’s in one of her people’s camps.” He lowered the rifle’s hammer. He held up one hand, palm out, and stepped into the light. “No harm,” Carson said in her language.
She turned to run, but one of the pickets belatedly came rushing up, weapon at the ready and barred her way, while calling out for Fremont. Within seconds, a large group of men were clustered around the cowering old woman.
“What does she want?” Fremont asked Carson.
The scout had been standing close to the woman, trying to calm her down, and talking quietly to her. He looked over at Fremont. “She been left behind by her tribe, sir. Left to die. She’s too old to gather food, so she’s no good to them.”
“Damn heathens,” Fremont declared. “White people would never treat their own like that.” He gestured at the circle of onlookers. “Go back to your bed-rolls, men. Get some sleep. We’ve got hard traveling in the morning if we’re going to cross the Sierras before the snows.”
While Fremont was talking to Carson and the men, Cord had gone to the nearest cooking fire and grabbed a leg of elk. He walked up to the woman and offered it.
“What are you doing?” Fremont demanded.
“She’s hungry,” Cord said.
The woman hesitated, frightened, but hunger won out. She grabbed the meat, tearing away at it feverishly with her teeth as she ran off into the dark.
“That’s our food,” Fremont said. “We’re going to need everything we’ve got to get through the mountains.”
“I’ll kill some more game tomorrow, while we’re on the march,” Carson said.
“Leave her be,” Fremont ordered. “Her people left her to die, let her die. You’re just prolonging her misery.” He stalked off toward the main encampment.
When he was gone, Carson called out into the darkness in the woman’s language. A few minutes later, the old woman tentatively appeared, having already gnawed the elk leg down to the bone. Cord grabbed one of his two blankets and tossed it to her. She clutched it to her chest.
/> “Now that you might well miss going through the Sierras,” Carson said.
Cord shrugged. “She’s probably somebody’s mother.”
The woman had already disappeared back into the darkness. Cord took his flask out and drained the drops of liquor that were left.
The following morning as the party set out, Cord left the small fire burning and put together a pile of food next to it.
“You a weird fella,” Carson said from atop his horse, long rifle across the pommel.
“You think she’s still around?” Cord asked as he mounted.
“She around. Where else she got to go?” Carson said as he spurred the horse and they headed off toward the white capped Sierra Nevada’s and California beyond.
The End
Book II of Duty, Honor, Country follows Cord and Rumble and the rest into Mexican War. It is still to this day, percentage-wise, the bloodiest war in our history.
Book II in the Presidential Series
THE KENNEDY ENDEAVOR
Chapter One
The Present
HERE RESTS IN
HONORED GLORY
AN AMERICAN
SOLDIER
KNOWN BUT TO GOD
Colonel Paul Ducharme stared at the panel on one side of the marble monument that marked the graves holding the unknown soldiers from World War I through Vietnam here in the heart of Arlington Cemetery. He doubted there would be any more unknowns given DNA typing. The military had even backtracked and identified the Vietnam unknown and his family had claimed his body and re-buried him at Jefferson Barracks. But that did not mean there would be an end to the dead, because as Plato said millennia ago, only the dead have seen the end of war.
Emergency lights were flashing around the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and Ducharme knew the ‘authorities’ had their hands full trying to explain the night’s activities and remove the bodies. Too many people with too much power needed this entire event hushed up, so Ducharme wasn’t overly concerned about publicity. When the covert world wanted something kept quiet, they would go to any lengths.