Mexico to Sumter

by Bob Mayer

  Fremont wasn’t moved. “I cannot let go of my rightful duty, sir.”

  “You cannot prove it is your duty,” Kearny shot back. “Where are these orders from the President? I rank you, sir, and because of that, I am in command in California.”

  Fremont grabbed a chair and sat down. “I will prove to you, sir, that I do indeed have the President’s authorization. I received a letter from Senator Benton indicating he met with the President and received such instruction.”

  “I would not doubt the Senator’s word,” Kearny said, “if you could show it to me in writing. And I did not give you permission to sit.”

  “The governor of California does not have to get permission to sit.” Fremont turned to Carson. “Tell Lieutenant Cord that his presence is requested.”

  Carson touched a finger to his forehead and left the room.

  An icy silence enveloped the room until Carson returned, Cord at his side.

  “Lieutenant Cord,” Fremont said. “Please relay to General Kearny the instructions from Senator Benton where I was to become Governor of California when it came under the control of the United States.”

  “What instructions?” Kearny demanded.

  Fremont smiled. “In a letter you yourself brought to Fort Bent when you scouted the Front Range with your dragoons, General. Don’t your remember leaving a letter there for Lieutenant Cord? Don’t—”

  “Stop!” Kearny ordered. “I want to see the letter.”

  “The letter was destroyed for security reasons and following specific instructions from Senator Benton in the letter itself,” Fremont said. “Correct, Lieutenant Cord?”

  Cord looked from Fremont to Kearny and back. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then—” Kearny began, but Fremont cut him off.

  “General Kearny, Lieutenant Cord is a West Point graduate,” Fremont said. “You would be willing to take the word of a Military Academy graduate as to the contents, won’t you, General?”

  One of Kearny’s staff officers hurried over to him and whispered in his ear. When the officer moved away, Kearny turned toward Cord. “Were you Silenced at the Academy for a violation of honor, Lieutenant?”

  A muscle rippled along Cord’s jaw. “I was Silenced, sir.”

  Kearny faced Fremont. “Then I cannot take this man’s word. I’m sending to Fort Leavenworth for orders, but I can assure you, Colonel Fremont, that your actions in this office alone are enough to bring you up on charges. Enjoy playing at governor in the interim because in six months you will be in prison. Now, get out of my office!”

  Fremont almost knocked the chair over jumping out of it and lunging for Kearny. Carson placed himself between Fremont and General Kearny. “Easy now, John.”

  Kearny stood. “Furthermore, Colonel Fremont, regardless of whatever this supposed letter did or did not say, of more serious consequence, I have reports that you ordered the execution of three unarmed men near San Francisco. Those who took part won’t speak.” He pointed at Cord and Carson. “I understand you two were there and witnessed this event.”

  Cord met Kearny’s gaze. “Sir, if you won’t take my word about a letter, how can you take my word about some supposed executions?”

  “I’ll arraign both of you and put you under oath,” Kearny threatened. “I won’t have to wait for word from Leavenworth about who is governor.” He pointed at Fremont. “I’ll have Colonel Fremont hung as a murderer which will solve both problems quite handily.”

  “I’ll see you in hell first,” Fremont threatened.

  “No,” Kearny said, “it’ll be your soul embracing the flames.”

  “Come on,” Carson said to Fremont. “We need to be out of here.”

  “I’ll put both of you under oath!” Kearny yelled.

  Cord joined Carson in escorting the angry Pathfinder from the room. Once they were outside in the chill December air, Fremont exploded.

  “I have the right to be governor! You both know that.”

  “Sir,” Cord began, but Fremont cut him off.

  “You could have been more forceful in there, Lieutenant. And what the devil does Silenced mean?”

  Instead of answering that, Cord reached into his pocket. “Sir. Here is Senator Benton’s letter.”

  Fremont blinked. “You were supposed to destroy it.”

  “It appears I didn’t,” Cord said.

  “You are indeed not an honorable man,” Fremont said. “Why didn’t you produce it in there, when it would have helped?”

  “I couldn’t produce a letter that wasn’t supposed to exist any more,” Cord said.

  Fremont put his hand out. “Give it to me and I will shove it in Kearny’s face and—”

  “You think he’s going to give a rat’s ass about that letter?” Carson asked. “A letter that’s not supposed to exist, as Elijah points out? He could burn the damn thing, John, and then you’ll have nothing for your defense if court-martialed. He wants your hide and will do anything to nail it to his wall. I been asking around while you been playing governor. Kearny sent dispatches east regarding you before this meeting. He just wanted to see what cards you was gonna play. I thought he just wanted you relieved, but I’m thinking now, he wants you dead.”

  “He puts Carson and me under oath,” Cord said, “things could get mighty hot for you.”

  “You won’t turn on me, will you?” Fremont asked Carson.

  “John, you ordered those men shot.”

  “And you shot one of them,” Fremont argued. “You’ll take my side.”

  “You mean lie,” Carson said.

  “It was war,” Fremont argued.

  “It was murder,” Carson said. “And I was part of it.”

  “There’s an easy solution to both problems,” Cord said.

  Fremont turned to him. “And that is?”

  “Carson and I go east. We can’t testify if we aren’t here. And we can show the letter to the command authority in Leavenworth.”

  Fremont thought it through. “All right.” He put a hand on Carson’s shoulder. “Would you go east for me to Leavenworth and then Washington? Rally my supporters. Contact Senator Benton and President Polk. Remind them of their promise. Make sure that letter gets seen by the right eyes to prove I acted legally?”

  “You forgetting something,” Carson said. “I don’t have the letter. Lieutenant Cord does. And he’s the only one of us who aint guilty about those killings.”

  Fremont’s hands balled into fists, but he kept his voice civil. “Lieutenant Cord, would you accompany Mister Carson east with the letter that you possess?”

  “Perhaps,” Cord said.

  “Don’t trifle with me,” Fremont warned.

  “Not trifling,” Cord said. “I’m negotiating.” He stepped close to Fremont, looking him in the eyes. “You want me to hide the truth, which essentially means lie for you.”

  A muscle worked in Fremont’s jaw, but he said nothing.

  “I want you to say it,” Cord insisted. “I want you to tell me you want me to lie.”

  Fremont unclenched his teeth to speak. “I want you to not talk about what happened in San Francisco.”

  Cord stepped back. He glanced at Carson.

  “You do what you think is right,” Carson said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Cord turned back to Fremont. “You want something from me, I want something from you.”

  “What?”

  “You never again bring up what Kit did near San Francisco with those poor Mexicans?” Cord asked.

  “I won’t,” Fremont said. “You have my word.”

  Cord laughed. “That’s funny. Your word in exchange for me being dishonest. But there’s more.”

  “How dare you—”

  “You want me to be quiet about what happened and go east or not?” Cord asked.

  “And what is the final price for your silence?” Fremont demanded.

  “You owe me, Colonel,” Cord said. “Some day, some place, you owe me.”

  April 1847, Frem
ont Pass, California

  “There’s luck and then there’s no luck,” Carson shouted as he fought his way through a four-foot high snowdrift. The wind howled about them, blowing large flakes almost horizontally. Carson coughed hard for a moment, then pressed forward.

  “Don’t you mean there’s good luck and there’s bad luck?” Cord asked, counting Carson’s steps. “Five.”

  Carson pressed himself to the side into the snow and Cord took his place in the lead as human plow.

  “I don’t believe in bad luck,” Carson said. “Just no luck. Which we got right now with this storm.”

  The snowfall had begun just after noon, calling in the cards on the gamble the two men had made to get through the Sierra Nevada Mountains this early in the spring. They were heading for Fremont Pass, hoping to make it through before another snowfall. Cord shoved forward into the wall of snow, one exhausting step after another.

  “Five,” Carson said and Cord now leaned out of the way, breathing hard.

  “This is a hell of a storm,” Cord said. “How much further to the pass?”

  Given the heavy snow, one could barely see twenty feet in any direction. They were surrounded by trees and it was hard to stay on the trail.

  Carson had stepped into the lead, but the older man paused and turned to Cord. “You’re right. Too far. We aint gonna make it. Snow is coming down harder.” He was breathing with difficulty and there was a dangerous rattle deep in his lungs. It had started the previous day and was getting worse.

  Cord didn’t argue. “Go back?”

  “Retreat and then south,” Carson said. He looked back the way they had come. The rut they had plowed through the snow was already filling in.

  Cord needed no further urging. He reversed and they began to work their way down the mountain. After a few minutes, Cord sensed something was wrong and looked over his shoulder. Carson was nowhere to be seen.

  Cord retraced his steps. Thirty yards up the route, he found the mountain man doubled over, coughing hard.

  “What’s wrong?” Cord had to yell to be heard above the howl of the snowstorm.

  Carson tapped his chest. “Can’t breathe.”

  “I’ll help you.” Cord reached out.

  Carson shook his head. “No. Go on. It’s the rule of the mountains. Got to make it on your own.”

  “That’s not my rule,” Cord said. “And I’m not renowned for following rules anyway.” He took Carson’s Lancaster rifle and pack, tying them off on his own pack, doubling his load. “That help?”

  Carson managed a step in the right direction. “Yeah. But it’s dumb on your part.”

  “I’ve been called worse.” Cord removed his mittens. He took a short piece of rope and tied one end off on Kit Carson’s belt and the other on his own. “Follow me.” He tugged the mittens back on with difficulty, fingers fumbling. Even that short exposure had almost frozen his hands.

  The minutes passed like hours as Cord struggled to push through freshly fallen snow. He could feel that Carson was attached from the pressure of his belt. They’d gone about a quarter mile toward lower ground when the rope jerked Cord to an abrupt halt. He turned. Carson lie in the snow, face down, hands clawing, trying to get up.

  Carson was suffocating in the snow and Cord scrambled to help his friend. Kneeling next to him, Cord got Carson turned over on his back. The mountain man was gasping for air.

  “We need to make camp here,” Cord said.

  “We won’t make the night,” Carson gasped. “Go on without me.”

  “Never,” Cord said. He saw Carson’s eyes flicker wide open, focused on something behind him.

  Cord turned on his knees. Two stone-tipped spears were inches from his chest. Holding the spears were a pair of Indians, bundled in buffalo hides, their dark eyes glinting.

  Carson tried calling out something, but a coughing bout precluded that. Cord raised his hands high and wide, smiling, trying to indicate a peaceful intent.

  One of the braves jabbed his spear into Cord’s chest, barely breaking skin, but not penetrating any further. The second one drew his spear back, preparing for a fatal strike, when a voice cried out from behind the two men. They immediately lowered their spears and stood aside. A stooped, hooded figure using a cane and assisted by a young girl, approached.

  Cord helped Carson sit up.

  The mountain man called out. “We are peaceful. Just passing through.”

  The stooped figure pulled back her hood. An old Indian woman stared at Carson, then at Cord. She began issuing orders. The two braves adapted their weapons to become poles for a travois to pull Carson.

  “What’s going on?” Cord asked, mystified by the sudden change in attitude.

  Carson was laughing hysterically, the effort interspersed with coughs. Finally he got under control. “Well, son, you got good luck. Damn good luck. You remember the Great Salt Desert? The last encampment?”

  “Yes.” Cord suddenly made the connection. “It’s her?”

  “Damn good luck, son,” Carson said as the old woman pulled a blanket out of the young girl’s pack and tossed it over his chest. A blanket Cord also recognized.

  “How can she be alive and on this side of the mountains?” Cord asked.

  Carson gave a weak smile. “You gave her food and a blanket. She survived and her tribe came across her again. Surprised she was alive. They figured though she wasn’t be able to forage, she sure has powerful magic. So they took her with them. Got pressed out of the Nevada territory by the white man last summer. Looking for a new home over here. Everyone’s moving, getting kicked out of one place or ‘nother . . .” Carson’s voice trailed off.

  The mountain man’s head slumped back on the travois, his eyes closing from exhaustion. He rallied briefly with a smile. “You’re a damn lucky man, Elijah Cord. Knew it from first time, when I tracked you down in St. Louis at that card game.”

  Cord woke to blessed warmth. He was ensconced in rough fur that smelled of wood smoke and grease. He opened his eyes and saw a red glow reflecting off the ceiling of a cave. Turning his head, he spotted Carson, also wrapped in a buffalo robe, a few feet to his right. He glanced left and was startled to see the old Indian woman sitting on the floor, watching him.

  She reached out with a shaking hand and pulled back the robe, exposing his chest. She tapped him over the heart. Etched on the skin in black was a four-pointed compass with Mary scrolled below it.

  “For my mother,” Cord said. “I got it at sea to remember her.”

  Carson said something in her language. She replied to him, but kept her gaze on Cord. She put her wrinkled hand on the tattoo, her flesh warm. The old skin was so thin, Cord could feel her pulse beating.

  “She says let it sink in.”

  “What?” Cord asked.

  “Your remembering,” Carson said. He exchanged some words with the old woman, then translated. “Your mother. Let her into your heart. Let her live there. These people believe your loved ones live on inside you.”

  Cord’s heart constricted and he grimaced in pain. Then there was just utter weariness. “All right,” he muttered as his eyes flickered shut. “Sink in.”

  Chapter Seven

  8 Sept 1847, Molino, Mexico

  “Look out!” Grant yelled.

  Rumble spun about, his shotgun braced against his hip, and fired both barrels. The blast abruptly altered the charging Mexican’s path and his bayonet narrowly missed skewering Lieutenant Fred Dent. To make the matter certain, a sergeant stabbed the falling Mexican soldier with his sword.

  They were surrounded by dead, Mexican and American. Grant was rallying soldiers hiding in an adjacent cornfield and Dent had been trying to help turn over a capsized cannon. Rumble broke open the shotgun and quickly reloaded, scanning the fields for more enemy.

  It wasn’t an hour into morning and the American Army was in disarray. An abrupt night assault to take Molino del Rey had turned into a meat grinder as hidden Mexican batteries poured scathing fire into the line
s of blue clad infantry.

  The 8th Infantry, leading the assault, had run into the fire first and lost ten of their thirteen officers in a few minutes. The remains of that regiment had come stumbling back, the men shell-shocked and chased by bayonet wielding Mexican soldiers in hot pursuit. The battle was now a melee with both sides mixed amongst each other.

  Rumble clicked shut the shotgun and brought it to the ready. A flying artillery battery galloped by on the right flank. The captain in charge reared his horse and began screaming orders for the men to un-harness the guns and prepare for action. Before the artillerymen could dismount, Mexican guns did the job for them, spraying the horses and men with a barrage of grapeshot. Man and beast fell to the ground, screaming and bellowing in agony.

  “Come on, men!” Grant waved his saber and pointed toward the gleaming white stone buildings that made up the town of Molino, astride the road to the Mexican Capitol.

  Dent got some men to help right the cannon and prepared to fire. With a handful of soldiers, Rumble and Grant raced forward. The survivors of the flying artillery cut the harnesses off the dead and wounded horses. They hauled their cannon forward by hand, to get into position to provide enfilading fire on the Mexican lines.

  An officer, his face bloodied, staggered by Rumble in a daze, pointing vaguely to the left. In between sobs, he got out: “The 5th. There’s my 5th.”

  Rumble glanced in that direction and saw what appeared to be an under strength company huddled in a field. The men were face down on the ground, many with their arms wrapped around their head, as if that could protect them.

  There was no time for Rumble to give comfort to the distraught officer. Grant had reached a building on the edge of the town. He had the men flip a cart against the side of the house, using it as a makeshift ladder to clamber to the top. Grant disappeared onto the roof, followed by the men. As Rumble started to climb, it felt as if his left shoulder was hit by a club, and he tumbled to ground.