West Point to Mexico Read online

  “Then why would—”

  “It’s my duty,” Grant said simply. “I swore an oath on the Plain to defend the Constitution of the United States.”

  “Promise me something,” Lidia said.

  “And that is?”

  “If there is war, and Lucius has to go, that you’ll take care of him.”

  “The army might have a say in whether we serve together,” Grant noted, “but I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Lidia wasn’t done. “And, God forbid, at some future date, by some chance, Ben has to become a soldier, that you’ll take care of him.”

  “Now you really sound like Cump,” Grant said. “It’ll be many years before Ben could carry arms. And I believe Lucius would rather his son do anything other than wear a uniform. In fact, I believe that’s why he went back to Mississippi. To explore possibilities.”

  “Yes, but look where Ben is growing up,” Lidia said. “It’s inevitable he’ll be drawn to the army.”

  “Or pushed away from it,” Grant said. “West Point has a different effect on different people.”

  Lidia stared at the Hudson. “I never thought of my son growing up to be a cadet. I must think on that.” She shivered, then turned her attention back to Grant. “Promise me you will look after both my husband and my son as best you can.”

  “I’ll do my best. I’ll always look over Ben as if he were my own. Besides Cump could always be wrong. It’s—” Grant stopped and looked at Ben, whose head had turned toward the sound of boots on the stone stairs.

  Rumble wore a dusty uniform and his step was weary. But his face lit up when he saw wife and child. “My dears!” He ran over and wrapped his long arms around both. He hugged them for several moments as he tenderly kissed Lidia on the forehead. “It’s so good to be back.”

  “I can’t draw you in.” Grant held up the sketchbook. “You’re a day too late.”

  Rumble let go and turned to his friend. “Sam.” They shook hands. “You obviously had smoother traveling. I was delayed waiting for a steamboat.”

  Grant glanced at Lidia, then back. “And your visit? All is well in Mississippi?”

  Rumble picked up Ben and sat down next to his wife. “It was never well. And it has not changed, except for the worse. But my mother, at least, still speaks to me and for me. My father; his stand is the same as it was before my journey. Still, I believe Ben would be welcome there.”

  “And St. George?” Lidia asked.

  “I avoided that part of the plantation as I have no responsibilities there and he avoids the main house. St. George is not my problem, although he will soon be my brother’s.”

  Grant packed up his gear. He removed the top sheet and handed the latest sketch to Rumble. “With my compliments.”

  “Thank you, Sam.”

  “I will leave you to your family and go for a ride.”

  “I hear the Hell Beast’s mare has given birth,” Rumble said.

  “Yes.”

  “York must be a proud father,” Rumble said. “As I am.”

  “What in the blazes happened to you?” Grant asked, his sketchpad tucked under one arm.

  Elijah Cord was dressed in dirty clothes. He sported a black eye and was leading a saddled York out of the stables toward the riding hall. He walked with a drunken limp. His blond hair was tangled and dirty, but most telling was the defeated slump in his shoulders. Despite all, he attempted his trademark grin. “Got in a bit of trouble on the boat from New York City.”

  The grin didn’t work. Grant reached out and grabbed his shoulder. “You need to go to the infirmary and see the Surgeon.”

  Cord didn’t stop, heading toward the entrance to the riding hall.

  “What do you think you’re going to do?” Grant demanded.

  “Ride York.”

  “You’re drunk,” Grant said.

  “That’s the point.”

  “What is?”

  Cord halted. “I can’t tame horses like you, Sam. Or be a father like Lucius. I’m not sure what I’m good at.”

  Grant was confused. “Then why are you trying to ride York?”

  “I’m not going to try.” Cord led the horse into the hall, Grant following. “I’m going to do it.”

  “You need to—” Grant’s advice was wasted as Cord put his foot in the stirrup and swung his other leg up and over York.

  The horse had mercy for a second, then bucked and spun. Cord went flying, tumbling onto the tanbark floor. Grant walked over to York, one hand held up, palm out.

  “Easy,” Grant whispered. He glanced at Cord. “You all right?”

  Cord sat up, spitting out tanbark and dirt. “I’m alive.”

  Grant put his hand on the rein and got York under control. “He’s not an easy ride.”

  Cord staggered to his feet. “Nothing is easy, it seems.”

  “I’ll teach you to ride York, if you wish,” Grant said. “But only when you’re sober.”

  Cord ran dirty fingers through even dirtier hair. “I don’t know what I wish.” He paused. “I hear York has fathered a foal?”

  “Yes.

  “I suppose he’s a better father than I.”

  Grant led York toward the riding hall door. “You’ve done well to stay in the Corps, Elijah. Focus on that.”

  Cord followed as Grant put York back in his stall. Before he unbridled the horse, Grant opened the pad and removed the sketch he had made the previous day. “Here. This is for you.”

  Cord took the piece of paper. He blinked and tried to focus on the drawing. “Ben and Lidia?”

  “Yes. It’s my first sketch of them.”

  Tears formed in Cord’s eyes. He threw an arm around Grant. “Thank you, Sam.” And then he passed out.

  Chapter Eight

  January 1842, West Point, New York

  Lucius Kosciusko Rumble stood a vigil that eclipsed the most ardent soldier at his post: a devoted husband at his ailing wife’s bedside. It was the darkest hours of the night, sunset long past and dawn still a ways off. He was alone in the cabin with Lidia. Ben was staying with Benny and Letitia for the night. As was Abigail, his daughter, born just three days ago.

  Lidia had bled extensively during the delivery and despite the post Surgeon’s best ministrations and the greatest amount of prayers, she had slid into a coma, not yet surfacing to see or hold her daughter.

  Rumble dipped a cloth into warm water and wiped his wife’s pale brow. His other hand was clenched in a fist, the nails digging into flesh, as if the pain was a power he could give to Lidia. He put the cloth back on the lip of the bucket. He gently grasped her hand with his damp one.

  “Come back, Lidia. You have to see Abigail. She has your eyes. And your hair. You have to hold her. You know me. I lead a soldier’s life. She needs her mother.”

  He froze as Lidia’s eyes fluttered. He leaned over, face scant inches from hers. Feeling the shallow breath from her lips. Trying to convince himself it wasn’t just the shadows from the flickering candles.

  It wasn’t.

  Lidia’s eyes snapped open, confused for a moment, then focusing on the face hovering over her.

  “Lucius,” she whispered, her voice so faint, the crackling of the fireplace almost drowned it out.

  “Yes. I’m here.” He took her hand in his. Her fingers curled around his callused skin.

  “Lucius,” she repeated. Her gaze went past him, to the rustic cabin he’d built for her. “Your have your life now. You got your freedom through me. An escape.”

  Rumble licked his lips, knowing any he could utter response would be a lie

  “Your life now,” she repeated. “Promise me.” Her eyes closed again.

  “Yes, Lidia? Anything.”

  Her eyes flickered. “Promise me, Lucius. Ben. He must never join the Corps.”

  Lucius’ head drew back in surprise. “He’s but a baby, Lidia.”

  “Promise me!” Her hand tightened around his fingers with a surprisingly ferocious grip. “He cannot wear the gray.�
�

  “But why?” Rumble asked. “It’s an honorable—”

  She cut him off again. “This is all I will ever ask of you. Promise me.”

  Rumble swallowed hard, but nodded. “I promise.”

  The slightest trace of a smile touched Lidia’s almost white lips. Her eyes closed once more. He leaned close to make sure she was still breathing, reassured for the moment.

  Rumble resumed his vigil, confused and scared.

  A winter snowstorm was approaching. The air was heavy with cold and moisture portending the first snowfall of 1842. Cord wore his long dress gray overcoat over his cadet uniform. It wasn’t enough to keep out the freezing wind, but he didn’t notice. He stood still as the tree trunks around him, looking down at the dim light flickering in the window of the Rumble cabin. He’d been there since last quarters check, sneaking out of the barracks as soon as he could.

  Cord knelt, clasped his hands and looked up at the black sky, where not a single star punched through the heavy clouds. “All right, God. You did right last time. Lidia made it through bringing Lil ‘Ben into the world just fine. No reason things should change now. You’re scaring us all. Lots of people care for her. So if you could see it in your heart, bring her back to us.” Cord lowered his head. “Thank you.”

  Someone was moving on the frozen road behind and Cord jumped to his feet and turned. A slender figure in gray approached.

  “Sam.”

  Grant flanked Cord, looking down at the faint light coming from the cabin.

  “Anything?” Grant asked.

  No,” Cord said. “Rumble came out to get some water from the creek several hours ago, but that’s all. Benny and Letitia have the children. Benny told some cadets earlier that Lucius desired privacy.”

  “No news is good news,” Grant said. “Lidia will make it. She’s a tough woman. Lots of prayers in the Corps tonight for her.”

  Cord stiffened as the window went dark. “Oh, God.”

  “It’s probably just—” Grant began, but then the front door opened and Rumble stiffly walked out. He made it about five paces from the door before crumpling to his knees, his head dropping to his chest as the first flakes of snow began to descend.

  Sam Grant had his hand on Rumble’s shoulder, keeping him from falling into the newly dug grave. The digging had been difficult, beginning with scraping off the snowfall, then using a pickaxe to break through the surface layer of frozen dirt. Rumble had done the work by himself, despite numerous offers of assistance. He’d labored the previous night by lantern and then through the day. Grant had stood by the entire time, keeping silent watch, occasionally making the journey to the cadet mess to pick up hot coffee and warm food to sustain his friend’s body.

  Now, as the sun was sinking into the hills beyond West Point, all was ready, right on time, because even at West Point, in fact especially at West Point, funerals occurred on time. The West Point cemetery overlooked the Hudson from a location further up-river than the Academy and a new road had been constructed two years previously from main post to the spot as if in anticipation of a greater volume of traffic in the coming years. On the north side of the cemetery, the ground dropped precipitously to the river, presently clogged with chunks of ice.

  The sound of carriage wheels rumbling on the frozen road reached the two cadets. The Master of the Horse, Sergeant Herschberger, was driving the wagon with casket, followed by Benny and Letitia Havens on foot, each carrying a child wrapped in blankets. Behind them were Superintendent Delafield and the Post Chaplain. Pete Longstreet and Fred Dent completed the group.

  Benny Havens walked up to Grant and looked into the open grave. His normally ruddy face was pale and he shivered from more than the cold.

  Grant reached out to Havens. “I’ll hold Lil’ Ben, sir.”

  Havens gave up the one-year old boy without protest. Letitia stood next to her husband, a lighter bundle in her arms, wrapped so heavily in blankets, not an inch of flesh was exposed to the winter cold. Abigail Violet Rumble had entered the world five days ago, preceding her mother’s death by three days

  Longstreet, Herschberger and Dent reached for the casket and Rumble hastened to help them. He was numb from grief and cold, but when he heard Abigail give a muted cry from inside the blankets, he stumbled and fell to his knees. He struggled to his feet and helped the others maneuver the wood coffin over the hole, using ropes to slowly lower it in, the rope burning the bare skin on his frozen hand as it slid through.

  The group made a semi-circle around the grave as the Chaplain took his place at the head. He began the service, the words falling hollow and empty on Rumble’s ears. The Chaplain had asked if Rumble had any particular verses he wished spoken, but he hadn’t been able to think of any. He knew Samual would have found the appropriate passages in his leather-bound family Bible. Samual had conducted the services at the last funeral service Rumble had attended; when they had paid respects to the first Agrippa, even though they had not had a body to bury.

  Fifty feet away, in the darkening shadows of the cemetery, Elijah Cord stood among the stone markers. He’d been there most of the day, watching Rumble work, desiring to offer his aid and knowing it would be rejected. Grant had spotted him earlier, but made no acknowledgement.

  There was a sound in the distance, the heavy tread of boots hitting the ground in cadence; and growing nearer. Rumble raised his eyes from the hole that was holding his Lidia and looked over his shoulder. Like a long gray serpent, the entire Corps of Cadets was marching toward the cemetery, each cadet holding a lit candle in gloved hands.

  Reaching the cemetery, the Corps split into ranks, surrounding the grave on all sides, the candles flickering in the cold evening breeze. The Chaplain uttered his last line and Rumble picked up a piece of frozen dirt. Grant was close at his side holding Ben. Rumble tossed the dirt onto the coffin. The thump when it hit wood was like a punch to his heart and he took an involuntary step back.

  The First Captain took two paces forward and snapped a salute, whereupon the Corps began to sing a deep, slow-paced, familiar tune:

  Come tune your voices, comrades, and stand up in a row.

  For singing sentimentally we’re for to go.

  In the Army there’s sobriety, promotion’s very slow,

  So we’ll sing our reminiscences of Lidia Havens, Oh!

  Rumble turned away from the grave. The Corps had changed the words to the song that had been written several years ago in honor of the tavern that was many cadets home away from home. Benny Havens Oh! was been written by a member of the class of 1838, O’Brien and Rumble had heard it sung once before here: the previous January, just after Ben’s birth, for the funeral of O’Brien who had died in service with the 8th Infantry regiment in Florida, where Cump Sherman was now stationed, fighting the Seminoles. Next to Rumble, Grant joined in the singing as the Corps moved on to the next verse.

  To our comrades who have fallen, one cup before we go,

  They poured their life-blood freely out pro bono publico,

  No marble points the stranger to where they rest below;

  They lie neglected far away from Benny Havens, Oh!

  Outside the circle of the Corps, in the dark shadows, Elijah Cord silently mouthed the words to the song.

  And if amid the battle shock, our honor e’er should trail,

  And hearts that beat beneath its fold should turn or basely quail;

  Then may some son of Benny’s, with quick avenging blow,

  Lift up the flag we loved so well at Benny Havens, Oh!

  To the ladies of our Army, our cups shall ever flow,

  Companions in our exile and our shield ‘gainst every woe;

  May they see their husbands generals, with double pay also,

  And join us in our choruses at Benny Havens, Oh!

  At the last stanza, Grant put his free arm around Rumble’s shoulder. Gathering his courage, Cord walked forward, shouldering his way through the ring of cadets around the grave. None interfered. He stood
on the other side of Rumble, close enough that their shoulders touched. He was no longer just mouthing the words, but singing with the rest of the Corps.

  When this life’s troubled sea is o’er and our last battles through,

  If God permits us mortals there in his blest domain to view,

  Then we shall see in glory crowned, in proud celestial row,

  The friends we’ve known and loved so well at Benny Havens, Oh!

  Oh! Lidia Havens, oh! Oh! Lidia Havens, oh!

  We’ll sing our reminiscences of Lidia Havens, Oh!

  As the last refrain faded into the darkness, the cadets blew out the candles. Led by the First Captain, they filed by, shaking Rumble’s hand, then Benny Havens’ and whispering condolences to Letitia. Tears were flowing down Old Benny’s cheeks. Cord and Grant had taken a couple of steps back.

  “Might I hold Ben?” Cord asked Grant.

  Grant glanced at Rumble, who was receiving the respects of the Corps. He handed the child over and then stood right behind Rumble’s right shoulder. Cord held Ben in the crook of one arm and looked down at those blue eyes. He retreated further from the funeral party, until he was alone with Ben in the dark among the gravestones. Cord reached inside a pocket on his long overcoat and pulled out a fine silver chain that he had bought off a sailor in Norfolk—the only purchase he made other than for liquor from the money he made working in the Navy yard. Dangling on the chain was a ring—Cord’s West Point ring.

  Cord looked up at the stars. “You’re a hard fellow, God. Keep this boy safe. And his sister too.” With no one watching, Cord held the ring in front of Ben’s eyes. He was surprised when a small hand reached out and tiny fingers wrapped around the gold ring. Cord tenderly placed his hand over Ben’s. “I’m so sorry about your mother, Lil’ Ben,” he whispered. “She was a good woman. I loved her. I know she didn’t really love me. I know she loved your ‘father’.” He looped the chain over the child’s head and tucked the ring inside the blankets. “You will always have two fathers.”