West Point to Mexico Page 12

  It didn’t last long.

  The next night while standing midwatch, King heard shouts of alarm from where Spencer, Cromwell and Small were shackled. He raced toward the sound of trouble and arrived to discover the boom swinging wildly across the aft-deck. Low enough to knock over anyone standing, but high enough to miss the men shackled to the deck.

  As officers scrambled and dove, King grabbed a rope attached to the boom, shouting orders. A few men came to his aid, but as they got the boom under control, a mob of fifteen sailors came charging.

  Captain Mackenzie was ready, appearing in the hatch to his quarters, saber in one hand, Colt revolver in the other. “This is a time when you cannot disobey orders for you will lose your life if you do.”

  The mob skidded to a halt and once more dispersed.

  Mackenzie called out. “King.”

  “Sir.” King ran to the Captain and snapped to attention.

  “I heard you taking command,” Mackenzie said. “Good job.”

  King remained at attention.

  “Go to the master-of-arms and draw a pistol and ammunition,” Mackenzie ordered. “Then join me in my cabin.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He quickly gathered the weapons, then made his way to the Captain’s quarters, passing a pair of weary midshipmen on guard duty at the hatch. The ratio of officers to the rest of the crew was so low, all the officers and midshipmen were pulling double and even triple watches. St. Thomas was still days away. It was a regimen that could only work to the mutineers’ advantage.

  King clambered down the ladder and knocked on the Captain’s door.

  “Enter.”

  King stepped inside the cramped space. Mackenzie was sitting behind his small desk, Gansevoort standing to the side. Both were still armed, Gansevoort drumming his fingers on the hilt of the saber at his waist.

  “Things stand at a precipice, Mister King,” Mackenzie said. “I need to gather good men to our side. Who can we trust?”

  King rattled off a few names. Too few.

  Mackenzie turned to Gansevoort. “We won’t make St. Thomas at this rate. We are too few and too tired. We can’t keep a mutiny in check and also sail the ship with those we can trust.”

  Gansevoort stopped the drumming on the hilt. “We must act, sir.”

  Mackenzie turned to King. “What do you suggest?”

  King was shocked for the second time and there was enough light from the flickering lantern for it to show.

  “What is wrong?” Mackenzie snapped.

  “You’re the Captain, sir,” King said.

  “I know you went to the Military Academy for four years,” Mackenzie said. “You have more military knowledge than almost anyone on board.”

  “Yes, sir,” King acknowledged. “But I’m just a recruit.”

  “You’re dismissed.”

  Mackenzie had four more men arrested and put in shackles.

  It didn’t change anything.

  Two more nights passed, the situation growing tenser, the officers growing more tired, the crew more restless.

  On the last day of November, Mackenzie had King report once more to his cabin. “I asked you once before what you would suggest,” Mackenzie began.

  King could see that the older man’s hand was shaking.

  “We will not make St. Thomas,” the Captain continued as if that were a given rather than a best estimate.

  “Most likely not, sir,” King allowed.

  “So? My officers are split.”

  “Between, sir?”

  Mackenzie didn’t answer. “You know the crew. What will stop this? Come on man. Forget the rank and give me the benefit of your training.”

  King took a deep breath. “You have arrested more men, but cannot keep arresting the entire crew. There are only three men outside your officers who can navigate the ship—the first three you arrested. If you eliminate them, you eliminate the possibility of a successful mutiny. The men will know that. They will bow to the inevitable.”

  “Thank you.” Mackenzie stared down at the chart on his desk. “You may go.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mister King.”

  King blinked sleep out of his eyes. He was surprised to see Captain Mackenzie in full dress uniform standing over him. King leapt to his feet, the aft deck rough under his feet, the blanket he had wrapped around himself to snatch a few moments of sleep falling away. He snatched up the axe and pistol.

  “I want you to run three ropes over the main yardarm and be prepared for hauling up.”

  “Yes, sir.” King paused as he realized the implications. “But there will be no drop then and—”

  “Do it!”

  “Sir.” King went to choose the ropes.

  Decisive and swift action did not seem to be Captain Mackenzie’s forte.

  After condemning Spencer, Cromwell and Small to death and giving them ten minutes to make their peace, an hour had dragged on. Mackenzie allowed them to argue their innocence, argue the mode of their death. At one point, Mackenzie even asked the men’s forgiveness.

  Small gave it, then cried out “God bless that flag!”

  King watched this, one hand resting on the pistol stuck in his belt and most of his attention on the crewmembers lined up on the ropes he had prepared. The three lines lay along the deck, then snaked up over the yardarm and back down, nooses tied at the end.

  Finally the three mutineers were led to their ropes.

  King took lead on Spencer’s rope as everyone else hesitated.

  The Captain had given Spencer permission to give the order to initiate his own death. A taste of honor in the aftermath of mutiny. On the order, a cannon would be fired and the ropes would be pulled. King looked at his former shipmate. Spencer’s face was pale as a hood was slipped over it.

  The men waited. A few nervous coughs.

  The bosun mate leaned close to Spencer, then hurried to the Captain. “Mister Spencer says he cannot give the word. He wishes the commander to give the order.”

  Finally, Mackenzie didn’t hesitate. “Stand by. Fire!”

  King was pulling on the rope as the echo of the cannon floated over the surrounding ocean.

  And surprisingly, the rest of the crew also pulled. Three struggling bodies were lifted into the air. There was no drop, no quick snap of the neck, but rather a slow death by strangulation.

  King reached a staple, and wrapped the end of Spencer’s rope around it, securing it in place and Spencer twenty feet above the deck. His legs kicked and the body spasmed. Three martinets in a macabre death dance. Every crew member was fixated on the spectacle.

  King looked past the bodies. The flag of the United States was limp in the sudden calm and the three men eventually hung just as still.

  Chapter Ten

  June 1843, West Point, New York

  In a single line, the West Point class of 1843 thundered across the floor of the riding hall on their steeds, sabers glinting. They wheeled perpendicular to the stands filled with spectators, coming to a halt near one of the walls. They wrangled their horses about, so that they formed a row facing the center of the hall. They raised their sabers in salute, then lowered them. It was early June and the mounted review was part of the celebration in honor of their graduation the following week.

  Rumble and another enlisted man ran out with two props and a bar. They set the base of the props on the tanbark covering the wooden floor, then began adjusting the height. Rumble had a gleam in his eyes as he pushed his prop to the maximum height. The other soldier looked at him in confusion, then shrugged, following suit. They set the bar on the props, half a foot higher than the top of Rumble’s head.

  The buzz among the spectators began immediately. “It has to be Grant and York,” was the most commonly whispered comment from cadets to family members and others not familiar with the prized combination of the riding hall. In the reviewing stand, Superintendent Delafield leaned forward in anticipation. This was not on the program they had been given for
the graduation riding review.

  The Master of the Horse, Sergeant Herschberger, strode out to the bar. He looked at it, at Rumble and frowned. Then the slightest trace of a smile flickered on the stern Master of the Horse’s face, gone so quickly one would wonder if it had been there at all. He called out in a thunderous voice: “Cadet Grant!” The order echoed through the riding hall.

  Grant, still weighing a paltry one hundred and twenty pounds, spurred York forward from the line. The contrast between the slender cadet and the massive horse would have been greater if it were not for the relaxed way Grant rode. He didn’t seem to be controlling York, but a part of the beast, the mind behind all that muscle below the saddle. Grant saluted the Superintendent with his saber, then slid it into the scabbard. As he turned to head for the far end of the hall, he winked at Rumble.

  In the reviewing stands, Benny and Letitia Havens sat with Ben between them. Letitia held Abigail on her lap. Not far from them was George King, dressed in a navy uniform, the insignia of an ensign on his sleeve. His face was tanned and his ice-blue eyes held an edge to them that had not been there when he was a cadet.

  Hidden at the far end of the building, near the horse doors leading to the stable, St. George stepped into the dark shadows, and folded his powerful arms across his broad chest, his clothes dusty and worn from a long, hard ride. His slouch hat was pulled down low. His black sash was wrapped around his solid waist, and a discerning observer could see the outline of his Le Mat pistol tucked inside.

  Grant galloped the Chesnut bay to the far end of the hall. He spotted St. George, hesitated, but then focused on the task at hand. He turned the horse, paused for just the slightest of moments. He leaned forward and whispered something into York’s ear. The horse’s ears lay back and nostrils flared. Together, they began the straight run for the bar.

  Man and beast accelerated across the floor, loose tanbark flying up behind, hooves thundering on the wood underneath. Grant had the horse measuring strides based on the rapidly closing distance. At the perfect spot Grant twitched the reins and York gathered himself, seeming to shrink for a second, all muscles tightening, and then bounded smoothly into the air. With inches to spare, Grant and York flew over the bar. They landed without mishap. There was a moment of stunned silence.

  “Very well done, sir!” Sergeant Herschberger cried out, acknowledging that Grant had just set an Academy record. The crowd roared its approval. Herschberger turned to the rest of the class of 1843 lined up on their mounts along the wall. “Class dismissed.”

  With a loud cheer, the cadets mobbed Grant and York. But standing closest, next to Grant’s stirrup, was Rumble. Grant leaned over and shook his friend’s hand. “Thank you, Lucius.”

  “You’re welcome, Sam.”

  Then Grant looked at the mounted cadets crowding round and sought out his classmate Elijah Cord and shook his hand. Grant leaned close to Cord, just as he had whispered to York: “This evening will be your opportunity. But first, there’s a fellow over by the horse door that looks like the ruffian you described meeting the night of Ben’s birth.”

  Cord swiveled his head and saw St. George. “It’s him.”

  The overseer gave a cold smile and waved an envelope. Cord pushed his way through the mob of cadets.

  In the stands, Superintendent Delafield walked over to Benny Havens and Letitia. He rubbed Ben’s head affectionately and smiled at Abigail. “How are the children?” he asked Benny.

  “As well as can be expected, sir,” Benny said, surprised the Superintendent acknowledged him publicly. For the past couple of decades his tavern had been off limits to cadets, even after being kicked off the military reservation, and he had waged a low level conflict with the powers-that-be at the Academy, although Delafield had been more lenient than any of his predecessors.

  Delafield looked past Benny as Rumble came up. “Sergeant.”

  Rumble snapped to attention. “Sir.”

  “At ease,” Delafield ordered.

  Rumble leaned over and scooped up Ben, holding him in his arms.

  “Let’s talk privately,” Delafield said.

  Still carrying Ben, a puzzled Rumble walked with the Superintendent a few paces away from the rest.

  Delafield reached out and placed a hand on Rumble’s shoulder. “I don’t know if you wish you were with your classmates graduating next week. But I think what you do have here, with your family, is a much greater accomplishment than finishing four years at the Academy. Particularly in the—” he searched for a word—“ honorable way in which you acted.”

  Delafield looked left and right, as if about to commit an infraction he would give himself demerits for. He reached into his uniform pocket and produced a small leather pouch. He pressed it into Rumble’s hand. “Something I want you to have.”

  Rumble opened the pouch. A ring for the class of 1843. It wasn’t gold, like the rest of the class rings, but silver. Rumble looked up at the Superintendent. “Thank you very much, sir. I appreciate it. But I do not deserve it.”

  “I believe you do.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Don’t make me pull rank,” Delafield said with a smile.

  Rumble inclined his head in acquiescence. “It’s a grand gesture, sir. I think you should know that our family already has a class ring.”

  Delafield blinked in confusion. “How so?”

  Rumble reached to Ben and pulled the chain around his son’s neck, exposing the ring hanging there.

  “Whose is that?” Delafield asked.

  “Mister Cord’s,” Rumble said.

  “Truly? It’s Mister Elijah Cord’s?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rumble said.

  “I’m impressed for the second time today.” Delafield glanced at the cadets milling on the riding floor, searching for Cord. “Indeed, I am quite surprised.” He seemed deep in thought. “But it’s a good surprise. So you and Mister Cord are reconciled?”

  “We are cordial, sir.”

  “Despite the Silence? Interesting.” Delafield came out of whatever thought he was lost in and touched Rumble’s shoulder once more. “Still, I want you to have this ring. It is between you and I and the Academy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rumble said. “It means a lot to me.”

  “Good.” Delafield looked past Rumble as heavy thumps indicated the approach of a horse.

  “Superb job, Mister Grant,”

  Grant saluted the Superintendent and slid off York, holding the bridle lightly in his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I will leave you gentlemen be,” Delafield said and headed for the exit.

  “What was that about?” Grant asked Rumble.

  “Nothing important,” Rumble said, tucking the leather pouch in his pocket.

  “I’ve never seen nothing like it, Mister Grant,” Benny Havens said, joining them. “What was that, six and a half feet?”

  “Roughly,” Grant said, as if it were a matter of little importance. “The horse did all the work.”

  Rumble laughed. “No one else could make York do that work.”

  “I wouldn’t be certain of that.” But Grant turned serious. “There’s a man over yonder, by the horse door. I told Elijah and he confirmed it was St. George.”

  Rumble’s good humor was gone. He tried to look over the milling cadets but could see no sign of the overseer. “I’ll go over.”

  Grant stopped him. “Let Elijah deal with it for now. Stay with your family.”

  “It’s my problem,” Rumble said.

  “Ah, but Lil’ Ben is also Cord’s concern, is he not?” Grant asked. “And if St. George is a threat to Ben, I think Elijah can handle things. There are some things we can trust him on. More than you think, actually.”

  Rumble opened his mouth to say something, but then snapped it shut.

  Outside the stables, Cord found St. George smoking a cigar. “May I help you?”

  “Ah, it’s the third class fellow,” St. George said. He had the cigar in one hand, the other hand with thumb
hooked in the sash.

  “I’m a first class cadet now,” Cord said, “and I’ll be graduating in a week and commissioned an officer in the United States Army.”

  “Well, good for you, boy, but there be something in the way you say it make me think you aint too sure that happening.”

  Cord dropped all pretenses at being civil. “What the hell do you want, St. George?”

  “Got me another letter for young Mister Rumble from his father.”

  “Give it to me. I’ll pass it on and then you can be on your way.”

  St. George dropped all pretenses at being relaxed. “Who you think you are, boy, giving me orders?”

  “You’re not welcome here.”

  “You the master here? To say who and who not be welcome? That fella on the horse. Now he might be someone to listen to. That be some riding. He must be from Dixie. Only a southern boy can handle a beast like that.”

  “He’s from Ohio,” Cord said. “He’s a northerner.”

  “Now you lying,” St. George said. “No Yankee could ride like that.”

  Cord took a step forward, veins in his neck bulging. “How dare you—”

  St. George’s hand slipped inside his black sash, but he didn’t pull the gun. Yet. “Careful, boy.”

  A passing officer stopped. “Is there a problem Mister Cord?”

  “No, sir,” Cord said, keeping his eyes on St. George. “Just having a discussion with my friend.”

  “Carry on then.” The officer walked off, but glanced over his shoulder a couple of times.

  St. George gave the cold smile that never touched his pig eyes. “You aint too dumb. But you, you nothing to me.”

  Mounted cadets were filing by, crossing the dirt road and going into the stable. A few looked curiously at the two men, but most ignored Cord as they always did. Not only because of the Silence, but also because he was currently the class ‘goat’. Last in overall cadet ranking. The consensus among the Corps was amazement that Cord had managed to make it this far against the weight of the Silence and his difficulties in academics and discipline. And there was a very strong rumor that Cord would not graduate the following week—that he had been ‘found’ in demerits and in academics and Superintendent Delafield would be boarding him out. If Longstreet were still at the Academy he would be running a pool on the odds of Cord’s graduation, and there was little doubt he’d be betting against it.