Mexico to Sumter Page 2

  Two stretcher-bearers came running up, dropping to their knees next to Page. They hastily slid him onto the already blood-damp canvas. Page’s tongue was flopping about, having not jaw to contain it, reminding Rumble of a thirsty hound dog back on the plantation.

  “Sir, you need to let go.”

  One of the stretcher-bearers was quicker to the need, abruptly ripping the captain’s hand from Rumble’s arm. And then they were off, heading toward the rear where the regimental surgeon and his gruesome tools of the trade awaited.

  Rumble got to his feet. Artillery on either side was still blasting away and both lines of Infantry remained in place, the Mexicans getting the worst of it by far. Rumble flicked a piece of brain off his cheek and gripped the shotgun tightly. He took a couple of deep breaths. “Why don’t we charge?”

  “Our artillery is doing the job,” Grant said mildly. He looked at Rumble, a perplexed look on his face. “How could you know Captain Page will live?”

  “I didn’t. What else to say to the man?”

  “True,” Grant allowed. “Strange, isn’t it? I always wondered what combat would be like, but I can’t say I feel much of anything, one way or the other.”

  “You were well trained for this at West Point,” Rumble said. “I think what you feel—or you don’t feel now—is what allows General Taylor to be so calm and to lead so well. You would make a much better general than I.”

  Grant snorted as a Mexican cannon ball came bounding past about twenty feet away, men jumping out of the way. “I’ll never be a general. I just want this damn war to be over, to go back to West Point and teach mathematics, and to retire, perhaps, if I’m lucky, as a major.” His eyes got a faraway look for a moment. “And marry Julia.”

  Then he returned his attention to the battle.

  9 May 1846, Lake Klamath, Oregon

  Over two thousand miles away from where Grant and Rumble experienced their first combat, Kit Carson held up a hand, halting the small party that included Elijah Cord. The four-person team was conducting a mounted patrol around the edge of Upper Klamath Lake in the southern part of the Oregon Territory. The Expedition had experienced several less-than-friendly encounters with Indians in the area over the course of their explorations. Word had just arrived in camp from two exhausted riders that an American officer with a small entourage was making his way toward the camp and Fremont had dispatched Carson, Cord and two other experienced men ahead to intercept the group before they were attacked.

  Carson slid off his horse and Cord and the others followed suit. Looping the bridles over some bushes, the men made their way through the marshy terrain bordering the large lake. Fremont and the main body were camped about a half-mile behind them in a glade.

  Carson held his long rifle in one hand and with the other he pointed forward and to the right. Cord gently pulled back the hammer on his rifle and aimed in that direction. Visibility through the reeds, bushes and trees was about fifty feet. The four men waited silently, weapons at the ready.

  Soon all could hear the sound of horses approaching. Carson got the other three men’s attention. He pointed at Cord and then held up a single finger, at the second man, held up two, at the next, held up three and then at himself and held up four. The precedence of targets based on weapons and skills of the shooters.

  A mounted Indian appeared, bow looped over shoulder, lance in hand. Cord’s finger slid over the trigger. He held back, waiting for at least four targets to appear so they could have the initial advantage.

  A second rider appeared among the trees. A white man, dressed in a surprisingly clean white linen shirt and fatigue pants, a musket held lightly in one hand. As two more riders appeared, both whites, Cord let down the hammer on his rifle and stood, not believing his eyes. He held his musket over his head and waved it, while crying out: “King!”

  The four riders halted, but then George King broke from the group, galloping forward. Cord ran from the ambush site to meet him. King skidded his horse to a halt and leapt off. In addition to the rifle, he had the boarding axe in its specially made leather sheath looped over one of his shoulders.

  “Lieutenant Cord!” King exclaimed.

  The two shook hands, on the other side of the country from the last place they had seen each other.

  “What are you doing here?” Cord asked.

  King looked weary, his narrow face even tighter. “I must see Fremont first. Deliver a message. Then we can talk.”

  Cord looked at the small insignia sown on the shoulder of the white shirt. “A lieutenant, not ensign?”

  “I’m detached to the Marines for this mission,” King said.

  “And the axe?” Cord asked.

  “It’s a good tool.”

  “On a ship to cut rigging and break through wood,” Cord said.

  “It has other uses,” King said.

  Kit Carson walked up.

  “This is Lieutenant King of the Marines Corps,” Cord said. “King, this is our lead scout, Kit Carson.”

  “Always grand to see a reunion, but we best be getting.” Carson was tense, his Lancaster rifle at the ready. “I’m sensing some bad air.”

  “’Bad air’?” King repeated.

  Cord added: “We ought pay attention to what he says.”

  King mounted while Cord and the other scouts quickly ran to their horses. They galloped back the way they had come, arriving in Fremont’s camp to great commotion.

  Fremont came striding forward and actually embraced King, an extreme sign of welcome. It had been nine months since the Expedition had received any formal word from the east. For all they knew, the country was already at war with Mexico.

  “Gentlemen,” Fremont said to King’s party, “refresh yourselves and your horses in our camp. Lieutenant King and I have some talking to do.” Fremont took King by the elbow and started to lead him away, then paused. “Mister Cord, would you please join us?”

  Cord was surprised both at the request and the courtesy with which it was extended. He followed King and Fremont to a spot under a wide tree. King and Cord sat on a log, while Fremont perched himself on a campstool. It was late afternoon and the sun’s rays cut sharp angles through the branches and leaves overhead. It was a beautiful late May day in the Oregon Territory.

  “What dispatches do you bring?” Fremont immediately asked.

  “None, sir.” King tapped the side of his head. “For reasons of secrecy, I was ordered to memorize the information I am to relay to you.”

  Fremont ran a hand through his beard. “And from whom does this information come?”

  “I was initially detailed to this mission by Navy Secretary Bancroft,” King said. “Then I had a private audience with President Polk of which no written record was kept.”

  “So I must trust your word,” Fremont said.

  “You should,” King said. “I am an honest man.”

  Fremont glanced at Cord, then inclined his head in agreement. “Tell me what you’ve traveled so far to impart.”

  “President Polk’s hopes of purchasing California from the Mexicans are in vain,” King recited. “They will not accede to it. Therefore, the chief objective the President details to you is to take California. You are to allow no foreign interlopers a foothold in the area. And President Polk’s promise to you about your station after California is taken, remains the same.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you know of that station?” Fremont demanded.

  “No particulars, sir,” King responded.

  “So I am to wage battle against the Mexicans here,” Fremont mused out loud. “Is the United States formally at war with Mexico?”

  “Last I heard, no, sir,” King said. “But my news is months out of date. I traveled across Mexico from Vera Cruz to Mazatlan and all I heard from the Mexican people was that war was imminent. My observation of their military is that they are ill prepared to face our army. Some of the forces are still loyal to Santa Anna; some are devo
ted to another general who is rumored to be planning a coup against their president.”

  “The situation isn’t much different in California,” Fremont said. “It’s ripe for the picking. We’ve already faced several Mexican forces and they’ve been reluctant to press combat upon us. We could’ve defeated the Mexicans if I’d had the authority then that it appears I have now,” Fremont said. The explorer smiled at the thought. “I won’t have to pull back next time.”

  “No, sir, you won’t.”

  “Good,” Fremont said. “I have much to think about tonight. Thank you, Lieutenant King. Lieutenant Cord will get you settled in.”

  As they walked away, Cord spoke to King. “Now I know why we’ve been meandering around California and Oregon all these months. He’s been waiting for the call to action. I gave him a similar message that had been relayed to me at Fort Bent, but it was more in the form of a defensive stratagem—to react if there was foreign action, particularly British. Now he’ll go on the offensive.”

  “They should just make it a clear war and be done with it,” King said.

  They arrived at Cord’s bedroll. Kit Carson was seated on the ground, next to the small fire. He rose to his feet as they arrived.

  “Came a long way to deliver a message,” Carson said.

  King nodded. “I departed New York City by ship last year at the end of October. Landed at Vera Cruz, then traveled across Mexico to the Pacific.”

  “Surprised the Mexicans didn’t kill ya,” Carson said.

  “I had a cover story that I was working for a Boston trading house,” King said.

  Carson laughed. “Not much of a cover. One look at you, any fool can tell you a soldier through and through.”

  “But I did make it,” King said, a touch of anger in his voice. “From Mazatlan I took ship with Commodore Sloat, commander of the Pacific Fleet. We made it to Monterrey by way of the Hawaiian Islands.”

  “Aint that kind of indirect?” Carson asked.

  “I was not captain of the ship,” King said sharply.

  “And then you made it all the way up here to Oregon,” Carson said. “Quite the adventure.”

  “I have a feeling the adventure is yet to begin,” King said. “War is coming.”

  “That the message you give to Fremont?” Carson asked.

  “Our conversation was private,” King said as he pulled a bedroll off his horse.

  Carson looked at Cord, who gave a discrete nod.

  “Seems like being spies runs in you fellows,” Carson said.

  King went for the handle of the boarding axe. “What are you saying, sir?”

  Carson smiled and held up his empty hands. “Easy, friend. Just making a joke and I can see it was a poor one. I met Elijah in St. Louie when he was first slipped into our Expedition to keep an eye on us. Nothing wrong with a little scouting of things.”

  “I work for the President and the Secretary of the Navy,” King said stiffly, but he let go of the axe.

  “Well, we best get some rest,” Carson said. “Probably be some heavy traveling in the morn back to California.”

  The three men set out their bedrolls around the fire and settled in.

  Cord woke to a dead fire and darkness. He lay perfectly still for a moment, then heard movement to his left. He turned his head and in the reflected glow from the main campfire he saw Carson sitting up. When the scout reached for his long rifle, Cord grabbed the Mississippi musket next to him. With his other hand he tapped King on the shoulder. The Marine was awake in an instant, a musket in one hand, slipping the sheath holding the boarding axe over his shoulder.

  Carson got to one knee, head swiveling back and forth, peering into the surrounding forest. Then he stood, rifle at the ready. Cord joined him, King at his side.

  “Was you followed?” Carson whispered to King.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Something out there,” Carson said. “Near the lake. Near the horses.” Without another word he stealthily began moving in that direction, Cord and King flanking him.

  An abrupt crunching sound from just ahead, steel on bone, froze the three men. Carson threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired. In the muzzle flash, they could see two dozen Indians, one crouched over a body, pulling a hatchet out of the sentry’s skull. Cord fired, followed by King’s musket.

  The three shots roused the camp, but their muzzle flashes made the firers targets and arrows whirred by, one slicing Cord on the shoulder as he quickly re-loaded.

  “Stand our ground,” Carson ordered, as he shoved the ramming rod down the barrel of his Lancaster, “or we’ll lose the horses.”

  Cord and King needed little urging, both reloading quickly as more arrows buzzed by. Carson was ready first and fired. His bullet caught a charging brave in the chest and flung him back, but also revealed the precariousness of their situation as the rest of the war party was racing full speed toward the three men. Cord threw the musket to his shoulder and fired. His bullet hit an Indian in the stomach, bowling him over. He had no time to reflect on his first act of war as he dropped the gun and drew his whalebone knife. King fired another round, then discarded the musket for boarding axe.

  In seconds, Carson, Cord and King were in a melee of knives, hatchets and blood. Cord ducked a war axe aimed for his head and slammed his knife just below the sternum of the attacker. He jerked upward, the blade slicing through flesh and muscle before jamming into bone. He tried to retrieve the blade but the dead man fell on top of him as warm viscera flowed over his hand and the man’s last breath expelled in Cord’s face.

  More shots were ringing out from the camp as the rest of the Expedition was reacting. Carson was wielding his Bowie knife, carving a circle of blood around himself. King went berserk, charging forward, swinging the long handled boarding axe with ferocity.

  Cord shoved the dead body off and got to his feet, rapidly reloading his rifle during the brief respite Carson and King’s brutal counter-attack gained. He saw an Indian yelling commands in the center of the war party and aimed. He fired and the round hit the brave in the left chest spinning him completely around. This took the fight out of the attacking party as two other warriors grabbed the chief and ran off with him, the rest following.

  Fremont was shouting commands, but Cord was watching King, bathed in blood, axe in hand, glaring about, looking for another soul to dispatch.

  “Are you all right,” Cord asked as he touched King’s shoulder. He jumped back as King growled and whirled, raising the axe to strike.

  “Easy,” Carson said, grabbing King’s wrist. “Your blood is up, son. It’s over. Let it go. Easy, son, easy.”

  Sanity returned to King’s eyes and Carson let go of him. They could all see the results. Indian bodies were scattered all around. There were two dead whites along with one of the Delaware Indians that had been accompanying the Expedition.

  Cord looked at the first warrior he had shot. The man was writhing on the ground, hands holding his belly, blood pouring between his fingers. Fremont walked over to him, King at his side.

  “Finish him,” Fremont ordered.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, King slammed the spike end of boarding axe into the Indian’s head, making the same sickening sound that had started the melee.

  Carson came over and put a hand on Cord’s shoulder. “The Injun was gut shot. No surviving that.”

  Cord shook his head. “Never shot anyone before.”

  “Well, it’s kind of normal to be upset.” Carson looked over at King who was still following Fremont, checking the rest of the bodies, swinging the axe one more time. “That aint kind of normal but sometimes it’s kind of needed.”

  “He’s seen death before,” Cord said.

  “He’ll see it again. We all will. The day ahead is going to be the Devil’s own carnage.” He looked at Cord’s shoulder where blood was seeping out of the arrow wound. “Let me bandage that up, before someone decides it’s fatal and whacks you over the head.”

  Carson�
�s prediction about the day proved accurate as Fremont moved the Expedition out at first light. He started the movement by announcing that they would destroy everything in their path. They scoured the lakeshore in a clockwise maneuver, killing every Indian they met and burning every village in their path. Cord hung back through the butchery, his rifle not needed due to the enthusiasm of the other men to avenge the deaths of their comrades. King was the opposite, always in the forefront and doing quite a bit of blood work up close and personal with his boarding axe.

  By the time the Expedition departed Upper Klamath Lake, Fremont had made his point: the Indians feared and hated the white. California and the Mexicans lay ahead.

  Chapter Two

  June 1846, Vicinity Natchez, Mississippi

  Sally Skull circled the angel fountain and basin, wondering how much the contrivance cost. And what the purpose was, other than to say a person had money to waste on such a thing.

  She smiled, imagining it on her ranch in Texas. There’d be cattle, horses, and men gathered round it all the time. The first two for the water, the latter to look at the voluptuous stone figure. Men would look with lust at a stone statue; hell, Skull knew they’d look with lust at a doorknob if they thought they had a chance with it. They were simple creatures in many ways, but anger made them dangerous.

  “Why here?” St. George sounded peeved as he came around the corner of the high bushes swatting at no-see-ums. “This be the mistress’s place. Damn near didn’t find my way in. Not sure I can find my way out.”

  “You didn’t leave markers?” Skull asked. The confusion on St. George’s face gave the answer.

  It was dusk and St. George carried a small torch, showing some forethought at least. Little bugs and no-see-ums flitted about in the early summer heat, but Skull paid them no heed. She was as used to that discomfort as breathing.