West Point to Mexico Page 3

  Normally a small, insignificant trickle of water, it was now a torrent, sending water cascading toward the Hudson to begin a journey downstream to New York City and thence the Atlantic Ocean. Sherman pulled up beside Rumble and Grant, his forage cap drooping over his deep-set, solemn eyes.

  “We can’t cross,” Sherman said flatly. “It’ll kill us. We have to go back to the road.”

  Rumble shifted in the saddle. “The Superintendent will be taking the road. He’ll likely get to Benny Havens before us. And King stores his guns with the smithie in town and will make it back to the river field quickly.”

  “No point going if we don’t get to Cord first,” Grant said mildly. “Besides, we set out to get there, we get there. No turning aside.”

  “I don’t like water,” Rumble said, hands clutching the reins. “I had a bad experience.”

  “You won’t make it across,” Sherman repeated.

  Grant turned and placed a hand on Rumble’s shoulder. “We’ll make it.” He looked closer, reading Rumble’s eyes. “You really do fear the water, don’t you, Lucius?”

  Rumble bit his lip, looking between Grant and Sherman.

  “If you can’t make it,” Grant began, “then—”

  “Let’s do it,” Rumble said.

  Grant spurred York forward into the surging water. Rumble glanced at Sherman who shook his head. Summoning every ounce of will, Rumble directed his reluctant horse into the stream.

  “Damn fools,” Sherman yelled. “I’ll see if I can delay Delafield.” He headed for the road.

  The horse shook beneath Rumble as they hit the torrent. He was being shoved down-creek despite his best efforts. Ahead of him, Grant almost got swept away, but mighty York managed to hold against the force of the water. Rumble cried out in panic as his horse lost traction. In a second he was dismounted and underwater, one hand gripping the rein, his only anchor from being washed away.

  Grant leaned forward, his head against York’s neck, exhorting the horse in a calm, yet firm, voice. Hooves caught in mud and rock deep beneath the water and with a powerful surge, York hauled Grant onto the far bank.

  Grant twisted in the saddle and looked back. The only sign of Rumble was a hand above the turbulent water gripping the rein. Grant jumped off York.

  “Hold!” he ordered his horse. Using the lead as a safety line, he leapt into the water. The current grabbed his slight frame and tried to rocket him downstream, but York was like a rock. Grant pushed forward to Rumble’s horse.

  “Steady.” Grant grabbed the other rein and held it in place, while staring into the horse’s terrified eyes, calming it. Rumble splashed to the surface, blood pouring from a gash over his right eye, flailing to get out of the stream.

  “Easy, Lucius,” Grant urged, as if he were talking to York, not Rumble.

  Using all his strength, Rumble reached out and also grabbed York’s lead. He pulled, hand over hand, to York and the shore, while Grant maintained contact with the terrified horse caught in the current.

  As soon as he had his feet on solid ground, Rumble turned. There was no sign of Grant, just the horse, head above water, eyes wide with fright. The horse’s taut bridle disappeared under the churning water.

  Rumble used York’s lead as Grant had done. He jumped back into the water, reaching with his free hand for his friend. His fingers grazed across cloth and he grabbed. Hauling with all his might, he lifted the slender Grant up.

  Grant spit out water, but he didn’t let go of the other horse’s bridle. Together, Rumble and Grant heaved on the lead.

  “Come on,” Grant urged the horse. “Come on.”

  York must have picked up the urgency because the large bay took a step back. Together, the two men and York pulled the other horse to shore.

  Grant tumbled onto the creek bank, breathing hard. Rumble collapsed on his back, staring aimlessly up at the rain pouring down through the leaves.

  Grant turned his head, blinking water out of his eyes. “Thank you, Lucius. You saved my life.”

  “The obligation is mutual,” Rumble said.

  Grant got up and knelt next to his friend, noting the gash. “I think you’re a bit worse for the adventure.”

  Rumble blinked. He reached up and touched his face. Pulling his hand back he saw the blood. “It’s nothing.” He stood and shivered like a dog, trying to shake off water and a bad memory. Neither were completely expunged.

  Rumble wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve. They both jumped back in their saddles. Grant turned down-slope and galloped toward Benny Havens as fast as the terrain would allow. At neck-breaking speed if they had another mishap, but Rumble followed, blinking blood out of his right eye.

  They raced past Benny Havens tavern and down the path to the riverbank. A clearing, thirty feet long by ten wide bordered the Hudson River. To the north, Cord stood alone, his blond hair plastered to his skull, a pistol lying on a flat rock in front of him.

  To the south, King had pistol in hand, arm straight down at his side. And in the middle, but not directly between, was Benny Havens, old flintlock in his grip.

  “Pick up the pistol and defend yourself with what little honor you have,” King called out to Cord.

  “Their powder might be wet,” Grant observed.

  “I wouldn’t gamble lives on it,” Rumble said.

  As suddenly as it had started, the rain ceased. Above the opposite bank of the Hudson, the glow of approaching dawn brightened the sky.

  Cord glanced at the pistol and folded his arms across his chest. “I will make amends, but I will not duel.”

  “Gentlemen,” Grant called out. “I suggest we make haste back to the barracks and sort this out later, when cooler heads might prevail.”

  “This isn’t your business, Mister Grant,” Havens yelled back.

  “Major Delafield has made quite clear his stance on dueling,” Grant said. “And the Superintendent is on his way,” he reminded them as if mentioning it was no longer raining, a fact they were all aware of.

  “Sherman will slow him a little bit,” Rumble said as he dismounted. Most likely with some tale of misery and woe that would touch the old man’s heart. Sherman could predict darkness on a sun-lit field, but a cloud would invariably show up to prove him right.

  “Let’s get on with this,” King said. “Mister Cord. On the count of three, the duel will begin, whether you have pistol in hand or not.”

  “Aint that kind of dishonorable?” Cord said.

  “One.” King was perfectly still.

  Rumble started to move forward, but Havens raised his pistol. “Don’t be getting involved in something that’s not yours to get involved in.”

  “Lidia is my concern,” Rumble said. “And my friends are also my concern. Mister King is a distant cousin and Mister Cord was my roommate.”

  Cord held up both hands in surrender. “All right. Enough. I apologize.”

  As they spoke, Grant spurred York, riding him wide to the north to gather speed.

  “You owed me an apology,” King said, “but you cannot take back what you have done to Miss Lidia. Two.”

  King raised his pistol, aimed at Cord, and cocked it. He opened his mouth to utter the last number, but galloping full tilt toward Cord’s back, Grant jerked back on the reins and York leapt into the air, right over Cord’s head and landed with a splash in the mud directly between the two cadets, the massive horse blocking any chance of a shot.

  “Move, sir, on your honor, move!” King cried out. “Let me finish the cur.”

  Two horsemen galloped into the clearing. In the lead, Major Delafield was easily recognizable not just by rank and uniform, but by the carefully shaven fringe of white beard that encircled the lower half of his face. Sherman was behind him.

  “Everyone hold fast,” Delafield called out. His gaze went from person to person, assessing, judging and deciding.

  “Mister King. You are dueling?”

  “I am, sir,” King said, “and I am not finished.”


  “With Mister Cord?” Delafield demanded.

  “Mister Cord never took up the pistol,” Rumble said, walking over to Cord.

  Letitia and Lidia appeared on the path from the tavern and that gave Major Delafield pause. “What is the cause of this duel?”

  “A moment with my friend, sir, please,” Rumble said. He leaned close to Cord. “Is it true, Elijah? About Lidia?”

  Cord let out a deep breath, almost causing Rumble to step back from the stink. “If she says she’s with child, it’s so. She is an honest girl.”

  “And it is yours.”

  “I suppose, given nature’s realities.” Cord turned his bloodshot eyes toward his friend. “I can’t be boarded out. I can’t go back to Norfolk.”

  “Always about you,” Rumble said angrily. “What about Lidia?”

  Cord blinked.

  Rumble pressed. “You should have never gone off quarters. And you should’ve never been with Lidia.”

  “Should have’s serve no purpose now,” Cord said, shaking his head and wincing in pain. He peered blearily at Rumble. “What happened to your face? Are you all right?”

  “Don’t concern yourself with that right now,” Rumble said. “We have to get you out of here. And we must uphold Lidia’s honor.”

  Cord closed his eyes in surrender. “I’m sorry, my friend. I’ve done the deed, I must pay the price. Perhaps Benny will allow the marriage to wait until after I graduate and the Supe will go easy on me.”

  Rumble knew if the Superintendent found out Cord had lain with Lidia, there would be a storm much greater than the one nature had surrounded them with. Cord was caught between being drummed out of the Corps for being out of quarters or the same fate for being in Lidia’s bedroom and transgressing her honor.

  Cord’s shoulder slumped. “I’m done for. You can have my full dress gray. Split out the rest of my gear as you see fit.” He gave a hint of the rakish grin. “Let Old Pete Longstreet have my tar bucket—it won’t fit his big head and it will drive him crazy because he won’t want to give it to anyone else.”

  Rumble shifted his focus to the two women standing at the edge of the clearing. Lidia met his gaze. Her eyes flickered momentarily to the wreck of a young man that was Elijah Cord, then locked in on Rumble. One red eyebrow arched in quiet supplication. The movement wasn’t lost to Cord either, and the grin was gone.

  Rumble turned to Benny Havens. “I am sorry for causing dishonor to your family and am grateful that Mister Cord interceded for my honor. I respectfully request your daughter in betrothal, sir.” A vast emptiness opened up inside of Rumble, as wide as the Mississippi and as mysterious and dangerous.

  Benny Havens looked as if he’d been slapped. “It was you?” He turned to Lidia. “But you said you lay with Mister Cord.”

  “She said she lay with a ‘him’,” Letitia corrected. She nudged her daughter. “Isn’t that so, darling?”

  Lidia nodded.

  Cord put a hand on Rumble’s shoulder. “You can’t do that. It’s my responsibility.”

  “I certainly can,” Rumble said. “And I am.”

  “I don’t—” Cord couldn’t form any more words as his brain tumbled in drunken freefall.

  Grant dismounted and walked up to Rumble. As if talking to a horse he needed to calm: “Are you insane, Lucius? You’ll lose everything.”

  Rumble nodded. “Exactly. But I will also gain much.”

  Grant hesitated for the first time all day. “Are you certain?”

  “Very much so, Sam.” He looked over at Lidia and met her eyes. “A lot of blank pages now to be written.”

  Chapter Two

  12 September 1840, West Point, New York

  They came in the middle of the night while Cord’s roommate, Fred Dent, was on guard duty. An obviously timed frontal assault for cadets skilled in the art of the attack. However, the odds, six to one, were in their favor, so surprise was not high on their tactical agenda.

  Elijah Cord was waiting, seated on the edge of his bunk, stripped to the waist and wearing a pair of cast-off pants he’d scavenged from the laundress for just this occasion. The bottle of rum he’d been fortifying himself with was tucked up in the fireplace flue, out of sight.

  The six wore their full dress grey uniforms, giving the impression they were on Academy sanctioned business. As they crowded into the room they were taken aback by Cord’s informal attire and his readiness for their visit.

  Nathaniel Lyon, a First Class Cadet in the class of ’41, stepped to the forefront, flanked by the plebe representative of the Vigilance Committee, Simon Bolivar Buckner. The other four stood in the background, arms folded across their chests.

  “As the representatives of the Vigilance Committee of the Corps of Cadets,” Lyon began, “we demand that you resign from the Academy for actions bringing discredit upon the Corps and conduct unbecoming a gentleman. We demand you tender your resignation immediately.”

  Buckner placed a piece of parchment down on Cord’s desk and pointed at the pen resting in its inkwell. “We’ve done you the courtesy of already writing it,” he said. “Just sign, sir.”

  Cord slowly got to his feet. It was early September and warm in the room. The academic year was getting into full swing. The barracks was still as death as the members of his company were in their bunks, awake, waiting to hear what would happen. Cord did not move toward the desk.

  The seconds ticked by. Lyon glanced over at Buckner. A couple of the second rank figures fidgeted. This was not playing out the way they had anticipated.

  “You will not comply?” Lyon asked.

  “What exactly have I done that requires your visit?” Cord asked.

  “You were absent from your room without permission,” Lyon said. “You failed to take responsibility for bringing dishonor on a young woman, and your actions caused Mister King to be discharged from the Academy just a week before his graduation.”

  “Is it not true that Lucius Rumble, now a private in the Army, resigned to take responsibility for the very event which you now lay at my doorstep?” Cord asked. “Is it not true that Mister King’s own action brought about his dismissal?”

  “Everyone knows—” Lyon began, but Cord cut him off.

  “Everyone knows nothing. Has Lucius Rumble made a claim against me that you’re acting on? Has Mister King? I wish to know my accuser.”

  “Your accuser is the Corps,” Lyon said. He took a step closer. “Your options are limited, Mister Cord. Resign.”

  “I’m afraid I must disappoint you gentlemen,” Cord said. “Although I am indeed guilty of several mistakes, I will never resign.”

  Lyon and Buckner exchanged a glance. Lyon took a few steps forward until he was right next to Cord. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “You bring disgrace on all of us with your lack of honor. Do the right thing.”

  “You equate right with honor?” Cord asked. He shook his head. “Never.”

  Lyon stepped back and raised his voice. “Then you must face the wrath of the Corps and experience the ‘Silence’. No one will speak to you or acknowledge you. You will not exist.”

  Cord stood fast as the four cadets in the back row began to remove their full dress coats. Lyon and Buckner stayed back as the four approached, spreading out. Still, Cord made no move to defend himself. When they charged, he stood still, arms down.

  The beating was quick and vicious. For half a minute they pummeled, but then the attackers slowed their fists, disconcerted by the lack of defense offered. A blow to the side of the head dropped Cord to his knees, blood pouring from cuts on his face. His lip was split, his nose broken anew. One of the attackers swung his boot, catching Cord in the chest and a rib cracked, causing him to double over in pain.

  The four cadets stepped back, fists bruised and covered in Cord’s blood, but otherwise unmarked.

  Cord slowly straightened, then staggered to his feet. He attempted his trademark smile, causing more blood to flow from his lip. “Is that all you have to offer me?”
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  “You must resign,” Buckner said. “That is unconditional.”

  “Is it now, Gentlemen?” Everyone turned to the door where Sam Grant stood, wearing dress gray and the white sash of the cadet in charge of quarters. Grant made a show of checking his pocket watch. “Unconditional, Mister Buckner? I do believe there are cadets in this room who are absent quarters after evening reveille.”

  “Grant,” Lyon said, “mind your business. We’re the Vigilance Committee.”

  “This is my business,” Grant said. “But I am a lenient man. If you depart now, I won’t have to write this up or summon the cadet officer of the day, Cadet Dent. Whose room, I believe, this is.”

  Lyon pointed at Cord. “He’s been ‘Silenced’.”

  “Time’s passing,” Grant said.

  “We should go,” Buckner said to Lyon.

  “Stand your ground,” Lyon ordered the plebe.

  “Buckner’s giving good advice,” Grant said. “I will do my duty if you do not retreat.”

  The six departed with many a glare at both Grant and especially Cord. When it was just the two of them, Cord finally lowered himself onto his bunk with a groan of pain.

  “You need to go to the surgeon,” Grant said.

  Cord shook his head “No. Then the Supe will find out. It’s just pain.”

  “They didn’t seem much the worse for the affair,” Grant noted. “Except for their fists.”

  “I didn’t fight.” Cord was running his fingers over his bloody nose.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I was wrong,” Cord said. “But I will not resign.”

  “Being ‘Silenced’ by the Corps will be most difficult to bear,” Grant said. “No one has survived it for more than six months.”

  Cord squeezed his fingers on the side of his nose and with a sickening crack it settled back into it’s previously offset position. He closed his eyes from the pain and tears rolled down his face. “You won’t ‘Silence’ me, will you, Sam?”