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.
St. George took a step back. “Too many nosy folk around. I hear you keydets have honor. Can I be trusting you to deliver this letter?”
“Yes.” Cord almost spit the word.
St. George held out an envelope sealed with wax. “I’ll be seeing young Rumble before I be going back. I’ll be knowing whether you give it to him or not.”
Cord took the thick envelope. “He’ll get it.”
St. George took a step back. “Maybe I see you later, boy. Maybe at that saloon you keydets go to. You tell young Rumble, he got a reply, he be finding me there tonight. Won’t be hard for him to do, seeing as he live next door.”
St. George laughed and walked away.
Grant looked past Rumble. “I see George King, back for your graduation. I’ll go speak to him. Stay here and wait for Elijah to give you a report on his scouting. I’ll keep your cousin occupied.”
Grant led York to the midshipman. King was watching the cluster of cadets as if evaluating everything they did.
“Mister King!” Grant saluted.
King returned the salute. “Sam Grant. I remember a similar jump you did on the same horse.”
“That jump wasn’t as calculated,” Grant said.
“Oh, I do believe it was,” King said.
“I heard about the Somers,” Grant said. “A terrible thing.”
King nodded. “It was an unfortunate lack of discipline combined with poor leadership.”
“I hear they’re going to establish a Naval Academy because of what happened.”
“Strange, what power and effect a hanging can have, especially when one is the son of the Secretary of War,” King said. “Yes, there’ll be a Naval Academy. We’ll keep the students on shore for a few years to get some discipline under their belts before sending them out to sea. I’ll be heading to Annapolis after the wedding to help prepare that very institution.”
“Your cousin’s wedding in Mississippi?” Grant asked.
“Yes. I’ve never been there but I desire to see that part of the country, particularly the Mississippi. The Navy has responsibilities for our inland waterways also.”
“It should be quite the affair,” Grant said. “I also received an invitation. I’ll be heading home to Ohio, then to the wedding, and afterwards Mister Cord and I will report for duty at Jefferson Barracks.”
When King said nothing at Cord’s mention, Grant continued. “Try not to be too hard on the incoming students at your Academy. Some discipline is good, but-“
“Discipline must be absolute,” King said. “A ship at sea has no recourse beyond the Captain’s iron will.”
Grant mildly raised an eyebrow. “There are some who say the hanging on the Somers was beyond the bonds of military law.”
“It was necessary,” King said, before softening. “Still, things could have been handled much better. There was a lack of effective leadership involved.”
“Men need to be led, not forced,” Grant said. “Especially in a country like the United States where we value our individual freedom so much more than other countries.”
King was looking over at Rumble, Benny Havens, his wife and the two children. “Strange how time has played out. My cousin seems very content.”
“He is,” Grant said. “Are you?”
“With the Navy? Yes. It suits me. It was gracious of Major Lee to intercede on my behalf.”
“Do you know why Major Lee did so?” Grant asked.
King cocked his head. “I’ve wondered about that.”
“Elijah went to see the Major over his furlough with a letter of recommendation for you and his own personal request.” Grant watched Cord come back in the stable and speak briefly with Rumble.
“Mister Cord did that?”
“Indeed.”
King pursed his lips as he pondered this development. “I was going to speak to him anyway, now is as good a time as any.” He brushed by Grant and headed toward Cord.
Seeing King approach, Cord walked away from Rumble and his family to the center of the stable, next to the pole Grant had jumped.
“Mister Cord.”
Cord saluted. “Ensign King.”
“There are some who say you will not graduate,” King said, returning the salute.
“There are some who say a lot of things,” Cord replied.
“We have unfinished business,” King said.
“Surely, you can’t be holding a grudge after all this time,” Cord said.
“There is no time limit on honor.”
Cord rubbed his forehead, trying to forestall a headache.
King folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve heard of your stubbornness in the face of the Silence. Strange thing, my getting kicked out for speaking and your suffering, but perhaps graduating, for not speaking.”
“Was it worth it?” Cord asked.
“Honor is everything,” King said.
“Yes, I remember. I believe you said it’s all a man has.”
“Perhaps I will see you tonight in Benny Havens?” King asked. “We can discuss our unfinished business some more.”
Cord sighed. “Seems everyone’s going to be at Benny’s tonight.”
Rumble sat alone on Kosciuszko’s garden, the letter from his father heavy in his hands. There was more than just paper inside. A hard, round object could be felt. Cord had given the envelope to him, saying that St. George would be in Benny Havens this evening awaiting a reply. That portended disaster. St. George amongst a crowd of drunken cadets, many eager for graduation in less than a week, was throwing a keg of gunpowder into a bonfire. And it was too damn close to Ben and Abigail. Rumble had sent Cord to find Grant, so that both could be in the tavern later, but Cord had mysteriously indicated he already had a standing engagement with Grant after which they would both show up.
Then there was the issue of his cousin King and Cord. Since arriving at West Point a few days ago, King has talked little, so Rumble had no idea where his cousin stood in regard to the unfinished duel and it was a distraction he could ill afford right now.
The afternoon sun was below the level of the Plain and Rumble was in the shadows. The sound of the small fountain was drowned out by the cries of revelry from graduating cadets and their families enjoying dinner in a pavilion erected on the Plain.
Rumble looked at the seal on the envelope. A replica of the Emperor Tiberius’ imperial seal. Rumble sometimes wondered if his father realized that Tiberius was Emperor of Rome when Jesus was crucified. He doubted it. The fact his Father had used his seal meant he didn’t fully trust St. George. The overseer was capable of many things and quite the accomplished liar, but betraying the seal was too obvious a breach of protocol even for him.
With a sigh, Rumble broke the wax with his thumb and opened the envelope. He was shocked when he saw a single sheet of folded rose-colored paper. Inside the paper was a ring—a replica of Tiberius’s seal.
Rumble smiled as he saw his mother’s flowing script, images of his mother lounging in her sitting room coming to mind. The words caused the smile to disappear:
Palatine
Natchez, MS
May 15th, 1843
My dearest son,
I must admit I am somewhat sorry we are not there for what would have been your graduation. You know we would have come if the event had unfolded as your father wished. But from seeing you two summers ago, I believe you have chosen the correct path for yourself. Your father was sending St. George with a letter to upbride you for not graduating and to once more ask you to forsake your family there to return here. He does not understand your family is our family. I intercepted the letter before he gave it to St. George. I replaced his with mine. I have always had a copy of his seal, even as he sends you one he had made for his son to ensure your reply returns to Palatine intact and safe from St. George’s prying eyes.
We I mourned greatly when I heard of your Lidia’s death. You have known too much death for someone so young.
It is something of which I have never spoken to you, but you had an older sister. Two years prior. She died shortly after birth of the flux. I fell into grief for almost a year. I hope you do not despair as I did then. You have your children to think of. When you were born, it lifted my darkness. And you have kept a light in my life all the years since. I am glad you have chosen your own path in life. So few are able to do so.
Rumble had to look up from the letter imagining what his mother must have felt after the death of the sister he had never heard about before and being alone with Tiberius in that huge home. He collected himself and resumed.
Your father’s condition comes and goes. He says he is well, but the facts speak otherwise. Seneca spends most of his time at Rosalie—so much so that people are saying it is odd; and it is. I know he does not want to be around Tiberius. That he feels useless here as long as John Dyer and his son run the true operations of Palatine. I do not foresee that changing with Seneca’s pending marriage. Rosalie is a forceful woman. I admire her greatly. But a woman cannot run a plantation no matter how talented or powerful she is. I learned that many yeas ago.
There is much going on here that your father does not know or, more likely, does not care to know. I despise Dyer and his son. But I am powerless to do anything as long as your father keeps them under his protection.
I desire you to come home once more.
At least for Seneca and Rosalie’s wedding. And, please, bring your Ben and Abigail. It would do my heart good to see children here again. They would enjoy the fountain, I am sure. I promise you my full support. I want to use the wedding reception to formally recognize both your children as Rumble’s and part of the family. Your father will not be able to deny me that.
I have invited your cousin, George King, and a pair of your friends: Ulysses Grant (what an odd name) and Elijah Cord whom Samual met with my earlier letter, so you will have company here.
Please put your reply in the envelope and re-seal it with the ring, which you may keep, as it would have been yours anyway.
I pray for you and your children.
With my love.
Violet Rudolph Rumble.
Rumble folded the letter, slid it inside the envelope and put it in his blouse pocket. He looked at the seal, tossing it in his hand, feeling the weight. He reached in his pants pocket and pulled out the ring Superintendent Delafield had given him. He put them side-by-side. He had achieved neither. Yet, he had ended up with both.