Chapter Eleven
June 1843, West Point, New York
St. George Dyer sat with his chair tipped back against the wall at a corner table in Benny Havens watching the cadets drinking. They were children, playing a game. Every time the circle of cadets prepared to drink, they would turn their backs to each other, imbibe, then turn back and resume their conversation. It made no sense.
When the owner came over with another mug of ale, St. George pointed. “What they be doing?”
Benny Havens laughed. “The honor code. They aint supposed to be drinking. So to avoid having to lie about seeing each other drink, they make sure they don’t see each other drink.”
“That be the stupidest damn thing I done heard.”
Benny Havens shrugged. “It’s been that way since I opened the place. It’s harmless and more a tradition these days than anything else.”
“Damn foolish.”
“Where are you from, stranger?” Benny Havens asked. “You sound southern.”
“You got a problem with southerners?” St. George looked up at the tavern keep.
“Not at all. These cadets are from everywhere.”
St. George tossed a coin on the table and Benny Havens scooped it up. “Would you be wanting a hot flip?” he asked, pointing at a flagon in which he had been dipping a red-hot poker from the fireplace every so often.
St. George tapped a thick finger on the edge of the mug. “Asked for ale. Paid for it. I be wanting something, I be telling you.”
“As you wish,” Havens said coldly and moved on.
St. George could hear snippets of conversation, the tavern not much larger than his overseer’s cabin. The front legs of his chair slammed into the plank floor and he leaned forward when he heard someone mention a familiar name.
“I don’t know why Sam Grant still talks to Rumble,” one cadet was saying. “We’ll be officers soon and he’s enlisted.”
“Hell, Grant never honored the Silence regarding Cord,” another said.
“I heard tell Grant is Lil’ Ben Rumble’s godfather,” a third mentioned.
The second cadet laughed. “You mean Lil’ Ben Cord.”
“Hush,” the first cadet hissed. “It’s not to be spoken of.”
The conversation drifted off in another direction, but St. George didn’t push his chair back and relax. Nor did he drink the ale. His eyes were focused on the door. Waiting.
The riding hall was empty when Cord swung the door open. He held it as Grant led York in by the bridle. The bay was skittish, little used to being in the riding hall in the dark. Moonlight glinted through the narrow, high windows and in the distance the sounds of revelry echoed from the Plain. The bar that Grant had jumped was still in place, a temporary monument to his achievement.
Cord swung the door shut and latched it, insuring they would not be disturbed. Grant ran his hand over York’s forehead, whispering to the horse, calming it.
“Are you certain?” he asked Cord.
“Yes.”
“Why do you think tonight will be different from the other nights we’ve been here?” Grant asked.
“It probably won’t be,” Cord acknowledged. “But it will be my last chance, regardless of what happens with the Board.”
“All right. From here,” Grant said, positioning York at the same spot from which he had started earlier in the day.
Cord took a deep breath, then took the bridle from Grant’s hand. He put his hand on York’s forehead. “Easy now.”
One foot in the stirrup. York remained still. Cord lifted himself off the floor and swung his leg over the saddle. York twitched.
Grant stepped back and nodded, the movement almost unseen in the darkness.
Cord leaned forward in the saddle, as he had seen Grant do so many times before and had been taught to do. He whispered comforting words in York’s ear, feeling the tension ease slightly in the beast underneath him.
“Now!” Cord hissed and York bolted, heading straight for the bar. Air rushed through Cord’s hair as the bay accelerated. Cord relaxed, settling into the saddle. His hands were loose, letting York have free rein. The sound of the bay’s hooves on the tanbark covered floor sounded distant to Cord. His focus was on the bar, a dark line against a darker backdrop.
York leapt, lifting Cord into the air.
As they flew over, the left rear hoof nicked the bar and it vibrated and teetered.
Cord grunted as York landed hard. He jerked the reins to look back. Grant was staring up at the quivering bar. All was still except for the piece of wood. Then it too was still.
Grant let out a whoop, more excited about Cord’s achievement than his own.
Cord slid off the horse. Grant ran up and grabbed him in a hug, pounding him on the back. “You did it!”
“The horse did all the work,” Cord said with his trademark grin.
“We have to tell—” Grant began but Cord held up a hand.
“No, Sam. No one is to know. This is between you and me. And York.” He looked at the bar. “I just needed to prove I could do something right.”
Cord reluctantly walked with Sam Grant down the path to Benny Havens. Cord knew the place would be full of his classmates, that almost all would ignore him, and that St. George and George King would be there.
It seemed a pretty damn stupid idea.
“Cheer up, Elijah,” Grant said. “St. George won’t try anything with the three of us around. Lucius said he would give him the needed reply and that would be that.”
“Nothing is ever that simple,” Cord said, falling in step with him. “And George King said he wished to speak with me there, also. I don’t think this evening will turn out well.”
“Now you sound like old Cump,” Grant said,
“Have you heard from him lately?” Cord asked as they hit a switchback on the trail.
“He’s still with the Third Artillery down in Florida,” Grant said as they approached the open door to Benny Havens. “Fighting the Seminoles. Bloody affair. He wrote that they went by the site of Dade’s massacre.”
“That was horrible,” Cord said. “Longstreet used to say Dade got massacred by the Seminoles just like Hannibal ambushed the Romans at Lake Trasimene during the Second Punic War. Marching along a road with a body of water to the right and getting attacked from the left and trapped.”
Grant stared at Cord in surprise. “You’ve been brushing up on your martial studies.”
“Someone told me I needed to,” Cord said. “I wouldn’t mind going down to Florida and getting in a scrape or two.”
“Don’t be in such a rush to get shot at,” Grant advised. “Still, it is strange that Dade would get massacred in the same way as a lesson he certainly learned in tactics class.”
“Perhaps there’s a difference between the classroom and the battlefield,” Cord said.
They walked into the bar, cadets calling out greetings; as usual, most acknowledging Grant and ignoring Cord. Many shouted congratulations to Grant over the jump earlier in the day. It wasn’t hard to spot St. George’s bulk ensconced at a table in the far corner. George King was at the far end of the bar, aloof and distant from the cadets with his Navy uniform and his attitude.
Cord led the way to the table in the other rear corner.
Benny Havens quickly appeared at the table with a bottle. “On me, Mister Grant, in honor of your graduation and the jump.” He placed the bottle on the table, then walked away without acknowledging Cord.
“Easy,” Grant advised as King came walking over.
Conversation in the tavern dropped until it was utterly silent as King stopped at the edge of the table. “Mister Cord, we have unfinished business.”
With a sigh, Cord got to his feet. “I won’t be dueling you, Mister King. I’ll apologize again to you for any slight, and as far as—”
King held up a hand, cutting him off. “I think our business would be concluded quite satisfactorily if I bought you a drink.”
Cord blinked. “A what?”
“Do you accept my offer?” King asked as Benny Havens came over with a bottle and three glasses.
“You too, Mister Grant,” King said. “You interfered that morning, so we need to settle things also.”
“I’m not a fan of spirits,” Grant said, taking a glass, “but for this I will certainly make an exception.”
King filled all three glasses. “To duty, to honor, to country,” he called out loudly, so everyone in the room heard.
Slowly, every cadet lifted their glass also.
“Here, here,” Grant said. The three men clinked glass on glass and without turning their backs, drained them.
Toast completed, Grant indicated a chair. “Would you join us, sir?”
“Certainly,” King said. He settled into a chair and ran his fingers over the scarred wood surface of the table. “In fact, I believe this is the exact same—” he paused as Rumble’s wide shoulders framed the doorway to the tavern. En masse the cadets called out greetings, several gathering around him, trying to buy him a drink. But Rumble was like a bullet to a target, wading through the drunken cadets to St. George. He held out two envelopes.
From across the room, St. George had watched Rumble the way a swamp ‘gator would watch game come to a watering hole. “You got a reply for Master Tiberius?”
“It’s enclosed. And here is a letter for my mother, also sealed. I have informed my father of the second letter, so if she does not get it, he will know.”
St. George’s pig eyes narrowed as he took the letters and slid them inside his black sash. “You accusing me of something?”
“Not yet,” Rumble said, noting that St. George’s hand remained inside the sash and knowing what was secreted there. “Just giving you the lay of the land.”
“I’m as smart as you, don’t need no talking down to.”
“Maybe you do,” Rumble said.
St. George uncoiled from the seat until he stood eye to eye with Rumble. “You aint no favorite son no more.”
“I don’t know exactly what hold your family has on my father,” Rumble said. “But your time is coming.”
“Everyone time be coming,” St. George said. “Some sooner than others. Maybe yours is real—” he stopped looking left and right over Rumble’s shoulders.
Grant, Cord and King were flanking Rumble, their faces grim. “Buy your friends a drink?” St. George asked, flashing his false smile.
“They’ll drink with me.” Rumble turned his back on St. George, but the overseer wasn’t done.
“Hold on.”
Rumble faced him, his friends backing him up. “What?”
“Where be the seal? I need bring it back to Master Tiberius.”
“It’s my ring,” Rumble said.
“I don’ think—”
“No, you don’t,” Rumble said. “The ring was given to me in the letter. You cannot contradict that, unless somehow you saw the contents of the letter. And giving you the seal negates the effectiveness of sealing the letters. Good night, sir.”
Rumble headed for the table with his friends.
“Who the tarnation is that?” Benny asked as he came over with another glass.
“Don’t concern yourself with him,” Rumble said. “He’s trash.”
“He’s dangerous,” Cord said.
Rumble glanced at him. “And how do you know that?”
“Samual told me. And I’ve met some dangerous men in my life. He fits the bill. They’re dangerous because they’re mean and angry.”
Rumble nodded. “Samual knows better than anyone how evil St. George is.” He grabbed the bottle Benny offered and filled five glasses. He passed them around to the two cadets, the ensign and his father-in-law. “Gentleman, let’s salute our two graduates of West Point, class of 1843.”
“Don’t be jinxing me,” Cord began. “I still have to—”
Grant cut him off, lifting his glass in the air. They clinked glasses and drank deeply.
Cord was drunk and had overstayed. King had barely sipped the second toast, placed his glass down on the bar and departed. Sam had excused himself after only the two drinks, staggering out the door as he always did when he imbibed. Rumble had kept an eye on St. George until the overseer slithered out the door and into the darkness. Then he immediately made his own good night, heading to the cabin to relieve Letitia of her duties and guard his children.
Cord stayed and drank until Benny was past ready to shut down. The tavern keep propelled Cord out the door with a bit less force than he would have liked to, locking the door behind the inebriated cadet.
In the warm summer night, Cord shook his head, trying to gain some clarity. He knew the path from Benny Havens by heart and began the trek back to the barracks. He was halfway up the hill when a figure stepped out of the trees along the side of the path.
“Hey there, boy.”
Cord whipped out his whalebone knife.
St. George laughed. “You got a knife, I got a gun. How stupid be you?”
In the moonlight, Cord could see the double-barreled revolver in St. George’s paw.
“It’s murder if you shoot me,” Cord managed.
“Who be knowing? Oh, Rumble, he’d suspect, but I be long gone before they find your body. If they find it at all. Maybe toss you in the river. Rivers eat bodies. I’ve fed the Mississip a few.”
“What do you want?” Cord asked, sliding his left foot forward, trying to close the distance.
“What do I want?” St. George muttered, as if actually thinking about the question.
“What kind of gun is that?” Cord asked to gain time.
“One dat has killed and will kill again. Maybe tonight. Then again, maybe not tonight.”
“I’ve never seen the like.” Cord started sliding his right foot forward. He was about eight feet away. He needed to halve the distance to have a chance.
“Boy, you move another one of your damn feet, I blow it right off.”
Cord stopped.
“Get rid of the knife.”
Cord hesitated and St. George cocked the gun with a sound that seemed like a crack of thunder to Cord. He dropped the knife.
St. George continued. “This here be a special gun. Got it down in New Orlean. Made by some French fella named LeMat. He told me he hand made it, never sold one before. Still working on da’ thing. I used to carry me one of them Colts. But had to shoot an uppity nigra one time. Took me five shots to put his dumb-ass down. So I got me this.”
Cord suspected someone being so chatty probably wasn’t going to shoot him. St. George did indeed want something. He waited as the man rambled on about his gun, as if it were the bones of Jesus and he were a true believer.
“Got me nine bullets in the cylinder and a big old slug in the bottom barrel. That last one will put someone down permanent like.”
“So you want to kill them twice,” Cord said.
St. George raised the gun and both barrels pointed right at Cord’s face. They loomed as big as train tunnels. “Once be good enough for me.”
“What do you want?” Cord asked, unwittingly retreating the step he’d worked so hard to take forward.
“How it feel being a daddy?” St. George asked.
Cord’s blood ran cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about that boy. Rumble’s boy. Who he gave middle name after that uppity nigra who tried to escape. You was standing right round here in the trees in the middle of winter, waiting on his birthing. Why would a man be doing that? Why would a man with a knife be willing to die for someone he aint even that great friends with? I got to asking myself all this on the way home. But couldna figure it out and not too concerned. Then I hear some of you keydets talking while bein’ stupid turning backs on each other to drink. And now I know. So how it feel being a daddy?”
Cord took another step back and St. George took one forward.
“I’m not—” Cord stopped, trying to search through his alcohol-laden mind to find the right thing to say to deflect St. George’s suspicions.
“Young Rumble. What he do? He take on being daddy? Now why he be doing that? What he up to? He know about Miss Rosalie not being able to brood children. I think young Rumble maybe smarter than I once think. Maybe he got his own plan for Palatine while pretending he want nothing to do with it, hiding out here at West Point.”
“He wants nothing to do with Palatine,” Cord argued, taking another step back as St. George continued his slow, deliberate advance.
“Then why he come home two year ago? Why Master Tiberius send him the letter? Why he sending two letters back, one to Master Tiberius and one to Mistress Violet?”
“I have no idea.” Cord backed into a tree with a solid thud.
“Why Mistress Violet invite you to younger one’s wedding to Miss Rosalie?” St. George closed the distance and placed the dual barrels less than a foot from Rumble’s face. “Goodbye, keydet.”
Cord cringed as the first shot exploded with a blinding flash. Cord heard nothing after the first although eight more followed, then the deeper roar of the lower barrel firing.
* * *
Cord woke in a pool of vomit. He reached up to his face, not believing it was still intact. Almost. On his right temple was a burn from a bullet passing so close it had singed the skin.
But that was all.
Cord knew there was no way St. George could have missed unless he’d done so deliberately. Cord staggered to his feet. Looking about, he saw that the bark on the tree he’d been backed up against was torn to shreds. Cord saw a distinctive shot pattern. One that matched St. George’s description of his gun: nine holes in a tight circular shot pattern, then in the center, a larger cavity.
A message.
But what exactly Cord was supposed to make of it, he had no idea. He had vague recollections of St. George’s talking about Rumble last night.
Cord clasped his hands together. “God, thank you. I don’t know why you had that crazy fellow spare me, but then again, I don’t know why you made that crazy fellow in the first place. He’s a mean one. Now, if it isn’t too much to ask, maybe you could nudge the Board into letting me graduate? I put in a lot of time and effort here and endured the Silence, best I could. So maybe you could give a hand if it doesn’t trouble you overly much?”
He picked up his whalebone knife and slid it in the sheath. Getting to his feet, he pulled out a flask, taking a long hard drink. Wiping himself off as best he could, Cord trooped up the hill toward West Point. To discover whether he had been boarded out or would graduate.