From Duty, Honor, Country, a Novel of West Point & the Civil War
The cadets of the class of 1862 scrambled out of the stands and fell in to the left and right of Rumble.
When all were in place, Rumble issued his second order. “Cadet George Armstrong Custer, front and center.”
With a self-confident grin, Custer stepped out of the ranks and double-timed to a spot just in front of Rumble. Custer was just shy of six feet, broad shouldered and athletic. He had blue eyes and golden hair that lay on his head in a tumble of curling locks. The word circulating in Benny Havens was that Custer was quite the lady’s man off-post. The word circulating in the Academy was that Custer was not quite the academic man, the Immortal in every section, overall ranking last in his class and lingering very close to being boarded out. In some ways, Custer reminded Rumble of Cord, but there was a dark edge to Custer that disturbed Rumble.
“Double-time to the stables, Mister Custer, and bridle your horse.” Rumble made a show of looking at his pocket watch. “You have three minutes.”
Custer dashed off.
“Cadets, at ease,” Rumble ordered.
An instant buzz of excited conversation filled the riding hall. War was in the air. And not just war, but Civil War. Many southern cadets had already left the Academy, the first as early as the previous November, when a South Carolinian had departed, in anticipation of his state’s secession. He was followed by all the rest of the cadets from South Carolina, three Mississippians and two Alabamians.
The divide touched the highest ranks of the Academy as the Superintendent appointed back in January, G. T. Beauregard, had lasted only five days before being relieved for his southern sympathies after advising a southern cadet who sought consul on whether to resign: “Watch me; and when I jump, you jump. What’s the use of jumping too soon?” With his departure, old Delafield resumed the post for several months before a permanent replacement was appointed. Delafield was still on post, awaiting his next assignment.
The overwhelming feeling in the press was that most of the Academy was pro-slavery. But that was only to those outside of the gray walls. Rumble knew the cadets better than they knew themselves and it was more the fact that the southerners who remained were the loudest and most outspoken, airing their opinions freely and to anyone who would listen. The northern cadets had some sympathy for the plight of their southern brethren, but that sympathy had not been put to the test. There was a sullenness and brooding among the Northerners that few could interpret.
Behind Rumble, seated in the corner of the stands, writing in a leather journal, was Ben, now a young man of twenty. He’d grown with a spurt when he was sixteen, and was now two inches shy of six feet, but as slender as Grant had been as a cadet and Rumble feared his son would never fill out. Ben had his mother’s face, soft, freckled and open. His most distinguishing feature was his bright red hair. He could be recognized all the way across the Plain from that alone.
This was his first trip back to West Point since Rumble had maneuvered his son’s dismissal from the Corps and his entry into college in Maine. The few days had not been enough to thaw the chill between the two and Rumble had little idea where his son’s feelings lay or what his thoughts were. But he had kept his promise to Lidia and saved his son from four years of hell and that was enough for now.
Custer came galloping back into the riding hall with a flourish. He urged the large horse toward the far end of the hall. Despite it’s size, the horse was no York, at least a hand smaller than the long-deceased legend of the riding hall,
“Cadets,” Rumble cried out. “Attention!”
The line snapped to. Rumble called out the names of two cadets to take the center position. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Delafield, his hair whiter than ever, had entered the hall.
“Gentlemen, hold in place, wings forward to observe,” Rumble commanded.
Using the two cadets as anchor, the lines on either side moved forward until all could see the two men in the center.
Custer reached the far end of the hall and waited.
Rumble turned to the line of cadets and raked his gaze left and right. He remembered Matamoros and the Mexican line, the steel glinting in the sunlight. He shivered and focused, once more grateful Ben did not wear the cadet gray. “Mister Custer, you may—“
A plebe came running into the riding hall, uniform collar unbuttoned, face flush with excitement. “It’s war! Fort Sumter has been fired upon!”
Discipline vanished as the remaining southern cadets broke into cheers.