Gone to Texas (7 page)

On the way to Elm Tree he would stop at Boonesboro and visit his grandfather, Nathaniel Jones, the legendary frontiersman most folks knew as Flintlock. Grandfather Nathaniel was getting on in years—he was sixty-five now. But his eye was still keen, his aim still true. Christopher looked up to him, and valued his advice. Nathaniel was a man of great wisdom, and Christopher knew that his grandfather would not judge him, but rather would give sound advice—if asked. Christopher only hoped that he would find Nathaniel at home. Now that his wife—Christopher's grandmother, Amanda—was dead, Nathaniel spent much of his time roaming the woodlands he knew and loved so well.

"Christopher?"

Lost in thought, Christopher jumped at the sound of O'Connor's voice, and turned to find his friend holding his coat of blue broadcloth. Christopher slipped his good arm into a sleeve, and O'Connor draped the coat over his other shoulder.

"You look strange out of uniform," said O'Connor, with a smile every bit as strained as Christopher's.

"At least we won't have to see how bad you look in civilian clothes."

"Yes, thanks to you."

"Amen," said Bryant.

"I simply told the board and the superintendent the truth," said Christopher, shrugging off their heartfelt gratitude.

"You told them we
both
tried to talk you out of it,"
said O'Connor. "That's only half true. If you recall, I was all for a little bloodletting."

"But you tried to talk me out of it later."

"I did?"

"Yes. I remember your exact words. You said Vickers and I would hack each other to bloody pieces." Christopher glanced ruefully at his damaged arm. "That's what happened, too."

"Still, I can't believe they didn't throw us out, and Morgan, too."

"They understand and appreciate loyalty. As do I." Christopher extended his left hand, and O'Connor clasped it tightly.

"Well," said the Irishman, "we'd better get this trunk loaded up. You have a long road ahead of you."

Christopher followed them out. It was a warm and sunny morning, but he did not have eyes to see and appreciate this—he would forever remember this day as one of the most gray and dismal of his life. He was just grateful that all the other cadets were in class. His erstwhile roommates had been given permission to see him off. Christopher thought Sylvanus Thayer had been extremely generous in his handling of the situation. Of course, he and Vickers, the principals in the duel, had to go. No question of that. But Old Silly had proved astonishingly lenient when it came to Bryant and O'Connor and Morgan.

Thoughts of Greta Inskilling intruded on Christopher's misery, and made it even more severe. He tried to banish them from his mind. He had the courage to confront Adam Vickers in an affair of honor, but not nearly enough to face Greta, now that he was ruined and disgraced, and he could only imagine how her father must be gloating over his misfortune at this very moment. Like father, like son, Piet Inskilling would tell his daughter.

Once the trunk was loaded onto the back of the surrey
the three friends parted company. Christopher did not linger over the farewell. No long goodbyes for him. As usual, O'Connor tried to be lighthearted, though Christopher could see his own unhappiness reflected in the young Irishman's eyes.

"Don't be surprised if you find my shadow on your door in a few months' time," said O'Connor. "I have a feeling Old Silly is at the end of his tether where I'm concerned. One false step and . . . "

"And you would disappoint me," was Christopher's stern reply. "As a friend, do me a favor. Obey the rules. Graduate from West Point. That way at least one of us will."

O'Connor swallowed the lump in his throat, nodded solemnly. He did not trust himself to speak.

Christopher climbed into the surrey, gathered up the leathers in his one good hand, and whipped the bay horse in the traces into motion. He didn't look back.

Less than a mile from the Point, he met a rider on the road. The horseman was heading toward the Academy, and by the looks of his horse he was in a big hurry. His uniform identified him as a dragoon. The single gold bar on the shoulder straps of his blue double-breasted frock informed Christopher that he was a lieutenant. His forage cap was adorned with an officer's badge, a gold-embroidered six-point star. He wore a red sash beneath his sword belt, which sported a Mortimer pistol as well as the regulation saber.

The dragoon slowed his lathered mount as he drew near Christopher, and Christopher became uncomfortably aware of the man's keen scrutiny. He pulled on the reins to stop the bay when the lieutenant turned his horse broadside across the road and held up a hand.

"Do you come from West Point, sir?" asked the dragoon.

"I do."

"May I inquire after your name?"

"Christopher Groves." He almost added "Cadet," but caught himself in time.

The dragoon looked him over, taking in his civilian clothes, and the bulge of the dressing and sling beneath the coat, and Christopher felt the heat in his cheeks. He imagined that by now the whole country was informed of the ignominious end to his career as a West Point cadet.

"I am Joshua Singer, Lieutenant, Second Dragoons, at your service, sir. You are the gentlemen I have been sent to find."

"For what reason?"

"To deliver this." Singer brandished an envelope from beneath his tunic.

The envelope told Christopher nothing—it bore only "Christopher Groves, Esq." and "U.S. Military Academy, West Point" in a vigorous but quite legible and distinctly masculine hand. It was sealed with crimson wax bearing the emblem of an eagle with four arrows clutched in one of its talons.

The seal of the Republic! There was no mistaking it. Official business, then. But of what nature? Perhaps a reprimand. Just what he needed, to add to his misery. But it might be something else. Christopher tried not to be a pessimist. But, considering the way his luck had been running lately, he braced himself for the worst as he opened the envelope and extracted the single folded sheet of expensive vellum contained within.

Dated three days ago, the letter read:

      
Dear Mr. Groves—

      
Genl Jackson would be obliged were you to call upon him at the President's House at your earliest convenience.

      
It was signed "A. J. Donelson."

Andrew Jackson Donelson was Old Hickory's nephew
and personal secretary. His brother Daniel had recently attended West Point. General Jackson had taken the orphaned brothers under his wing. In fact, the childless president had adopted a number of young men, and loved them as he would have his own sons. Apart from the Donelsons and the legally adopted Andrew, there was Andrew's cousin, Andrew Jackson Hutchings, as well as Lincoyer, the Creek Indian whom the general had saved as an infant after his soldiers killed the child's parents during the campaign against the hostiles which culminated in the Battle of Horseshoe Bend.

Christopher was stunned. "What does this mean?" he wondered aloud.

"I'm sure I don't know," said Lieutenant Singer wryly. "I am not acquainted with the contents of the letter, nor do I wish to be. I am only its deliverer. It arrived at Fort McHenry yesterday and Colonel Roberts instructed me to hand it to you and offer any assistance you might require and which is within my power to provide."

Christopher had no thought of declining an invitation from the President of the United States. In the best of circumstances he would have been apprehensive about meeting Andy Jackson in the flesh, but he was doubly so now because he could only suppose that this letter had some connection with the duel and his dismissal from the Military Academy. Otherwise he would not have come to the General's attention at all.

"Thank you, but no," he said. "I can manage."

"If you don't mind my saying so, you don't seem much enthused by the prospect of meeting the President."

"Under normal circumstances I would be. But lately, circumstances have been anything but normal."

"You wouldn't care for some assistance?"

"No, thanks."

"You appear to have had an accident. I would be happy to drive you into Washington."

"It was no accident. And I am quite capable of getting there on my own."

"I have no doubt of that. Still, I wouldn't mind."

Christopher opened his mouth to decline yet again, but then, looking hard and long at Lieutenant Singer, he realized that the man's persistence had deeper roots than simple courtesy. Singer sought an excuse to visit the capital, and now that he had one he was going to hold on to it as tenaciously as a bulldog. Obviously he was in no rush to return to his post, and after two years of virtual incarceration at West Point, Christopher could sympathize.

"I promise not to ask any untoward questions," added the dragoon with a smile.

Christopher gave in. "Well, it is a bit difficult handling this thing with one good arm."

Singer took that admission for what it was. Securing his horse to the rear of the surrey, he climbed into the seat next to Christopher, took up the reins, and whipped the bay into action.

Christopher had never been to the nation's capital, but he had preconceived notion about it—notions which stemmed primarily from some of his father's old letters. He'd been five years of age when Jonathan Groves served in the United States House of Representatives, and in writing to Rebecca, who remained behind at Elm Tree, Jonathan had shared his often less than flattering observations of Washington with his wife. He had written of bogs and marshes, avenues filled with tree stumps, roads that dwindled into cow trails, a capitol that provided the men who occupied it with precious little in the way of comfort—they were either wilting in the sweltering heat of a Potomac summer or freezing in the bitter cold of winter, and were drenched when it rained because of a ceiling that persistently leaked like a sieve. In the early years of the republic it seemed that the
government itself was of too little importance to the people to deserve much attention. As a result, Washington had been neglected. For a long time it was a laughingstock of foreign diplomats as well as the American press.

This sad state of affairs had slowly but surely begun to change after the War of 1812. The British had burned part of the city, and when it came time for rebuilding, Americans decided their capital was worthy of more attention than they had given it before. The war had been a draw, and there were many who said it had accomplished nothing, but they were wrong—it had imbued Americans with a sense of national pride which had been lacking prior to the outbreak of hostilities. Before, people had spoken of
"these
United States" and they were Vermonters and Virginians and Pennsylvanians first and foremost. Now it was
"the
United States," and people were proud to be Americans. A nation which could stand toe-to-toe with the world powers needed a capital city that didn't embarrass them, and Christopher was pleased to find rows of nice houses and clean, orderly streets. They even had street lamps adorning Pennsylvania Avenue!

In 1828, Congress had authorized a report on the condition of the President's house prior to Andrew Jackson's arrival as the newly elected seventh President of the United States. The committee report concluded that the house was too run-down for the President to occupy. Since hog and cattle theft was rampant in the city, milch cows were kept in the west wing at night. During the day they grazed along the south fence. The stables were in an unfortunate location for those who were honored with an invitation to dine at the executive mansion—directly below the windows of the state dining room. The East Room, where Abigail Adams had hung her laundry out to dry, was still an empty, unpainted cavern of a room.

As Lieutenant Singer negotiated the surrey through
the dust and traffic of Pennsylvania Avenue, Christopher gazed in wonder at the stately mansion on the hill straight ahead. The house had been painted white to conceal the scorched stone resulting from the British attempt to put the place to the torch. He recalled that there had been quite a spectacle at the mansion on Andrew Jackson's inauguration day a year and a half ago.

For months prior to the event Washington was fast filling up with supporters of Old Hickory, many from the backwoods of Tennessee and Kentucky. The city's high society looked askance at this unwashed horde, and were shocked when the new president issued an open invitation to all the people to come see him that day at the White House. In prior inaugurations only the elite had been permitted into the President's house, but Jackson had decided to demonstrate that the presidency belonged to the common man—hence the invitation to one and all. Great numbers of people pushed into the house, filling the oval saloon and drawing room. The pounding of so many feet made the floors tremble. Jackson himself was soon in danger of being crushed by the unruly well-wishers. He was seen to gasp for want of air. Jack Donelson and other aides rushed to the rescue, hustling the old general unceremoniously through a window and into a waiting carriage, which transported him to his quarters at Gadsby's Hotel. The mob continued to scramble, fight, and romp through the house until late in the day. Jackson's opponents pointed to the debacle with disdain, claiming it to be ample evidence that the election of this unlettered, unwashed barbarian backwoodsman would usher in a reign of anarchy and mob rule. But, though it took weeks to clean the White House, not a single item turned up missing.

The city quickly returned to normal after the inauguration. Jackson moved to the mansion a few days later to begin his term. His first act was to hang a portrait of his recently departed wife, Rachel, above the mantel in
the presidential bedroom. Since then he had proven himself a competent president.

Christopher was surprised at the ease with which he and Lieutenant Singer gained entry into the President's house. It seemed the door was still open to anyone who happened along. They entered from the south, into a vast oval room furnished with a few settees and wing chairs lining the walls. The most striking feature of the room was the Gilbert Stuart portrait of George Washington, a beloved national treasure which Dolly Madison, with great presence of mind, had snatched up as she fled the British invasion sixteen years ago. Christopher shuddered to think of that portrait hanging on some wall in London. That would have been an unbearable national disgrace.