Gone to Texas (2 page)

Why the bad blood between his father and Stephen Cooper? Christopher had learned the details from his grandfather, Nathaniel Jones, the legendary Kentucky frontiersman they called Flintlock. His mother had been consistently adamant in her refusal to discuss the past, or at least that part of it. Apparently, Stephen Cooper and Rebecca had been sweethearts before Jonathan appeared on the scene. But a Shawnee war party had kidnapped Rebecca, and almost killed Cooper in the process. Jonathan played a role in her rescue. He and Rebecca fell in love. After lingering for months at death's door, Cooper had finally recovered—and promptly disappeared. Folks said he was never the same after the Indian attack—that there was a clearly discernible mean streak in him, and from then on he would suffer berserk fits of rage without provocation.

Cooper resurfaced some years later, having married into the Vickers family, a family of considerable wealth and influence. Daniel Vickers, Emily's father and Cadet
Vickers' uncle, owned several plantations and was a power to be reckoned with in the Mississippi Valley. Bent on revenge against both Jonathan and Rebecca, Cooper embarked on a campaign of terror, murdering two of the slaves who worked at Elm Tree, the Groves plantation in Madison County, Kentucky, and posing a very real threat—or so Jonathan believed—to Rebecca as well. Jonathan had felt honor-bound to call him out.

"Christopher! Christopher Groves!"

Two cadets stood on the ramparts above him, silhouetted against the bright blue afternoon sky. They had to call several times to rouse him from his brooding.

"Stay there! Wait for us!"

Christopher waved acknowledgment. He recognized them both. Gil Bryant and John O'Connor. Like Christopher, they were second-classmen, and his roommates. Of the ninety-one cadets who had entered West Point with Christopher summer before last, nineteen had dropped out before the end of the first year, and a dozen more had failed to make the grade this year. Such a high mortality rate created a strong camaraderie between the surviving classmen, and Christopher considered both Gil and O'Connor friends. Especially O'Connor. The red-headed son of an Irishman was often brash, and sometimes bold to the point of sheer recklessness. His temper was notorious. But he was an engaging, outgoing, and fiercely loyal friend. His academic marks left much to be desired, but Christopher knew that O'Connor was capable of much better. He was just the kind who exerted the minimum effort necessary to squeak by.

A hundred feet north of where the two cadets stood was a footpath which connected the ramparts with the broader path upon which Christopher was walking. The cadets negotiated this treacherous descent at breakneck speed. Christopher rocked slightly back and forth on his heels, falling prey to impatience; his keenly accurate
mental clock ticked away precious seconds. He did not fancy a demerit just because Gil and O'Connor wanted to pass the time of day with him.

But it was much more than that, as Christopher soon discovered.

"The superintendent wants to see you," gasped O'Connor, breathing hard from what had been a long run from the mess hall.

"What? Now?"

"Right away. He sent us to fetch you."

"But what about formation?"

O'Connor flashed that rakehell grin of his. "There's no way out of it, bucko. When Old Silly wants you your goose is cooked."

Christopher grimaced at the butterflies in his stomach. "Old Silly" was the common barracks nickname for Sylvanus Thayer, but there was nothing even remotely humorous about the superintendent. He was a stern, austere man, a hard disciplinarian. Unlike some of his predecessors, he ran a tight ship. Christopher admired and respected him, but was also afraid, because when a cadet was summoned before Thayer it was, as O'Connor had so succinctly put it, usually the case that his goose was cooked.

"What have you done?" asked Bryant, who looked more than a little worried for his friend.

"That's what I'm wondering."

"Oh, come on," said O'Connor, with a sly wink. "You can tell us."

"I'd tell you if I knew," said Christopher, wracking his brain for the answer.

"Oh, yes, pure as the driven snow," jibed O'Connor. "I tell you what I think, Gil. It has something to do with Miss Inskilling."

"What about her?" asked Bryant, seeing that O'Connor intended to have some fun at Christopher's
expense—good-natured fun—and playing his role as the Irishman's foil to the hilt.

"Well, you must be aware that Miss Greta's father and Superintendent Thayer are very good friends. You are also undoubtedly cognizant of the fact that our friend here has been seeing a great deal of the lovely lady. Maybe you've seen a bit more of her than her father thinks proper, eh, Christopher, you sly devil?"

Christopher would have taken offense at the remark and all it implied, had it come from anyone else. But he knew O'Connor meant no disrespect.

"You're just jealous, O'Connor."

"Aha! You see, Gil? He admits it."

"I don't admit anything."

"Well, you didn't deny it."

"I wouldn't dignify such an absurd statement with a denial. You're green with envy, that's all, because a young lady of Greta Inskilling's caliber wouldn't give you the time of day."

"You think not? Why, I take that as a challenge, Cadet Groves. I have made a point of not exerting my considerable charms upon the lady in question, out of respect for your tender sensibilities. But if you challenge me, as you most certainly have—and Gil here is a witness—then perhaps I ought to teach you a lesson in humility. I daresay that in a fortnight I could make Miss Inskilling forget you even exist."

"That will be the day."

O'Connor laughed heartily. His joviality was contagious, and Christopher, despite the sobering prospect of being called before Superintendent Thayer, laughed along with him.

"Come on, Johnny," said Bryant. "We'll be late for formation."

"Right." Putting on a somber face, O'Connor offered his hand to Christopher. "It's been a pleasure knowing you, Cadet Groves. I shall always treasure our
friendship. Rest assured I will perform an annual pilgrimage to your final resting place."

Christopher scoffed and slapped away the proffered hand. "I'll dance a jig on your grave."

It was a long-standing, if somewhat morbid, joke between the two of them.

"Let's go, Gil," said O'Connor, and took off running down the path in the direction of the riding hall.

Christopher watched them go, the smile born of his witty skirmish with O'Connor fading from his lips. What could Thayer want with him? Whatever it was, no doubt it meant trouble. There was but one way to find out. Christopher ascended the steep footpath to the ramparts. At the top he squared his shoulders and marched resolutely across the parade ground, making for the superintendent's house.

Chapter 2

Christopher couldn't shake the feeling that he was going to his doom. Try as he might, he could not anticipate the subject which Sylvanus Thayer had summoned him to discuss. Not that this would be a discussion, per se. A cadet did not
discuss
anything with the superintendent of the United States Military Academy as though he were an equal. The superintendent did the talking and the cadet responded with "Yes, sir" or "No, sir" at the appropriate times. Christopher was fairly certain that he had not broken the rules of West Point. That left three alternatives. Either he was going to be falsely accused of some infraction, or ordered to betray one of his fellow classmen—he was aware of plenty of infractions perpetrated by his fellow cadets. Or, it did indeed have to do with Greta Inskilling.

None of the options was especially appealing. Christopher decided that the first one would be the least difficult to endure. Although he did not approve of some of the illicit activities of his classmates, he would never rat on any one of them. Not even Adam Vickers, who hated him. And what if O'Connor was on the mark about Greta? What if this did concern her? Christopher had long ago surmised that Greta's father was less than pleased with his daughter's preference, among her many beaus, for a lowly West Point cadet.

Piet Inskilling could trace his New World roots back to the development of New Netherland as a trading post
colony in 1624. Christopher was painfully aware that in those days his ancestors were still dirt-poor Welsh tenant farmers. The Dutch were never interested in colonizing New Netherland. They built a handful of forts—one of them, Fort Orange, here on the Hudson River. Dutch traders bartered with the Indians for their furs, and New Amsterdam, on Manhattan Island, became the center of the early fur trade. It also became a base for Dutch merchant ships involved in the budding Virginia tobacco trade, as well as for Dutch privateers who preyed on Spanish galleons as far away as the Caribbean. New Amsterdam became a typical sailor's town, with numerous taverns, havens for smugglers and other notorious characters, as well as a number of substantial houses owned by the money men. One of these was Piet Inskilling's great-great-great grandfather, a merchant who dabbled in everything from furs to tobacco to stolen Spanish gold.

In 1638, the States General of the Netherlands tried to encourage settlement by issuing the Charter Privileges to Patroons. Anyone who brought five hundred tenant families to New Netherland at his own expense was given a vast tract of wilderness, over which the patroon exercised manorial privileges. Soon, the most valuable land in the Hudson Valley was held in immense feudal estates—one of the grandest belonging to the Installing family.

But New Netherland did not prosper. It suffered poor management—a succession of autocratic governors, including the wooden-legged Peter Stuyvesant, a distant relative of Piet, who mismanaged the colony's affairs, antagonizing the Indians as well as the English colonies to the north and south. Stuyvesant persecuted the Quakers, seized the colony of New Sweden on the Delaware River, and ended the free trade policy of New Amsterdam. In naval and commercial competition with the Dutch, England finally made its move in 1664. That year
a British fleet appeared off New Amsterdam and demanded a Dutch surrender. Without the means to mount a viable resistance, Stuyvesant complied, and New Netherland became New York without a shot having been fired. Most of the Dutch families—the Van Rensselaers, Van Burens, Roosevelts, and Inskillings—kept their estates and prospered under British rule.

The clannish patroons tended to guard their bloodlines rather jealously. Piet Inskilling was no exception. True, Christopher stood to inherit a Kentucky estate, but Elm Tree was inconsequential when compared to the vast wealth and holdings of the Inskillings, and it didn't really matter anyway, because Piet wanted his daughters—Greta was the youngest of three—to marry the sons of other patroons. Greta's older sisters had complied with their father's wishes, but Greta was being willfully disobedient, as was her nature, in persisting with her flirtation with Cadet Groves. Or so Piet Inskilling perceived it. Christopher sincerely hoped it was more than a flirtation, much more. He thought Greta considered it more serious than that, too, but he wasn't absolutely sure.

So maybe O'Connor was right, mused Christopher. Maybe old Inskilling had prevailed on his good friend Sylvanus Thayer to take a hand in the business. As he neared the superintendent's house, Christopher's lips thinned, a grim and obstinate expression on his face. His personal affairs were none of Thayer's business. By God he would quit the Corps of Cadets before he would allow even the superintendent to interfere in his private life.

Just shy of his destination, Christopher suddenly faltered. What was he thinking? He wasn't even sure he really loved Greta Inskilling. True, she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and he was flattered by her interest, but he wasn't even sure what love was, and he had to consider whether she was worth throwing
away his future, especially since it was entirely possible that her interest in him would turn out to be fleeting. He had always wanted to be a soldier. What other career path could he follow? Politics? No. Politics had corrupted his father. It had taken Jonathan Groves away from his family and forced him to compromise his values for the sake of appearances. Elm Tree? He could raise horses, but he was a poor businessman. Besides, Elm Tree enjoyed a good reputation but not much else. His mother had a difficult time keeping the place afloat financially. West Point seemed to be his only avenue, the sole means by which he could make something of himself. And he was thinking of throwing it all away for . . . what? Love? Or foolish pride?

A commotion drew his attention to the cadet barracks across the vast parade ground. His comrades were boiling out of the doors to form ranks in the bright May sun. He watched them, and longed to be among them. Formation—standing in the hot sun or the bitter cold, depending on the season, in full dress uniform—never had appealed to him as much as it did at this moment.

The door to the superintendent's small, white clapboard house opened and Sylvanus Thayer emerged. With his shock of pale hair and hooked nose and stiletto eyes he looked like a bald eagle appearing suddenly out of its aerie. He was clad, as usual, in an impeccable uniform, braid on the high stiff collar and sleeves of his tunic, epaulets on his narrow shoulders, a saber buckled around his waspish waist.

Christopher snapped to attention, a reflex action. But Thayer did not seem to notice him at first. The superintendent glowered across the parade ground at the long gray line of cadets formed in front of the gray stone barracks. If he was pleased by what he saw, his expression did not reveal it, but then he always looked stern and disapproving.

Finally his cold blue eyes flicked down at Christopher.

"Ah, Mr
_.
Groves. Punctual, as always. Come, walk with me."

Thayer started off with long, vigorous strides, hands clasped behind his back, saber rattling against his leg. He kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, and seldom looked up. Christopher had to lengthen his own stride just to keep up.

"So, Mr. Groves, you are doing quite well this year. The President has asked about you."