Antebellum BK 1 Read online

  “What do you have to do that’s so pressing?” Jack asked while Marina continued to smolder.

  “Just do it for us,” Thomas said. “You owe us that much for rescuing you from Santa Anna. I brought a whole damn regiment down here to save you.”

  “Jack should still be recovering from yellow fever,” Robert added. “But he left his new bride, got out of his sick-bed, and came all the way down here, just for you.”

  “Dad would want you to come back with us,” Jack argued.

  “Okay, okay,” Marina agreed covering her ears with both hands. “But just for a few days.” She dropped her hands to her side and looked from one of her sons to the other. “Dammit. I’m fine.”

  April 22, 1848

  West Point, New York

  The cadet major pushed open the double doors and shouted into the study hall. “Cadet Van Buskirk!”

  Quincy Van Buskirk came to his feet, ramrod stiff and chin tucked. “Sir.”

  “You’re wanted at Quarters One Hundred. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Quincy gathered his books and hurried toward the doors. Quarters One Hundred, better known as the “Supe’s Quarters”, was the home of the Superintendent of West Point. Cadets were only invited to Quarters One Hundred to receive bad news, such as their imminent dismissal from The Point. As a West Point plebe, Quincy had distinguished himself by receiving a record ninety-nine demerits. Now, in his second year, his nickname, “Pug”, which stemmed from both his pugnacious attitude and his pugilistic skills, was like an albatross around his neck. As a consequence of these facts, it was with great trepidation that Quincy climbed the steps of the big Georgian mansion and raised the brass doorknocker.

  Superintendent Henry Brewerton opened the door himself and ignored Quincy’s salute. “Come in, Van Buskirk.”

  Quincy removed his hat, placed it under his arm and stepped into the entryway, still trying to think of what he may have done recently that might merit dismissal.

  “Come into the parlor and have a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Brewerton led him through a set of double doors. “You’ve not been here before, I think.”

  “No, sir. I have not.”

  Brewerton sat down in a comfortably worn armchair and gestured toward another. “We dispense with most of the military formalities here. Sit.”

  Quincy perched on the chair at rigid attention with his hat properly in his lap and said nothing.

  “I have bad news, I fear,” Brewerton cleared his throat. “Your grandfather died as a result of actions at Chapultepec in the Mexican War.”

  Quincy nodded.

  Brewerton was a bit taken aback by the lack of reaction. “I gather that you and your grandfather were not close.”

  “Perhaps not as close as either of us would have liked, sir. Do you know if my mother has been informed, sir?”

  “I’m quite sure that she has,” Brewerton replied. “Would you like to go home for a few days to be with her?”

  “She no longer resides in New York, sir.”

  “Oh? Where is she? Back in New Jersey or Washington?”

  “I cannot say for certain, sir. She was in Washington working on John Quincy Adams’s anti-slavery committee. She may have returned to the family home in New Jersey after President Adams died. I’ve not heard from her since then.”

  “Why, it’s been two months since Adams died.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is it usual for your mother to be out of contact with you for so long?”

  “Nothing about my mother is usual, sir.”

  Brewerton squirmed a bit uncomfortably and decided to change the subject. “You’ve no doubt heard that the Mexican War is over. The treaty is not yet signed, but the fighting is at an end.”

  “Yes, sir. I read it in the newspaper.”

  “What are your uncles going to do now?”

  Quincy considered the question for a moment. “Well, sir, my Uncle Jack will stay in the army as long as the army will have him. Probably Uncle Robert too. Uncle Thomas only accepted a temporary commission for the duration, so I’m sure he’ll go back to his ranch in Texas, sir.”

  “And your Uncle William?”

  Quincy looked surprised. “My mother’s brother William is a thief and a murderer, sir. He’s not been an army officer for some years now.”

  Brewerton was obviously embarrassed. “Forgive me. I had no idea. I knew he was an academy graduate and… I had no idea.”

  “My uncle’s villainy isn’t something that my family is proud of, sir. We don’t speak of him.”

  “No. I suppose not.” Brewerton shook his head. “A thief and murderer you say? Really a thief and murderer - or are you exaggerating?”

  “It’s no exaggeration, sir. You may have seen some sensationalized stories in the press and pulp novels about a Texas outlaw called Lucky Billy Van.”

  “Lucky Billy Van is your Uncle William?” Brewerton asked incredulously.

  “Yes, sir. If I graduate, I hope to be assigned somewhere along the southern border so I have an opportunity to kill the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Now, now. I can understand that he’s shamed your family, but…”

  “It has nothing to do with honor, sir. He shot down my stepfather in cold blood and I intend to get revenge.”

  “Your stepfather, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. His name was Charles Lagrange. He was a captain in the Texas Rangers and a fine man. He set out to arrest Lucky Billy Van, but had no idea that he was chasing my Uncle William until he actually saw him. According to eyewitnesses, my stepfather was talking to him and had his hands raised when my uncle shot him in the face. It was cold-blooded murder.”

  Brewerton was troubled by Quincy’s vehemence. “I had no idea that you were dealing with so many personal problems. Perhaps that explains some of your difficulties here.”

  “I’m fine, sir. Please don’t dismiss me.”

  “Dismiss you? Whatever for?”

  Quincy offered no reply, deciding that suggesting a reason for his own dismissal was not the best idea.

  “You’re an excellent student, Van Buskirk,” Brewerton said after a moment, “and I think you’ll be an equally excellent leader – if you can learn to control that temper of yours.”

  “It is a struggle, sir.”

  “And not particularly unusual in a West Pointer, I might say.”

  “Really, sir?” Quincy looked hopeful.

  “Yes, really. Robert E. Lee, who will replace me here as superintendent when he returns from Mexico, struggled with that very character flaw and graduated at the top of his class with no demerits.” Brewerton stood up, signaling the end of the conference. “If you need a little time to… Well. Just let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m fine.”

  May 3, 1848

  Van Buskirk Point, New Jersey

  Anna Van Buskirk Lagrange and Anna’s life-long best friend, Nancy Vreeland, were in the small family cemetery behind the main house. Both women were forty-two years old and trim of figure, but Nancy, a natural beauty, looked ten years younger. She was leaning on the headstone of the first John Van Buskirk while Anna was digging a hole beside it to inter the ashes of his son, John Van Buskirk, her father, who had been better known as Yank. “This is stupid,” Nancy said.

  Anna looked up. “Why?”

  “Because there’s no reason to do it now. Let the fellow who delivers and sets the tombstone bury the urn. Or better yet, do it with some ceremony befitting your father’s memory.”

  “I don’t want the urn in the house.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “You’re not scared of ghosts or something, are you?” Nancy giggled.

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.” Anna jumped on the shovel with both feet, driving it deep into the loamy soil.

  “You’re not behaving like someone
who’s fine.”

  “Isn’t that just like my mother?” Anna asked, ignoring Nancy’s bait.

  “What?”

  “To send me Father’s ashes by parcel post with a letter in the box.” She turned up a shovel full of damp earth.

  Nancy tried to conceal another giggle. “She was probably upset and never thought that you might open the urn before you read the letter.”

  Anna shuddered. “I always thought that a person’s ashes would be like – fireplace ashes. But there were pieces of bone or…” She shuddered again. “…something else. Teeth, maybe. I don’t want that urn in the house.”

  Nancy walked to the next gravestone. “Does Quincy know about your father?”

  “Who?”

  “Your son – Quincy.”

  “I don’t have a son.”

  Nancy rolled her eyes. “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “I read a letter from him in March.”

  “March? Is he okay?”

  “He was in March.”

  “He hasn’t written since March?”

  “He writes. I burn his letters.”

  “Why?”

  “In his March letter he said that I seemed more troubled by the death of John Quincy Adams than I had been by my husband’s. I get enough ridicule from the rest of the family; I don’t have to take it from Quincy.”

  “Charlie LaGrange was the only father Quincy ever had, Anna. He was devastated by Charlie’s death.”

  “And I wasn’t?”

  Nancy shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re like your mother and hide everything too well. It’s easy to imagine that Quincy might consider your lack of outward emotion as cold and uncaring.”

  Anna didn’t answer.

  “I know that your father doted on Quincy. Maybe Quincy – I mean – he’s lost both of the men that he loved. Shouldn’t you go to West Point and tell him that his grandfather’s dead before he reads it in the newspaper?”

  “No.” Anna shook her head.

  “We’ll pass right by West Point on our way to the Seneca Falls Convention. We could stop for a night and…”

  “No, Nancy. I’m not speaking to Quincy again until he apologizes.”

  “How can the boy apologize if you burn his letters?”

  “Besides, I may not be going to the Seneca Falls Convention.”

  Nancy made a face. “Why?”

  “Because Lucretia Mott is turning the focus onto women’s suffrage and away from abolition.”

  “You just don’t like her because she’s a Quaker, Anna.”

  Anna kept digging and ignored the remark.

  “Henry Stanton will be there as will Frederick Douglass.”

  “The Stantons live in Seneca Falls. Attending is no inconvenience for them.”

  “Don’t do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Try to distract me with meaningless drivel,” Nancy said angrily. “My point was that if the Stantons and Frederick Douglass attend the convention it will be impossible for Lucretia Mott to derail the abolitionists.”

  Anna sniffed.

  Nancy pushed her hair back under her cap. “But, if the truth be known, I’d be happy to see some public support for women’s rights.”

  Anna stepped down into the hole to begin scooping out loose dirt. “So would I. After the slaves are freed.”

  “If you’re going to worry, you should be more worried about Elizabeth Stanton than Lucretia Mott. Elizabeth says that she won’t support Negro voting rights until women can vote.”

  “Negro voting rights is another issue entirely, Nancy. Let’s get them out of chains first.”

  “Damn.” Nancy kicked a headstone.

  “What?”

  “You did it again.”

  “What did I do?”

  “A double misdirection. You distracted me from the point of visiting Quincy.”

  “I’m not visiting Quincy and that’s all there is to it.”

  Nancy watched her for a time before speaking again. “How deep are you going to dig that hole, Anna?”

  Anna looked up at Nancy but then shifted her gaze to the path where a black man, with a hoe on his shoulder, was walking toward them. “Bloody hell. I should have told Abraham about my father,” she whispered.

  Nancy turned toward the man, raised her hand in greeting and smiled. “Hello, Abe. I haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “Hello, Nancy.” He gave her a cursory nod and opened the wrought iron cemetery gate. “What on Earth are you doing, Anna?”

  “I’m sorry, Abe. I was upset and…” Anna pointed helplessly at the pasteboard box near her grandmother’s headstone.

  Abe walked to the box, picked it up and took out the urn. “Who is this?” he asked with obvious trepidation in his voice.

  “Father,” Anna replied after a long moment. “I’m sorry, Abe. I should have come to you at once.”

  Abe examined the urn for a moment, then put it down and began to fill in the hole that Anna had dug by dragging dirt into it with his hoe.

  “What are you doing?” Anna asked.

  “Yank will have a proper burial with a minister and mourners,” he said, wiping a tear from his cheek. “You ladies go on back to the Big House now, and I’ll tidy up here. Granny’s grave needs weeding and…” He wiped away more tears. “Go on now, before I embarrass myself altogether.”

  Nancy was already headed for the gate. Anna dropped her shovel and followed. When they were out of earshot, Anna looked back. “God forgive me. That was callous of me. I never even thought about Abe and his family.”

  Nancy glanced back too. “He really took it badly. It broke my heart to see how hard he was trying to fight off tears.”

  “My Great-Uncle Thomas was like a father to him and he loved my father like an older brother. I should have thought of him right away before…” She shook her head. “I spend so much time defending the rights of Negroes and then forget the people right here who’re part of our family.”

  “I’ve always meant to ask you. How did they end up with your last name? Were they slaves?”

  “Sally was. You remember Old Sally, don’t you?”

  “The witch?”

  Anna giggled. “She wasn’t a witch, just very old and very wise.”

  “She was a slave?”

  “Yes. Way back when. But the ancestor of ours who bought her later freed her.”

  “What ancestor?”

  Anna shook her head, unable to remember the name. “He was a surgeon and apothecary.”

  “The Loyalist colonel during the Revolution?”

  “Yes.”

  “His name was Abraham Van Buskirk, Anna,” Nancy supplied, rolling her eyes. “Just like Abe.”

  “Oh dear, Abe must be named after him,” Anna said in surprise.

  “Comes the dawn,” Nancy giggled.

  “Now, how would I know that?”

  “It’s logical that Sally would want her grandson named after the man who gave her family their freedom.”

  “Don’t give that old Tory too much credit. He bought Sally because of her knowledge of herbal medicines and then he set her free after he’d patented many of her concoctions.”

  “And her descendants took your last name as their own.”

  “Yes. That is, I suppose so. I never thought about it.”

  “Is Abe an employee?”

  “No, no. Whatever he does here he does voluntarily.” She looked thoughtful. “Or perhaps he does get paid something. I’ll have to check on that. In any event, he doesn’t need the money. My great-grandfather deeded the house that Abe lives in, the farm and all the land on New York Bay to Sally and her family. Although it’s small, I think the farm produces a very good income for the three of them.”

  “That was a mighty generous gift of your great-grandfather. That land on the Bay is worth a fortune.”

  Anna shrugged. “Our cemetery would be much larger and our family would be much smaller without Sally.”

 
The women reached the main house, climbed the steps and sat down in side-by-side rocking chairs on the front porch.

  Nancy reached over and took Anna’s hand. “I’m sorry about your father. I’ll miss him.”

  “I will too,” Anna blinked away tears. “With Father dead and Mother staying in Mexico, who am I going to fight with?”

  Nancy chuckled. “You always find someone to fight with, Anna. If you’d been born male you would have surely gone for a soldier.”

  Anna looked toward the graveyard. “Nancy. Do you think we should ask Abe and Ginger to come with us?”

  “Where? To the Seneca Falls Convention?”

  “Yes. They might like to meet Frederick Douglass.”

  “I thought you weren’t going.”

  Anna made a face. “If I go.”

  Nancy shrugged. “Ask them and see what they say. And Ginger’s son Samuel too.”

  “Umm. Yes. I forget that he’s a grown man.”

  “You are aware that men won’t be invited during the first day, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. No men during the first session on the first day.”

  “That’s stupid.” Anna shook her head.

  “Stupid or not, that’s the way it is.”

  “In that case, I’m not going.”

  “Well I am,” Nancy huffed. “And I’ll ask Abe, Ginger and Samuel if they want to go with me.”

  June 3, 1848

  Camp Crawford, Laredo, Texas

  Texas Ranger Captain Josiah Whipple walked in to his commanding officer’s office and waved a handwritten page at him. “This ain’t a legal order, Major, and I damn sure ain’t gonna obey it.”

  “We can’t just let the entire population of Laredo move across the river to start a new town in Mexico, Captain,” the Major replied.

  “It ain’t the whole population; it’s seventeen families. And we got no legal right to stop ‘em from movin’ wherever they wants to go. We just fought a war to guarantee freedom to these folks. Now yer askin’ me to take it away.”

  “When approved, the Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo will cede Laredo to the United States.”

  “And in a local referendum, the citizens of Laredo voted ten to one in favor of returnin’ it to Mexico.”