Wherein Jon Kettering meets a man who will later … much, much later … become very important.
Monterey was the largest settlement in California, then – and perhaps the prettiest of all the towns, all set about a neat plaza; all built of the usual mud brick adobe but the folk there took care to whitewash the walls of their houses, which made a sparkling contrast to the rusty-red tile roofs. There was a sandstone church, too – a cathedral, they told us – with a galleried tower and a curving façade that shaped like a fancy bedstead. All around was green, pine trees gnarled by the ocean breeze into fantastic shapes. A party of soldiers in blue uniforms was at drill in the open plaza in front of the Governor’s House – that was where we were told that Colonel Marsh would be found. I decided then that I never wanted to be in any Army, after watching the soldiers tramp across the dusty plaza in a tight-massed group while another soldier – one with a bright red face and some yellow stripes on his sleeve bellowed, “Left, right, left right … harch!” and called them names and used words so abusive that Ma would purely have washed out my mouth with soft soap for saying them.
“Pa, don’t them soldiers know how to walk proper?” I asked, as we waited at the open door to the governor’s house. Colonel Marsh’s assistant, Lieutenant Sherman had told Pa to wait after Pa explained his business. “If they do, why do they have to learn it all over again?”
“I don’t know, rightly,” Pa replied, just as Colonel Marsh’s assistant returned, and showed us into the hallway. There were a couple of chairs with seats of woven rawhide, a single bookshelf, and a desk for Lieutenant Sherman to work at, next to the door which led into the Governor’s private office. This Lieutenant Sherman was a young man with red hair falling over a wide forehead and chin-whiskers. All that hair untidily cut, as if someone had given him a going-over with sewing shears. His unform was a nicer one than the soldiers outside at drill – it fit him better and looked to be made of finer cloth. There was a sword in a long scabbard leaning against his desk, so I guess it was too awkward managing a sword and a chair and a desk all at once.
Lieutenant Sherman had sharp, discerning eyes on either side of a beaky nose, and he said to Pa, “Mr. Kettering – the Colonel will see you now … but privately. I’ll wait with the lad. You’ll have only twenty minutes, so make it brisk; as governor here, he doesn’t have time to waste.”
I started to follow Pa, but Lieutenant Sherman had closed the door on Pa’s back. He gestured towards one of the chairs and sat himself down at his desk. We looked at each other for a long moment. The front door to the plaza stood open, letting in fresh air from outside, and the distant sound of those soldiers at drill being yelled at. I felt kind of silly, just sitting there and kicking my heels against the chair legs, but I couldn’t stop the question that popped into my mind.
“Do you really like being a soldier?” I demanded.
Lieutenant Sherman had already taken up a pen, dipped it in an open inkwell, and began writing – the pen made a scratching sound on the paper. I could see that my question took him by surprise.
“Well … yes, mostly, I do. Wish I had been sent to Mexico with General Taylor, though – instead of being sent here. It was an interesting journey, though. Most of my friends went to Mexico, to fight. In comparison, it seemed pretty … ornamental being Colonel Marsh’s assistant. I wonder if strings were pulled on my behalf.” He corked up the inkwell, and I think for the first time, he really looked at me. “I knew there were Americans settled here in California … men, mostly. Not many women and children.”
“I’m not a baby,” I replied, a bit indignant. “I’m almost nine years old. I’ve been helping out my Pa build a sawmill … and Mr. Reed said I’m almost as good a rider as his vaqueros.”
“Well then, how long have you been in California? Where did you come from before?” It sounded as if he were fishing around to make conversation to fill the silence. I could hear Pa’s voice, but faintly – not loud enough on the other side of the door to hear his words, and what he was explaining to Colonel Marsh.
“We’ve been in California for nigh on two years, sir.” I replied. “Pa and Ma and my sister Sally came from Ohio, before that. Mount Gilead, Marion County. Pa was the wagon captain of our party, after we decided we didn’t like the first captain. Major Persifor, be called himself. He said he had studied at West Point. He wanted to shoot all the dogs.”
“Ohio? I’m also from Ohio – Lancaster! We were neighbors, almost. Your Major Persifor seems to have been an obnoxious man, to talk of dog-killing,” Lieutenant Sherman brushed his hand over his red hair, and grinned at me, after making a face at the mention of West Point. “Probably did well to get rid of him. You don’t need to call me sir – you can call me Cump, like my friends do.”
“I’m Jonathan, like in the Bible,” I said, as this seemed very like a proper introduction. “But most call me Jon. Why do your friends call you Cump? That’s a name I never heard before.”
“I was christened William Tecumseh; Tecumseh after the Shawnee chief – my father greatly admired the noble character of the man, and there were too many other boys named William when I was growing up. When someone yelled for William or Bill, half the lads in town answered! Going by Cump just seemed simpler.”
I decided that I really rather liked Lieutenant Sherman – Cump, as I had been asked to call him. It seemed an uncommon liberty to me, being invited to call a grown man by that very curious name – I was certain that Ma and Pa would not approve, but in a way, I felt that I might be honest with him. Perhaps he might explain about soldiering.
“Why do they have to march,” I said, looking out at the group of dusty blue soldiers at drill, and being yelled at by the red-faced fellow with all the yellow stripes on his sleeve. “Don’t they already know how to walk?”
“They have to learn and practice keeping in step,” Cump answered patiently, as if it were a logical thing.
“But why?” I persisted, and Cump sighed.
“Because they have to learn to follow orders without thinking about it, over-much.”
“But why?” I asked again. Cump threw a look at me and ran his hand through his hair.
“Because if they thought too much about the orders, maybe they wouldn’t obey at all,” he explained. “It’s the thing, Jon – sometimes soldiers have to do things as a matter of duty that they wouldn’t do if they stopped and thought about it.”
“Why?” I demanded, as this didn’t seem very sensible to me – and why would any sensible man volunteer to go soldiering.
“Because in battle soldiers have to obey their commander, who likely know more about the war at hand, and the objective to be gained,” Cump explained. “Because the commander will know the situation, better than the men in the ranks. That’s why.”
“I don’t think I would like that very much,” I confessed. “I’d want to know at least as much as a commander before I got into a battle.”
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