In a blur, the doomed man was pulled straight back off his feet. A hand was placed over his mouth as a blade dug into his side. The man’s feet buckled under him. Swiftly, the blade flew from his side and then plunged into the hapless soldier’s heart.
Major Alexander Scott knelt there for a moment, holding onto the body of the slain man. He felt no remorse for his actions. The Confederates had been shelling the Union lines for the past several nights, causing fearful casualties among the men jammed into the open trenches. It had taken Scott three days of moving around the Confederate lines at night to discover where they were moving their powerful cannon to each night.
His tall, athletic frame was hidden under a mix of Confederate and civilian attire. He was under no illusions; if he were caught, he would be shot out of hand as a spy. With a quick glance behind, Scott decided to drag the lifeless body behind the abandoned train station and then leave the body there. Dashing back to the tracks, Scott checked that the charges he had placed under the tracks were still ready. Looking down the tracks, Scott could just make out the mighty steel behemoth slowly making its way towards him. Judging the speed of the train combined with the distance still left to go, Scott decided to cut off several inches from the fuse.
Ever so slowly, the train grew larger.
Striking a match underneath his hat to hide the flame, Scott lit the fuse and then crawled back from the train tracks. Taking cover in a nearby wood line, Scott dropped to one knee and watched as the iron-encased gun carriage rumbled down the tracks. Scott crossed his fingers and hoped that he had timed it right.
The ground began to tremble as the massive beast approached.
Unexpectedly from up on the tracks another voice called out.
Scott cursed. Another sentry must have been walking in front of the train. The man was no doubt looking for his missing comrade. He was bound to find the slow-burning fuse. Stepping out from the woods, Scott took a breath to calm his racing heart, drew his knife, and then walked straight towards the soldier.
The Confederate soldier stopped on the tracks. Something wasn’t right. His friend never wandered off when he had a job to do. Pulling back the hammer on his rifle, he saw a man coming down the tracks towards him, a lantern in his hands.
Relief replaced fear. It could only be his friend. As quietly as he could, he called out.
“Where you been Billy?” asked the soldier. “The sergeant will have your hide if you were smoking at night again.”
Scott didn’t respond. He waited until he was less than a few yards from the soldier before he dropped onto one knee, throwing his knife straight into the shocked man’s chest.
With a wet-sounding thud, the blade struck home.
Instantly, Scott was up on his feet. He ran over to the dying soldier still standing there staring wide-eyed, struggling to breathe. Reaching over, Scott pulled the man off the tracks, and then as quickly as he could, he finished the man off. There was no time for subtlety. Leaving the body just off the tracks, Scott ran back to his hiding spot, praying that there were no more sentries walking down the line ahead of the train.
He barely made it back under cover when the outline of the iron-encased cannon placed in on a flat car directly in front of the train’s engine rumbled into view. In all the confusion, Scott realized that he had lost count in his head, but was certain that the fuse could only be seconds away from detonating.
The train slowly moved down the track.
Scott bit his lip. He began to fear that he had not timed it right that perhaps the train was going to make it by unscathed. Doubt gnawed at him, when suddenly in a bright flash night turned to day, and hell broke loose. The charges laid under the track exploded; a wall of flame and destruction tore out from the ground beneath the train and soared into the night sky. The gun carriage had passed over the charge, but the train’s engine had not. With an ear-splitting boom, the engine pitched up off the tracks and then spilled over onto its side, pulling the heavy iron gun carriage off the tracks with it. Scott saw men blasted apart by the explosion or crushed to death under tons of steel as the train and the gun carriage rolled over onto their sides.
There was no time to admire his handiwork. Soldiers would be coming to see what had just happened. Scott had to leave. Walking back deeper into the woods, retracing his path, he came to a clearing, where his dark chestnut horse waited patiently for him under a tall fir tree. Quickly changing back into his blue Union uniform, Scott looked around to make sure he was not being followed, and then, like a ghost, he disappeared into the night.
Chapter 3
Constantinople, Turkey – July 1864
An uneasy feeling of being followed was back. Nervously looking over his shoulder for the hundredth time today, Robert O’Sullivan saw no one even remotely suspicious looking behind him. There were only a couple of children noisily chasing one another down the narrow side street. Yet the feeling was there. It was as real to him as the aged leather-bound book clenched in his old hands. Turning a sharp corner, Robert stopped and then peered back around the corner of the building. All he saw were the same children still merrily laughing and playing with one another. Letting out a deep sigh, Robert shook his head and then took out a handkerchief to wipe his sweaty brow. The sun may have been going down on the horizon, but the heat never seemed to drop very much in Constantinople.
Professor Robert O’Sullivan was a diminutive man in his early sixties. He had a full salt-and-pepper beard, which stood out because of his smooth, baldhead. Behind a pair of thick glasses were a pair of dark-green eyes that kept looking down at the book in his hands. He had it…he had what he had been searching for all of his adult life and now there was no doubt, he finally had the proof.
A wave of relief swept over him as he hurried inside his hotel. With a quick wave to the front doorman, Robert practically raced inside the lobby.
He was safe.
His heart was racing. Taking a moment to compose himself, Robert walked over and checked in with the front-desk clerk. The man politely told him that he had no correspondence waiting for him, not that Robert expected any; no one knew where he was, and he intended on keeping it that way. With his room key in hand, he made his way to his room on the second floor. Arriving at the door to his room, he inserted his key and then pushed open the door. Instantly, his blood turned to ice in his veins.
Fear filled his mind. His room had been ransacked. Standing at the threshold to his room, Robert hesitated. Who would do such a thing? A loud clicking sound by his ear made him freeze in place. Slowly, he turned his head and looked straight into the barrel of a pistol aimed at his head.
“Good day, Professor O’Sullivan, I have wanted to meet you for so long,” said a voice in English with a strong French accent. “I’ll take your book, please.”
Robert, his eyes fixed on the pistol barely an inch from his face, his hands shaking like a leaf in the wind, handed over the book.
“Step inside,” ordered the voice.
Robert stepped back. Regret filled his heart. He thought that he had hidden his tracks so well…he had come so close. Questions raced through his mind. How could this have happened and who was this man?
The door closed behind them.
An hour later, a waiter from the hotel restaurant bringing Professor O’Sullivan’s usual nightly meal knocked on the door. There was no answer. Opening the door with his master key, the young man stood there shocked at the state of the room. All of the furniture had been turned over; Professor O’Sullivan’s clothes had been shredded to pieces and strewn about everywhere. Cautiously stepping inside, the waiter called out.
There was no reply.
The room was empty.
During the investigation by the local authorities, no one could ever recall seeing the professor leaving the hotel. It was as if he had simply vanished into thin air.
Chapter 4
Washington, D.C. - August 1864
A light evening rain fell, cooling down the busy city from yet ano
ther unbearably hot summer day. In the distance, the sound of a military band played, serenading a throng of people who had braved the weather to hear the nightly concert in the park.
With the Civil War still raging, the capital had ceased simply to be a place of government; it now resembled an armed camp with tens of thousands of blue-coated soldiers guarding the heart of the Union.
A closed carriage pulled by a pair of black horses made its way along the dusty street. A pair of young children suddenly ran out of nowhere chasing a ball. The carriage driver yelled at the kids. Screaming for their lives, they darted out of the carriage’s way. A short while later, the carriage stopped outside of a brick two-story home, surrounded by thick green hedge fence. The lone passenger got out, paid the driver, a white-haired African American gentleman, and then with a polite nod to the driver, a man dressed in a dark-blue uniform turned about and walked down the cobblestone path leading to the front door of the house. Stopping outside, the man removed his blue kepi, nervously fidgeted with his tunic for a few seconds and then once everything was as it should be, he rapped loudly on the door. A dog barked loudly from behind the door. A deep male voice shouted disapprovingly at the dog. A second later, the door opened. Standing there in a well-pressed black butler’s outfit was a portly middle-aged African American gentleman. A smile instantly broke on his face the instant he saw a man standing in the light drizzle.
“Oh my, it’s so good to see you again, Mister Scott,” said the butler, enthusiastically.
“The pleasure’s all mine, James,” replied Scott as he thrust out his hand in greeting.
James happily shook Scott’s hand before stepping aside and letting him enter the house.
“Mister Brown will be so happy to see you again, sir,” said James, remembering back to the first time he saw Scott as a rambunctious young child. Now Scott stood in the doorway as a grown man…a soldier and an officer no less.
“Yeah, I suppose it’s been a while hasn’t it?” replied Scott.
James took Scott’s hat and placed it down on a side table. “Mister Scott, you have been away too long.”
“Yeah, it has been a few years,” replied Scott, not realizing how much time had passed.
“Please wait here, sir,” said James, still happily beaming at seeing Scott. “I’ll announce you.”
“James, before you do that, are there other gentlemen here tonight?” asked Scott, looking at several other military hats hanging on the wall.
“Yes, sir, aside from your godfather, there are two other gentlemen here.”
Scott became curious, since when he had received a letter earlier in the day asking him to come by for dinner tonight there had been no mention of anyone else coming. Recently promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, Alexander Scott had arrived in Washington a couple of days ago. He was going to take command of a newly raised regiment of volunteers. Not quite thirty years old, he had thick black hair, a handsome weathered face with a pair of deep-blue eyes. He stood just over six feet tall and had the solid build of a man who prided himself on keeping in shape. Growing up out west, he had learned to ride and shoot at an early age. His father, a highly successful and driven businessman, was rarely around when Scott was growing up; it was his mother, a petite woman from a prominent Montreal family, who raised him and given him his love of travelling and an ear for languages.
“Alex, come in here,” boomed a voice from the living room. Instantly, Scott recognized it as his godfather’s.
Stepping inside, Scott saw his godfather, Daniel Brown, standing there with a broad smile across his dark bearded face. It seemed to Scott that everyone in Washington was sporting a beard these days. Standing beside him were two Union officers: a heavyset, bearded major general and a slender, clean-shaven, almost bald colonel.
“Good evening, sir,” said Scott, eagerly shaking Brown’s hand. “It has been too long since we last had the opportunity to speak,” Scott said, before turning and nodding politely to the two senior officers in the room.
“You look good, Alexander,” said Brown. “No lingering issues?” asking about a wound Scott suffered during an ambush, the previous year.
“None, sir,” replied Scott, rubbing his left shoulder. “It was a clean wound, but I swear I have a built in barometer now. This weather, especially here in D.C. is really bothering my shoulder.”
Brown chuckled and then turned to introduce his two other guests. “Alexander Scott, may I please introduce Major General Stewart Clinton and Colonel Paul Girard from the War Department.”
Scott firmly but politely shook the other officers hands, wondering to himself what was going on. After a few minutes of small talk, James announced that dinner was ready. Scott’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten since this morning.
Dinner was a succulent mix of roast lamb and boiled potatoes with carrots and peas smothered in butter. Scott hungrily devoured his meal, while chatting with his godfather and the other officers about the war and his part in the recent struggles around Atlanta. Scott, naturally suspicious of people who puffed out their chests when they spoke of the war, downplayed his part, praising the real heroes instead…his men. After a scrumptious meal was finished and cleared away, Brown ushered his guests back into the living room, where James poured everyone a glass of port and then left them for the evening.
Scott picked up his glass and stood. “To the Union,” said Scott proudly.
“To the Union,” echoed the other men.
Everyone took a sip of the rich tasting liqueur and then sat down. Brown sat back in his favorite chair and lit up his pipe, while General Clinton and Colonel Girard lit up foul-smelling cigars. Scott declined one; he had never smoked a day in his life and did not intend to start now.
“Now, Alexander, you must be curious as to why I asked you to come here tonight,” said Brown, taking a long drag on his pipe.
“I wasn’t, sir, until I saw these two gentlemen waiting in here with you,” replied Scott. “No offense meant by that remark,” Scott said civilly to the other officers.
“None taken,” replied General Clinton cordially.
“Alexander, have you ever heard of The Secret Service?” asked Brown.
“No, sir, if I had they wouldn’t be very secret, nor good at their job,” said Scott with a smile.
“Touché.”
General Clinton nervously looked around the room as if he expected there to be other people there and then leaned forward, speaking barely above a whisper, and said, “Lieutenant Colonel Scott, what we are about to discuss can never be repeated outside of this room.”
“I understand, sir,” said Scott, taken back by the need for secrecy.
“One of my main responsibilities in the War Department is to run The Secret Service operations for General Grant. Colonel Girard here,” said Clinton, waving to his aide, “is a former Pinkerton’s man and was brought on board to help set up and steer our operations.”
Scott looked over at the decidedly bookish-looking colonel and was surprised to think that he was one of Pinkerton's handpicked men. Pinkerton’s Consulting and Investigations agency was already famous throughout the country well before the war began. Tough and hardened men recruited to track down and apprehend train and bank robbers all across the United States. Scott could hardly believe that Girard was one of these legendary agents, but as he had learned the hard way of the past few years, looks surely can be deceiving.
“Mister Scott, have you ever heard of a Professor Robert O’Sullivan?” asked Girard.
“No, sir, I have not,” replied Scott with a shrug. “Should I have?”
“Not unless you went to Harvard,” said Girard. “He was a Professor there before the war broke out. When Virginia seceded from the Union, Professor O’Sullivan and his daughter decided that their loyalties lay with their home state. So they moved back home to his family estate just outside of Richmond, where they have lived quietly these past three years.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I am not s
ure what any of this has to do with me,” said Scott as he took a sip and downed what was left of his port.
“We’ll get to that shortly,” said General Clinton brusquely.
“Alex, just let them finish my boy,” added Brown, with a look that told Scott to be patient.
“Now, as I was saying,” continued Girard. “Professor O’Sullivan was this nation’s expert on biblical studies and has now gone missing.”
“From Richmond?” asked Scott.
“No, he was last seen in London, England, about two months ago,” added General Clinton.
Scott was struggling to understand how any of this was his or the Union’s concern. “Gentlemen, if he chose Virginia over the Union, then surely this is an issue for the Confederates, not us,” said Scott bluntly.
“On any given day, I would agree with you, Lieutenant Colonel Scott, but today is not one of them,” said Clinton.
Scott’s godfather leaned forward in his chair and looked over at Scott. “Alex, as you know, I am one of President Lincoln’s private secretaries. When word arrived from our ambassador in England that Professor O’Sullivan had been seen there poking around several museums and churches in London, it was all deemed to be harmless. However, when he disappeared from sight, the President, don’t ask me why, suspected foul play and vowed to find him no matter what the cost might be. For you see, my boy, he is just not a professor of biblical studies. He is also a close friend of President Lincoln himself.”
“Well, that clears up some of it,” said Scott, starting to see a pattern emerge. “But how does this involve the Army’s Secret Service or me for that matter?”
Clinton said, “President Lincoln approached us to find a way to discreetly find Professor O’Sullivan and return him to the States as soon as possible. I should add that your godfather, and I are old friends from college, so naturally he and I spoke about this issue in some detail over dinner a week or so ago and that is when your name came up, Mister Scott.”
The Devil's Path (An Alexander Scott Novel Book 1) Page 2