The Mountain

by David L. Golemon

  Collins looked at what Lee was holding and was satisfied that he was looking at a journal, surely not as old as the object below in the vault, but old; within a hundred or two hundred years would be his estimate.

  “Major, you are a student of your family lineage, correct?” Niles asked as he placed his hands behind his back, which he did every time he went into teaching mode.

  “Yes, my mother and sister have concluded we started somewhere in Ireland and came to the colonies in 1678; nothing before that, though. On my father’s side, they arrived even earlier.”

  “Military men—I must admit I never felt the calling, Major,” Niles said, almost apologizing for that fact. “Special people I have come to admire.” Niles turned and nodded at the book Lee held in his aged hand. “How many in your family have given the ultimate sacrifice, Major?”

  “Three, at least as far as my mother and sister’s limited history tells of both my father’s and my mom’s side.”

  “Yes, your file says Civil War, cause of death unknown. The Spanish American war, I believe you lost your great-uncle in Santiago, Cuba. And then finally your father in 1972, somewhere in Southeast Asia.”

  Jack remained silent, as he never spoke about his father to anyone. That area of his life was off-limits to anyone and everyone. He just continued to eye Niles Compton as he spoke.

  “This journal is from 1864 through 1865. It covers the event that brought the artifact before you back to these shores. It was written by a man much like you, Jack. A person such as yourself will be able to determine its value, its very validity. You’ll know after you study this what to think about that down there.” He waved at the Ark below them.

  “I have learned in life, gentlemen, that the same people who wrote stories about things like this”—Jack also gestured toward the ravaged vessel—“also wrote in journals, and they both usually have the same failing. If it was written by men, be it the Bible, the Koran, or anything else, it’s fallible. Men love to embellish. Stories told about things like this”—he nodded at the journal and then the Ark—“or that, are sometimes made more readable, more exciting if they just add this, or add that. No, I’m not a big believer in journals or the writings of ancient scribes who told tales of the power of God or the foresight of a single man.”

  Alice smiled and it was almost as loud as a shout. Jack looked at her and she stepped up to him and patted him on the shoulder.

  “I told them they would have to allow you to read the journal to make you a believer.”

  Lee held out the leather-bound journal.

  “What do you say, Major, a little light reading and then we’ll meet again to discuss your future with Department 5656. Fair enough?” Niles asked as Lee continued to hold the journal out for Jack to take, or leave it and the Group behind.

  Collins nodded and took the offered book, and before he could change his mind the trio left the major and exited the largest vault ever constructed.

  Collins watched them go and then slowly paced toward the viewing stand that served students when they were being taught in one of the varying tasks that the faculty had arranged for them. He sat and looked at the Ark below him, and then at the leather journal. He read the words in the lower right-hand corner that used to be inlaid with gold but were now just a discolored indentation.

  “John Henry Thomas, Colonel, United States Army, August 1864–April 1865.”

  Jack ran his fingers across the broken and cracked leather where the gold lettering used to be, and then again looked away and wondered why Lee, Alice, and Niles believed this would have any bearing on his decision. He took a deep breath and momentarily thought of the men and women he had lost just this past month in the desert. He closed his eyes, so desperately tired of writing letters to his dead soldiers’ parents, wives, or husbands. Collins was sorely tempted to leave the journal on the seat beside him and deliver his resignation to Compton. Instead he held onto the old book and decided that he would give the Group this one shot to sway his choice—to stay, or retire into a bleak future without the career he had chosen.

  He opened the one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old journal and started to read.

  PART TWO

  LOST SOULS OF THE POTOMAC

  .… They banish our anger forever when they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, waiting the judgment-day, love and tears for the Blue, tears and love for the Gray.

  —Francis Miles Finch

  (1827–1907)

  2

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  JULY 4, 1863

  The small man had been waiting every day for the past three years. Like clockwork he would arrive at 6:00 a.m., except on Sundays, and sit in the same chair patiently awaiting his name to be called. For three years it had not. The staff, including the president’s personal secretary, John Hay, even called the goofy professor by name, his form and figure had become so familiar.

  Professor Lars Ollafson had met with Abraham Lincoln the second week into his term as president. Every day since that meeting, the former professor from Harvard College had returned, hoping for the answers to his questions of three years before. The man had been patient.

  It was now past seven in the evening and most everyone had left the hallway where visitors and office seekers piled in to see the president. Ollafson sat alone, his old and battered leather case at his feet. His beard was growing long and looked as if it had not been trimmed in over a year. His clothes were looking ragged and unkempt. Ollafson was polishing his glasses when the door to the president’s office opened and John Hay emerged. He was reading a document when he looked up and frowned. The young secretary was saddened to see the old man still waiting to see the man who had tried to ignore him for the past three years. He grimaced and then approached the sorrowful soul sitting alone.

  “Professor,” Hay said as he stepped up to the old man and sat beside him. “The president sends his regards, but with the action happening in Virginia and with the festivities of the anniversary of our independence, the president just hasn’t the time to meet. I’m sure you can understand.”

  Ollafson replaced the old and bent wire-framed glasses on his small nose and inspected the youthful face of John Hay.

  “The victory of General Mead in Pennsylvania, was it as resounding a defeat for the southern forces as the newspapers claim?”

  Hay was taken aback by the inquiry. He sat back in his chair and looked the old professor over. He replaced the letter he was reading into his small case and then smiled.

  “Well, Professor, yes, it was a resounding victory for our boys and the president is absorbed in continuing the fight even as we speak.” He continued looking at the man who was now an outcast among his own kind. “However, Mr. Lincoln is quite adamant that General Mead follow up and destroy what’s left of General Lee’s army. There is some hesitation, I’m afraid, and we just may lose the advantage. So, that’s the main reason the president has very little time for other matters.”

  Ollafson squirmed in his chair but still made no move to gather his case and once more leave the White House without seeing the man he’d come to see. He pursed his lips and looked at the far younger secretary.

  “The president, he said … I would know the time. I believe now is that time.”

  “Perhaps it is not the exact victory the president once referred to, as many things have changed during these hard years.”

  “He said I will know the time,” he repeated.

  Hay exhaled and then slowly stood. “I know you’ve waited many years for this to happen, Professor, but the war has changed the president.”

  “That is why I must remind him. Now is that time he spoke of three years ago. It has to be now or others will see to it that it is too late to act. The history will be lost to others who will not share in the glory of the find. We must act and act now.” He stared straight ahead as he spoke, not focusing on anything other than the point he was attempting to make.

  John Hay looked down upon
the professor. “I’m sorry.” He started to walk away as the features of the old man drained of color. Hay made a show of clasping his small case as he paused on his way out.

  “I would say that the best chance you might have to see the president is when he sneaks out at eleven o’clock to visit the soldiers’ home on the outskirts of Washington City. Seeing his boys and asking if they needed anything calms him.” John Hay half-turned as he placed his case under his arm and adjusted his suit jacket. “But being Mr. Lincoln’s secretary, as I am, I would be remiss in saying that.” He started walking away from the silent and stunned professor, who watched the secretary’s retreating form. “Good evening, Professor Ollafson.”

  Ollafson just nodded his silent thanks and then reached for his leather case. He pulled out his pocketwatch, which had also seen better days, and noted the time. He had a long wait and he knew he couldn’t do it on the White House grounds.

  Professor Lars Ollafson knew where he had to be at eleven o’clock.

  * * *

  The professor had paid his cab fare and the carriage had left him at the dirt road leading to the soldiers’ home. The festivities of the Fourth had dwindled down to only a few shots being fired into the air by rowdies across the river. Every time a loud report sounded Ollafson would duck his head as the noise reminded him of the running fight with the dark forces four years before. Every night he had been visited since returning from the mountain, and his memories of those days and nights refused to fade from his old and tired mind. He would swear he could hear the screams of his friends and colleagues who died on the slopes and roads of that black place.

  The sound was so light that the professor almost missed it among the gunshots across the river. The horse’s falling hooves came to his ear and he forcibly tried to remove the memory of those days from his thoughts. He gathered himself and looked out upon the road, spotting a large brown roan approaching. The figure on the mount was clearly recognizable. His pant leg was hitched up far past his ankle, allowing Ollafson a good view of a white leg and beyond that, cotton long-johns.

  Abraham Lincoln rode easily and without movement as he made his way along the road to the old soldiers’ home. The tall hat he was known for was not on his head but was held in his left hand. The dark hair was tousled and his face was lowered as his thoughts carried the president to another place, another time. This nightly sojourn was the only time Lincoln had all to himself. His sneaking out was a secret he thought was shared with no one.

  Ollafson swallowed and then stepped out into the darkened road. Before he could utter his greeting another rider came springing out of the line of trees. Ollafson’s eyes widened behind his thick glasses as the second rider came charging toward him with a drawn weapon. The professor threw his hands into the air and stepped back as the rider thrust his mount past the president’s and came between him and the man in the roadway.

  “Stop or you will be fired upon!” the man said loudly as his horse slid to a halt.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Lincoln called out.

  “No, no, do not shoot, it is Professor Lars Ollafson, of Harvard Yard!” The professor actually hopped up and down several times in his anxiety over the thought of being accidentally shot.

  “Mr. Pinkerton, are you going to shoot a distinguished man of learning, especially when you are not even supposed to be here?” Lincoln said as he placed his tall stovepipe hat on his mangled hair.

  The heavyset man on the horse looked from the professor to the president. He un-cocked the double-shot derringer he held in his right hand as his own bowler hat came flying free of his bulbous head.

  “I had to see it for myself. You have gone against all advice; all of my warnings have thus far been treated like folly. You cannot do this, Mr. President. This sneaking out without escort has to stop!” Allan Pinkerton spun his horse around and then slid his small pistol into a shoulder holster he had secured under his black coat.

  “I see that my secret isn’t quite the secret I thought it was. What tipped you off, sir?” Lincoln asked in mocking kindness even though he was furious deep inside.

  “Mrs. Lincoln isn’t as preoccupied as you may believe, sir. She informed me of your clandestine activities several weeks ago and I have been following you every time you leave the White House.”

  “So, my own wife is the spy. I should have known.”

  “Now, for you, sir, who are you and why are you here?” Pinkerton sprang from his horse and roughly searched Ollafson for any weapons. Allan Pinkerton’s eyebrows rose when he pulled a brand-new navy Colt revolver from Ollafson’s coat. Even Lincoln raised a brow when the weapon was shown to him. But still the president remained silent. “And what was the plan for this?” he asked the much smaller man. Ollafson was still too shocked at Pinkerton’s sudden arrival to answer without stuttering. “Well, man, speak, will you?”

  “I … I … I … am afraid of…” Ollafson lowered his head in shame.

  “Come on, man,” Pinkerton said as he lightly shook the professor.

  “From what I’ve heard, the professor here has an inordinate fear of dark places. Does my memory fail me?” Lincoln asked as he clumsily stepped down from his horse with one leg momentarily getting caught in a stirrup. He straightened and then walked up to the pair. The moonlight allowed him to see the professor’s frightened face. Lincoln reached out and patted Pinkerton on the arm until he released the old man’s suit collar. The president reached out and took the Colt revolver from the security man, looked it over, and then handed it back to Ollafson, who was just as stunned as Pinkerton.

  “Mr. President, you cannot—”

  “Far be it from me to remove an item that makes a man feel more secure. After all, Mr. Pinkerton, I have you.”

  Ollafson took the offered weapon and then placed it back into his coat pocket.

  Pinkerton reached down, retrieved his bowler hat, and angrily placed it on his head. He turned to face the president.

  “All right, I did not want to do this, but I’m going to inform Mrs. Lincoln about this … this … security debacle, and let me say, sir, she will not be pleased.” Pinkerton started to turn away and move toward his horse.

  Lincoln smiled down upon the much smaller Ollafson.

  “That woman has not outwardly been pleased for the past three years, especially with me.”

  Pinkerton ignored the remark and then pulled himself onto his horse. He spun the animal around and faced the two men.

  “Don’t come-a-hollering when those Johnny Rebs lie in wait and ambush you both. I guarantee you won’t be laughin’ and foolin’ around then, will you?” he said as he spurred his horse and sped away.

  Lincoln closed his eyes and then paced toward his horse and took up his reins once again. He was getting ready to step into the saddle when Ollafson spoke.

  “You promised. It is time, Mr. President.”

  Abraham Lincoln lowered his head and wrapped the leather reins around the pommel of the McLellan saddle. He took a deep breath.

  “Your expedition has already been approved by my office, Professor,” Lincoln said as he finally pulled himself up into the saddle.

  Ollafson was stunned at the quiet announcement. He didn’t know how to proceed. He didn’t know if it was worse when he thought the president was ignoring him or the fact that the decision had already been made and he was to be left out.

  “And … and you were not going to inform me?” Ollafson said, his heart sinking.

  Lincoln placed both hands on the saddle’s pommel and then gently patted the horse on his thick neck. “It was thought that with your current … your current ties at the university, it may not be in good security conscience to allow you to go. I am sorry, Professor. My secretary of war says he will not support me in this if you are included on the expedition. Your foreign ties are what stand in the way of his trust.”

  “But, but I am an American. I have my papers proclaiming this! Why am I not included? I am loyal to the Union.”

  “It’s
not your loyalty as an American, Professor, it is your former acquaintances and colleagues that scare Mr. Stanton. It was hard enough to get that old war dog to see things my way, Professor. If I lose his support, we lose the expedition.”

  “Mr. President, the expedition needs me. I am a loyal American and I no longer have those friends, those acquaintances, nor the colleagues. Why am I being left behind?”

  Lincoln lowered his head. “I’m afraid our little secret is not the secret it once was, my good professor. It seems there have been loose tongues wagging about.” Lincoln shook his head sadly. “But when are there not wagging tongues in this bullet-hole-riddled vessel we call Washington?”

  “Mr. President, I—”

  “Professor Ollafson, the British government has somehow received word that we may be interested in a region of the eastern Ottoman Empire, and you and I both know they will go to untoward lengths to see us embarrassed. And if this information leaks to our very opinionated press corps, I am afraid I will not only be laughed out of office before my task is complete, but we will also lose all national credibility after this madness ends. If you are involved, the British will know exactly what it is we are trying for, and we just cannot have that. I promised certain people, north and south, that this would not be the case. I am truly sorry. You will be in on the final drafting of the orders but will not participate. I have to think about the young boys I am sending on this voyage. I will answer to them and them only.”

  “Mr. President, if I could only—” Ollafson pleaded.

  “Ride with me for a spell, Professor. It’s been so long since I spoke to a man with so many letters after his name that wasn’t seeking a posting, or this office or that one.”

  Ollafson looked up at the thin man on the horse and then saw the tiredness written on every line of the man’s face. Since 1860, when the professor first met the president, Abraham Lincoln had aged. One hundred years’ worth of worry and pain were etched in those deep-cut wrinkles.