Dugan angrily removed the leather chinstrap from his mouth and then turned that anger on Gray Dog. “And you, you think you’re impressin’ people with that purple shirt the colonel got ya? Well, let me tell you, you don’t wear a Comanch’ breastplate over it. And what’s that, your official dress feather hanging there?”
Gray Dog looked from the scene before him and turned his gaze to the feather hanging from the middle of the bird-bone breastplate over his shirt. He fingered the feather and then looked curiously at Dugan.
“Like talkin’ to a rock,” Dugan said as he turned and watched the colonel.
Thomas took young Parnell by the shoulder and moved him out of the way as he confronted the sergeant and the private. Through the thickly slatted gate he noticed a lot of activity in the yard of the prison. He turned to one of the women after Parnell angrily stepped aside.
“Ma’am, Colonel John Henry Thomas. What is this all about?” he asked with a tip of his upturned hat.
The woman came close to curtsying but caught herself. She was middle-aged and was wearing mourning black with a veil over her face. She angrily turned to the two guards.
“Sir, this is Wednesday, and our ladies’ group has permission from your war department to bring in medicine and extra food for those poor delusional souls inside the prison. These men will not allow us to pass,” she said as the other women, many of them older than the first, started to agree, shouting angry epithets at the men at the gate. “We do this because many of these mothers and wives have husbands and sons at places like Andersonville Prison. Perhaps if we feed and take care of their sick, they could possibly do the same for their boys.”
John Henry wanted to say that although noble in act, this was not a very realistic proposition, but as he looked at the faces of the many anxious women at the gate, he decided now was not the time to inform these women that the South was on the verge of starvation.
“I’ll see what I can do, ma’am,” Thomas said as he touched the brim of his hat. He stepped around the woman and then faced the arrogant sergeant. As he stepped up he gestured behind him for Dugan, making a movement with his thumb and index finger. Dugan saw this and immediately removed the string from his flapped holster. Gray Dog immediately moved his horse to the far side of the column and without anyone noticing he dismounted and disappeared into the shadows of the large trees lining the front of the fort.
“Sir, I have my orders,” the burly sergeant said.
“Lieutenant Parnell, have your marines dismount, please.”
Parnell smiled as he gave the command. The twelve marines did as ordered and lined up behind the lieutenant.
John Henry never looked behind him to see if his order had been obeyed. He simply stared at the well-fed sergeant before him. His blue eyes cut deeply into the man’s black ones.
“In thirty seconds, if that gate remains closed I will give the order to open fire on your men. Is that understood, Sergeant?”
The heavyset man looked around at the suddenly anxious marines to his front, who seemed to relish the thought of firing on his men. He knew the marines at Fort Hamilton had been wary of everyone from the camp, simply because of the rumors that floated about Brooklyn concerning cruel punishments and murder inside the prison. He swallowed as he turned and took in the dangerous man before him.
“But, sir!” he protested.
“Lieutenant, deploy two-man fire teams, we will assault and then enter the prison on my command,” Thomas said, still staring at the bearded sergeant. Dugan actually drew his Colt revolver from its holster.
“Sir, I have orders that no one—”
The sergeant felt the knife at his throat. He had failed to notice the Indian who had vanished a moment before. Gray Dog had used the heavy shadows of the thick trees to get close enough that his own guard detail did not see him. The bowie knife had been a gift from John Henry and it was Gray Dog’s most prized possession. The knife dug in and Thomas and Dugan both didn’t know how Gray Dog could see anything because the bulk of the sergeant obscured everything except the shiny blade. The private standing next to the sergeant stepped back. The women gasped and moved as far away from the gate as they could.
“Open the gate,” the sergeant said without moving his head.
The private turned and gestured behind him. The large doors of the gate finally started to crack and then it opened. Thomas smelled the prison before really laying eyes upon it.
John Henry returned to his horse and mounted. He ordered the marines to do the same.
“Gray Dog, leave him be. He’s decided to be a soldier again,” he said as he spurred his horse forward. He tipped his hat at the women who were watching. “Ma’am, I’ll see what I can do about getting you in.”
Gray Dog vanished along with the knife. The sergeant spun around, but saw nothing as the Comanche disappeared as fast as he had arrived. As the sergeant gingerly touched the line of blood at his throat he was amazed to see Gray Dog had already mounted and was riding past him without so much as a look.
As the escort rode through the gates, more than one of the marines had pulled a kerchief from their uniform jackets to place over their noses. The mud-caked parade ground was awash in bodies laid out in the afternoon sun. The colonel quickly counted twenty-two.
“Jesus, Colonel, what in the hell went on here?” Dugan asked as he took in the scene. He kept his pistol free of its holster. Gray Dog was the only one of the command group who wasn’t shocked by what he was seeing. After all, he had seen the army’s work many times before.
John Henry saw the makeshift and rickety scaffold at the center of the parade ground. Seven men were lined up on the top and they all had ropes around their necks. There were also several Union guards and an officer staring at him from on high.
“What is the meaning of this? The camp is closed to all outside personnel.”
“You come down from there, you dirty son of a—”
“Sergeant Major!” Thomas said, not too loud. Dugan looked put out and disgusted.
“Who is in command here?” John Henry asked as he stepped from the saddle once more.
“I am in command, and who, may I ask, are you, sir?”
“Come down here and report, Mister,” John Henry said, loud enough that all of the camp heard, even those prisoners lined up to witness the executions. The colonel’s eyes roamed over the seven men about to be hanged. One was being supported on shaky feet by a younger man. John Henry immediately recognized who he was looking at and became furious. He waited as the major who was overseeing this punishment descended from the scaffolding. John Henry quickly turned to Parnell. “Lieutenant, send a man to Fort Hamilton. I want two companies of armed marines here immediately.”
“Aye, sir,” Parnell said as he gave the order to one of his men, who was more than happy to leave the stinking interior of the prison.
The Union officer in immaculate dress came down and stood before Thomas, refusing to salute him.
“Sir, while you are in my prison, I must inform you that there is no higher authority than mine, and this punishment is being carried out in accordance with camp procedure and military law.”
John Henry remained looking at the man on the scaffold being supported by two of his own. He appeared only semi-conscious. “Sergeant Major, check on those bodies, please.”
Dugan quickly dismounted and went to the long line of men who were lying in the stinking mud of the camp. He leaned over the first few.
“Shot in the back.” He moved the brown and mud-caked hair of a young Confederate soldier. “Also shot once in the back of the head.” He straightened. “Over half of these men were murdered, Colonel. Looks like they were shot from behind, and those that didn’t die right off were executed,” Dugan said as he took in the spit-and-polished officer who was arrogantly staring at Thomas and his men. The sergeant took a menacing step toward the first guard he noticed was standing too close. The man backed away three steps. Dugan smiled and then spit a long stream of tobac
co juice from his bearded face. “That’s about what I thought, you bunch of heroes.”
The marines under the command of Thomas could not believe what they were seeing. The blood from the dead men mixed with the mud produced by the storm the night before, and the sight made them sick to their stomachs.
John Henry handed his reins to the closest marine, and then placed a hand on Major Freeman’s shoulder and pushed him brutally away. The major backpedaled and then fell backward into the mud. This brought cheers from the starving men lined up to watch the hanging. As for Freeman, he was stunned to the point he couldn’t talk.
“Lieutenant Parnell, this man is to be placed under arrest.” Thomas didn’t wait. He made his way to the scaffolding. “Relieve all noncommissioned officers of sidearms and keys. They are also under arrest.”
With a smile Parnell jumped to attention. “Yes, sir!” he said, giving the army salutation instead of the navy way.
Thomas walked up the stairs slowly. Gray Dog was right behind him. The Comanche didn’t understand fully what was happening, but he saw the intense sorrow on John Henry’s face and knew that his friend and protector had been deeply saddened.
“Cut these men loose,” he said to Gray Dog, and then moved as quickly as he could toward the first man in line, who was being held up by a private in a butternut-colored jacket.
“Those men were wearing Union blue during their escape attempt, and their commanding officer was caught inside the headquarters gathering intelligence. Thus they are being hung as spies, so you have no right to interfere with—”
Dugan lightly rapped the major on the top of his head with his Colt. “Hush now,” he said as Freeman grabbed the top of his hat where it was now indented from Dugan’s blow.
“Ow,” was all he could say.
Gray Dog pushed the first guard away rather brutally, sending the man tumbling down the wooden steps to land in the mud below. Another tired and worn cheer erupted from the gathered prisoners. The Comanche started cutting the ropes and releasing the men.
Thomas looked at the boy holding up the officer. He nodded at the boy as John Henry removed the rope from around the man’s neck and then the private’s. He allowed the officer to fall forward and Thomas eased him onto the mud-covered decking of the scaffold. The black hair was blood soaked and the eyes nearly swollen shut. Suddenly the green eyes flashed as the man tried to sit up. “No,” he said in a barely audible whisper. “Not my men, it was me!” This came out a little louder.
“Easy,” John Henry said as he tried in vain to wipe some of the blood away. The green eyes were barely visible through the swelling but John Henry hoped the man could see him nonetheless. The wounded officer raised a hand, took a filthy grip of Thomas’s tunic, and pulled him close. “Hang me, not them.”
“No one is getting hanged today,” he said, as even Gray Dog had stopped to watch the exchange. Thomas removed the grip of the man’s hand and then looked at the face and how it had aged since he had last laid eyes on him.
It had been in Texas in 1861. They had served together chasing Kiowa and Comanche who were raiding frontier farms and ranches along the Brazos and the Cimarron. When the war began, like most of the professional officers at the time, they had said farewell as the war divided the army like nothing before. This man had been called home to Virginia, himself to the Army of the Potomac and Washington. From the looks of things they had both taken a bad road and now were here together again.
“Jessy. Jessy,” he said as quietly as possible.
The eyes tried to open but the swelling kept them mostly closed. The green eyes, bloodshot through and through, opened as best as they could. They focused on the clean-shaven face before them.
“John … Henry … Thomas,” Taylor whispered, and then the eyes closed.
Thomas laid Taylor’s head down and then stood to face the men below.
“This prison is now mine.” He saw the arrival of fifty U.S. Marines as they entered the post at a rapid pace and in formation. They split off as if on cue to cover not the prisoners, but their guards, who started to lay down their weapons in the mud. The bayonet points looked very menacing. These were not unarmed and defenseless prisoners—these were marines and they looked the part. Thomas then looked down at the major, who was still holding his head where Dugan had tapped him.
“This action is illegal,” was all he said.
“Sergeant Major, place this officer into submission, and you do not have to be gentle about it,” he said as his eyes grew with the fire he was feeling in his gut. “Place him in irons and then have the marines escort him to Fort Hamilton. The same for the noncoms. For now, allow that ladies’ group in to care for these men, make sure they are fed.” Thomas stood and then pulled Dugan in close. He looked at the lined-up bodies of Confederate murdered lying in the mud and grime of the parade ground. “And get one of these marines to get the New York Herald over here before officialdom takes charge. People need to know about this.”
“Still won’t be a lot of sympathy for the Rebs, you know that. Our boys fare far worse down south.”
“Do as ordered, and make sure those ladies are forewarned of what they will encounter this side of the gate. Is that clear?”
“It sure is, Colonel Darlin’.”
“You don’t have that authority,” protested Freeman. “I was appointed by General McClellan himself.”
John Henry knew the letters tucked inside his tunic at that moment made him the most powerful man outside of the White House. Instead of telling the major the predicament he was in, he watched as Gray Dog with the help of two marines assisted Lieutenant Colonel Taylor from the scaffolding.
Thomas’s second-in-command might not see the sun set that day.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Claire had been sleepless since the meeting the night before had broken up and she and Professor Ollafson were escorted to the Willard Hotel. While lying awake in her room she had heard sounds in the hallway outside her door. When she cracked it open she spied Colonel John Henry Thomas, a gruff little man in sergeant’s stripes, and a third man dressed in leather leggings and a purple shirt walking down the empty hall toward the stairs.
Throughout the sleepless night she had deep and disturbing thoughts about the artifacts Ollafson had surprised everyone with that night. The images of the Angelic symbols flew through her mind and each vision gave her uncontrollable chills. It was as her mother used to say about a goose walking on one’s grave.
After her futile hours chasing sleep, Claire ended up in the hotel’s dining area. She had just finished her morning tea and was about to make her way back to her room when she saw a familiar face staring at her from the corner of the room. The brazenness of the man never ceased to amaze her. The French master spy was sitting in the dining room with no more fear than a man would have at his own breakfast table. Their eyes only met for a moment before Claire left the dining room.
Madame Claire had been in her room less than five minutes before the light knock sounded on the door. She knew the game she played was the most dangerous in the world. She removed her long, sharp hatpin, took a deep breath, and then made her way to the door and cracked it open an inch, making ready her hatpin weapon.
“Are you going to wait until I am discovered lurking in the hallway like a forlorn lover?”
Claire swallowed when the man spoke in his unfettered and unaccented English. She opened the door and stepped back to allow the Frenchman in.
Paul Renaud walked toward the desk and then tossed his hat on its polished surface. “Generals, generals, generals everywhere. They ply the waters of Washington like a grouping of sharks smelling blood.” He smiled. “Each one wants to become the next man in charge.”
Claire closed and then locked the door. “I suspect that Mr. Lincoln may have found the right man in this General Grant. I believe he may make short work of the South. The president seems to like him very much.”
“Speaking of the apple of the president’s eye, what have
you learned about our colonel from the west?” he asked as he made his way to the sofa and then sat. He touched the material and grimaced as he rubbed his fingers together with a sour face. The Willard was not exactly the Knickerbocker Hotel in Manhattan.
Claire slowly pulled the light blue gloves from her hands and then tossed them on the bed with her unpacked luggage. She took a deep breath and then made her report.
“The man, unlike most military professionals, keeps his private opinions to himself, so that makes him a very hard read. But you can tell the president trusts him like no other, even his closest advisors.”
Renaud looked curious. “And why is that, do you think?”
“From what I could learn, this Colonel Thomas has been associated with Mr. Lincoln for nearly fifteen years. The army and the railroads assigned him to be Lincoln’s personal bodyguard during the president’s legal days when he represented the railroads in several hard-hitting litigations. From what I hear they are extremely close. So close that Lincoln actually intervened when Thomas faced a general court-martial on charges of dereliction of duty and disobeying a direct order of the commanding general at Antietam.”
“Yes, I seem to have read something about that when last in Paris. I understand that caused a rift between General McClellan and the president.”
Claire turned and wanted to smile at the small man but stopped herself. It seemed she knew something he didn’t. “No, the rift between McClellan and the president is a little deeper than that. Thomas was on the fast track for a star on his shoulder-boards before the incident. Who knows, maybe even eventual command of the Union forces? Lincoln has that much confidence in John Henry Thomas.”
“All right, they have their man and now we have him. Now, you and the professor, are you in on the expedition?”
Claire walked to the credenza and poured herself a glass of water. She feigned taking a drink and then turned to face the most dangerous man she had ever met. That was when the thought struck her. It had come to her only a half hour since she had seen Angelic Script on the petrified wood. She shuddered as the image of the symbols blazed into her mind.
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