The Mountain

by David L. Golemon

  “The object of this exercise, gentlemen, was to get out some of that animosity you have stored up for each other. Like this.” Just as Taylor hit the top step, Colonel John Henry Thomas punched him right in the jaw, sending the colonel flying out and off the quarterdeck and into the arms of a stunned Parnell and several Rebel soldiers who were just as shocked as the marine lieutenant. Thomas shook his hand in pain. “You see, now my frustrations have been relieved and my animosity has magically vanished.” Thomas took the steps quickly and then assisted Taylor from the arms of the men who had kept him from hitting the deck.

  “That was for the night you broke your word to me, Jessy. Don’t ever do it again,” Thomas said so that Taylor was the only one to hear.

  “Next time let me in on the plan,” Taylor said and then stopped suddenly. “And by the way, John Henry, you’re right about one thing—frustration, animosity, it does get to you.” He turned and faced the colonel.

  “Your point, Jessy?”

  “This.” The punch caught the colonel totally unaware. The blow sent Thomas spinning until he was finally caught by a smiling Sergeant Major Dugan and held in place as John Henry wiped his own nose free of the blood he had just spilled. “That was for my sister.” Taylor tuned and walked away.

  “Goes to show you, Colonel Darlin’, never give a Reb an inch or he’ll end up taking a mile.”

  “Oh, you’re just full of great offerings, aren’t you?”

  Dugan straightened the colonel and made sure he was stable and then he smiled.

  “I try to be, boyo, I try.”

  * * *

  Gray Dog had been in the ship’s high rigging watching what he considered even more white-man insanity as the fight was about to start below. Suddenly the Comanche looked from the scene below to the stern of the ship. He didn’t know what had attracted his attention but a chill coursed through his bronzed skin as if a sudden cold snap had surrounded the Yorktown. The wind was strong enough that the nine enormous sails were full and billowing. Gray Dog knew the chill had not come from the weather. His eyes remained fixed on the stern of the ship. There was something either on deck or just below, he could not figure which.

  Just as Taylor had stepped to the center of the mob below, Gray Dog silently slid down a rope and onto the ship’s railing, startling a marine guard who gave the strangely dressed Indian a wary look. Gray Dog went below, hesitantly at first because he didn’t like the confinement of the interior nor its varied navy smells, usually preferring clean air to breathe. He never would understand how men could live like this. He slowly eased himself down the steps and into the semi-darkness as the fight erupted on deck. He didn’t notice the shouts and the yells as his eyes adjusted to the blackness that accompanied his initial steps inside.

  He looked to the stern and saw the passageway that led to the captain’s quarters, and he even saw shadows of movement inside and suspected it was Ollafson and the woman, Claire. He heard a noise and the door opened and the small man, Cromwell, stepped from the cabin. Gray Dog stepped farther back into the shadows as he watched. Cromwell closed the door and then stood rooted to the spot for a moment, and then Gray Dog saw him lean over and listen at the door. The man then straightened and rummaged into his coat pocket and brought out what looked like a hand mirror. Gray Dog’s eyes narrowed as he watched the man move toward the stern staircase heading for the aft quarterdeck. Gray Dog was curious if this was why his senses had told him to come below. He started to follow and then suddenly felt a change come over the companionway. He stepped back and watched as the shadows near the door to the cabin seemed to expand as if the sun—if there had been sunlight inside the bowels of the ship—had very quickly changed positions in the sky. It was like a deep breath was taken by the darker elements of the ship’s construction.

  Gray Dog heard the fight above and the cheers and jeers of the men watching. The thump of footsteps echoed through the teak decking of the warship. He saw something slip out from under the cabin door. He blinked as he thought he was seeing things, and then he froze as he felt deep, penetrating cold through his purple shirt and even through the bone-and-feather chest plate he wore at all times. He felt the sensation leave his body almost as if it had never been there at all. He closed his eyes, not knowing why he felt such relief in feeling the overheated interior of the ship once again. His eyes went to the bow of the vessel and knew that whatever force he had felt had gone in that direction. As his eyes probed the darkness ahead he saw another shadow expand, shrink, and then break free of the hull and vanish forward like a small dark thunderhead vanishing over the horizon. Gray Dog followed the strangest trail he had ever tracked.

  Above deck, the two forces of men came together with a crash. Gray Dog came to the hatchway that led to the third deck, a section of the ship into which he had never ventured. He looked around one last time at the battle stations of the Yorktown, whose thirty-two cannon lay silent but still deadly looking. He decided he had to know what the movement of shadow meant. He started down the steps and into the total blackness below.

  As he placed his moccasined feet on the third deck he felt the change come again. Suddenly the crowded warship was a menace, and for the life of him Gray Dog could not understand why. He sensed his answer was forward. He moved slowly until he saw a small porthole that allowed light to filter through to illuminate a certain area. He realized where he was as he stopped by a large barrel of flour that was strapped down to the decking. He watched as the weakened light slightly illuminated the small brig that was an even smaller joke on the Yorktown. The man inside, Gray Dog remembered, was the Rebel almost hanged four days before, Corporal Loudermilk. Even his own confederates had turned on him and the two men next to him in the small cell.

  The two younger boys were sitting on two rolled-up blankets in the corner. One of them was rocking back and forth silently. Loudermilk was cursing at the boy to stop what he was doing, saying that if he had chosen better partners in crime they wouldn’t be sitting there.

  Gray Dog watched the three men and still saw nothing unusual. He was starting to think the ocean was beginning to affect his mind, so he shook his head and slowly started to back away from the brig and its very unhappy occupants.

  Suddenly and without warning the shadow that was cast through the single, open porthole jumped and then spread until it entered the cell, where it seemed to blend in with the dark silhouette of the silently rocking private. Gray Dog watched as the boy stopped rocking back and forth and his head slowly rose from where it had lain on his knees. His eyes went to Loudermilk, who was occupying the only bunk in the brig. The man was still cursing his luck at his companionship in crime when the private slowly stood. The air became cold as the darkness enclosed the small space as if the shadows were sucking away the sunlight and its heat from the small porthole. Gray Dog took an involuntary step backward and was stopped by the flour barrels. He saw the strange way the boy was standing and just staring at the criminal Loudermilk. The second private saw this and stood and tried to get the boy to sit once more.

  Gray Dog was confused as to what he was seeing, but he knew that a change had suddenly come over the boy as he stood with chin on chest as he stared at the man still cursing him. Suddenly Gray Dog was sure he saw a darker outline as if a shadow had attached itself to the boy. It was almost like a shimmering river at night with moonlight reflecting off its surface. The boy threw off the hands of the second private and then moved like a wild cat after its prey.

  Gray Dog stumbled backward but the noise of him falling over the barrels and onto the deck went unnoticed. The boy flew through the small space between the two men and landed full force onto the reclining Loudermilk, who could only lose his breath at the impact. The Comanche was frightened for the first time since his family had been slaughtered by the Naches River many years before. He saw the boy’s face descend onto the bearded Loudermilk’s and the man’s screams were suddenly muffled as the boy began to use his teeth. The pain the attempted rapist was suff
ering must have been unbelievable as the private dug his teeth deep into the man’s face, lips, and mouth. His screams produced a fine spray of blood as the boy continued to chew at every exposed piece of skin his teeth could find. Loudermilk was kicking out with his stocking feet but the boy could not be shaken off. The third prisoner stood by in shock as blood started to splatter his face.

  Gray Dog tried to stand and do something, but every time he moved it seemed his legs weakened and he slipped back down to the deck. Still the corporal screamed as he moved his head from side to side trying desperately to dislodge his attacker.

  Then the screams stopped as the private finally found the throat. The teeth sunk deep and Loudermilk’s legs went straight out from the cot as his carotid artery was severed by the private’s canines. The boy tore at the corporal like a crazed dog that had finally gotten the upper hand on its prey. He shook the lifeless body of Corporal Loudermilk like a rag doll. Without notice the boy stopped. Gray Dog saw the deep breathing of the private as he spit out most of the Adam’s apple of the Rebel rapist. Still heaving for breath, the boy’s head slowly turned toward Gray Dog. The smile was terrifying and something that would haunt the Comanche for the rest of his days. The eyes were illuminated with an internal light as the grin widened and more of Loudermilk’s skin fell free of the kid’s mouth.

  Gray Dog started to backpedal until he could back away no farther as the boy slowly rose from the cot and then made a lunge at the strap-metal bars of his cage. As he passed the third man he simply reached out and twisted the poor man’s neck until the spine snapped. It all took place in less than three seconds. Gray Dog leaned as far back as he could as the boy finished by smashing his face and head into the eight-inch space between the bars. Blood flew from the severe gashes on the prisoner’s face as his head actually broke through.

  Gray Dog knew he was witnessing something that originated inside the captain’s cabin. He had tracked it to this spot and now he was seeing what he was meant to see.

  The boy backed away again with his forehead skin hanging free of his scalp. He smiled wider, exposing his teeth, which still held the remnants of Corporal Loudermilk’s throat. He suddenly charged again, and this time the head went completely through the impossibly small space between the bars. The crazed boy screamed and then started twisting his head and neck. As the Comanche watched in horror he knew he wasn’t trying to free his head; he was twisting it in an attempt to snap his own neck. The next sound Gray Dog heard was the boy’s bones snapping like dry twigs. The severely injured private went rigid momentarily and then limp as the body started to sag, and then the neck completely separated from the rest of the boy’s body. The skin seemed to separate like cloth being pulled apart. The head tore free and the body fell to the deck. The private’s head remained wedged in the bars.

  Gray Dog felt the warm blood on his face and then as he stared wide-eyed at the scene he felt the warmth come back into the confined space as the sun once more made an appearance in the porthole.

  The only thing Gray Dog could do was run.

  * * *

  The men sat around the main deck tending to broken noses, missing teeth, and bruised egos when all eyes went to Corporal Jenks as he sat near the starboard railing. The man had acquitted himself admirably against the giant mess steward, but every man could see he was in no shape to feel superior about anything. He actually looked angry. Then all went silent as Jenks stood and walked over to the opposite railing where Grandee was tending to another cook’s wounds. The black man stopped what he was doing as he saw the Rebel prisoner approach. He tensed for a continuation of the brawl. His eyes went to where the colonel had been but the space was empty. He was on his own.

  Jenks stopped in front of the big man and the marine guard tensed. They slowly raised their rifles and watched. Jenks spit out a stream of blood and then glanced up and into the mess steward’s face.

  “I want you to know, boy, you broke my doze.”

  “What?” Grandee asked.

  “You … broke … my … d … d … d’nose.”

  The hand came up so fast the men standing nearby actually flinched, thinking the two men were going to start a second round of fisticuffs. But the hand remained motionless in front of Grandee. The large black mess steward slowly raised his ham-sized fist and took the corporal’s peace offering. The cheer was sudden and immediate from the prisoners and naval personnel watching.

  Then a man yelled and then another. A path cleared through the men as Gray Dog shot up the companionway and without any word quickly scrambled up the rigging and vanished among billowing sails. All eyes went to the bloody footprints that Gray Dog had left behind.

  “Murder! There’s been murder done here!” came a shout.

  The men on deck were stunned as one of the Confederate prisoners came on deck and shouted out the words that froze the hearts of every man.

  “Loudermilk, Kindelay, and Segue have been butchered in their cell by Thomas’s pet redskin!”

  Suddenly the men on deck faced each other once more as blood started running just as high and hot as it had been before John Henry Thomas’s wonderful unification plan.

  Confederate, marine, and naval personnel faced each other and the hate that had vanished only moments before was back at full strength. Even Grandee and Jenks separated and angrily broke the friendly handshake.

  The war was still present, but the real enemy was hidden in the shadows. As the angry men started shouting and cursing, the man posing as Cromwell stepped to the stern of the Yorktown and removed a small pocket mirror from his jacket. He looked up and found the sun and started flashing his message into the clear afternoon sky toward distant eyes.

  11

  John Henry had to physically push his way through the angry prisoners to get to the small brig. He made eye contact with the sergeant major and the unsaid words were unmistakable—clear this area.

  “All right, lads, let’s clear the area for the officers. Come on, we’ve all seen dead men before this,” he said as he started to guide the shocked men out of the confined space.

  “Yeah, we’ve seen dead men a’ plenty, but not murder, and killin’ this way ain’t normal,” a man said as Dugan shoved him from the crowded space.

  Thomas walked up and looked at the torn face of the boy and then his eyes went to Corporal Loudermilk on his cot. The man looked as if he had been chewed to death. As for the boy, his injuries were almost as horrid. His ears were gone, having been scraped free of the scalp when the kid had shoved his head through the iron bars. His body hung limp as the bars kept the thin body from collapsing to the deck. The third lay with his back to the deck above, but his head was also looking in the same direction.

  “It was that damn savage, we all seen it,” a man said as he finally pushed through the opening and into the next compartment. “Get that redskin and you’ll have those boys’ killers.”

  Dugan turned and looked at the colonel as Jessy Taylor finally entered the brig area. His eyes widened when he saw what had been done to his men. He angrily turned to Thomas.

  “You saved them for this? Is this the example you wanted to make?”

  John Henry didn’t answer. He was looking at the way in which these three men had met their brutal fate.

  “I’m afraid if you want answers as to who did this, you won’t get them from the responsible party.”

  “What in the hell does that mean?” Taylor said turning on the colonel.

  Thomas walked up and lightly raised the tow-headed hair of the boy and then he gently let it back down. “The meaning is, Colonel, your man Loudermilk was killed by this boy. You can see the corporal’s blood around his mouth. It’s clear to me that after he tore the corporal’s throat out, he snapped the neck of this one and then he struck the bars until he killed himself.”

  “My God.”

  John Henry turned and saw they had been joined by Captain Jackson. He was visibly shaken at the gruesome scene before him. He removed a kerchief and covered h
is nose and mouth. The smell was atrocious as the dead men had voided themselves when they had died.

  “The men say it was your Indian. They say he was covered in blood when he came from below. Where is he?”

  John Henry turned on Taylor. “If you think Gray Dog is responsible for this, you are not as smart as I thought you were, Jessy. Comanche warriors don’t kill like this. Blood obviously sprayed him from inside the cell. We won’t know until I speak with the boy.”

  “I’ve seen what the Comanche or any other Indians are capable of firsthand. I saw what they did to my sister, so don’t stand there and tell me they’re not capable of it.”

  Thomas felt his blood start to rise. “You’re missing one major point here.”

  Taylor didn’t respond, his eyes on the seventeen-year-old boy he had barely known.

  “The Comanche, hell, even the Kiowa need a reason for something like this, and Gray Dog has no reason to kill anyone—yet. And as far as the death of my wife is concerned, Colonel, I have told you a hundred times, it was Kiowa, not Comanche, and the same Kiowa responsible for Mary’s death were responsible for Gray Dog’s family being wiped out. The boy didn’t do this.”

  “Well, if he didn’t, he may know who did,” Jackson said as he finally lowered the kerchief and managed a breath. “May I suggest we bring your man inside before he finds the same justice these men have found?” He nodded at the three dead men in the cell.

  Thomas turned to Dugan. “Get Gray Dog. If anyone interferes before you find him, shoot them.”

  “Is he under arrest, Colonel?” Dugan asked. He was expecting to feel no sorrow for the Comanche, but like Thomas, he knew Gray Dog was not capable of killing this way. The Comanche were efficient killers, no doubt, but they needed reasons for being the barbaric savages the eastern press made them out to be. He knew they killed like this to make a point, but Gray Dog didn’t have any points to make. Dugan headed out as he pulled the army Colt from its holster.