The Mountain

by David L. Golemon

  “You think very little of our own military intelligence, Mr. Renaud, or if you prefer, Mr. Cromwell. We knew who you were an hour after you reported to Professor Ollafson. The president’s man, Mr. Allan Pinkerton, is quite aware of those men and women in Washington who intend us harm. Since you started to run from this cabin you must have had an escape plan. I will assist you in that. Sergeant Major, is the boat ready?”

  “It is indeed, Colonel Darlin’.”

  “Escort our French friend here to the deck, please. Assist in his boarding.”

  “You barbarians cannot do this,” Renaud said as Dugan took him by the arm.

  Claire swallowed as she watched the French master spy being led by Dugan to the deck above. She then looked at Thomas who was staring straight at her. He finally broke eye contact and faced Jackson.

  “Are you sure the French warship will pick him up?”

  “Not at all sure,” Jackson said with a wry smile.

  “Good.”

  “Oh, that is precious. Can we all expect the same when and if we fail?” Taylor said as he smashed out the cigar in an ashtray.

  “You bet, Colonel, because if we fail there will be no lifeboat to be placed into.” Jackson thought a moment and then faced Taylor. “We can’t execute him, sir. We are not at war. Although I admit that it would have been much simpler, it also would have spared my vessel a precious lifeboat.”

  The cabin fell silent as they heard the Frenchman scream a mighty stream of epithets from the main deck as Dugan rushed him over the side, to the astonishment of every sailor manning his station. As the sailors, marines, and Reb prisoners saw Dugan smiling at the spy’s splashing as he swam toward the lone lifeboat awaiting him, they started doing their duties with a little more enthusiasm. If that was the way they were going to treat shirkers, they wanted no part in the disciplinary measures put forth by the crazed army colonel.

  As the French spy pulled himself aboard the well-supplied whaleboat, he cursed the men watching him from the deck of the Yorktown. If he had his say, every one of them would be lying at the bottom of the sea very soon.

  As he fumed, the three American warships, with the Argo in tow, made their way to the Strait of Gibraltar and the waiting Royal Navy of Her Royal Majesty, Victoria.

  12

  THE STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR

  The fog had indeed closed in just as Captain Jackson had predicted. Thus far John Henry had to admit that the Swede John Ericsson’s choice of wunderkind had been a good one. The man was just too silent and contemplative for Thomas’s taste. Of course he also knew that his way of command was a far cry from the army’s more tempered version of how to lead men. Yes, he was positive that Jackson and the others thought him particularly strange also.

  “Three bells sounding from astern,” came the call from the crow’s nest high above the main deck.

  “Damn,” Jackson said as he turned to face the stern of the Yorktown. John Henry remained silent as he listened to the suddenly quiet night around them. The fog had deafened the night, and after the noise of the day it seemed eerily like a cemetery. “The frigates behind our formation weren’t fooled. They’re hot on our rudder. Three bells was the Chesapeake’s signal.”

  “I suspect either the British or the French have recovered Mr. Renaud.”

  Jackson spared John Henry a look that the colonel knew indicated his disapproval of John Henry’s methods.

  “Well, I admit we would not have delayed them long. It was worth a try. If you’ll excuse me, I must keep a close eye out as we near the center of the strait.” Jackson bowed and then left.

  “I am to assume that the blame for the French spy falls upon Professor Ollafson and myself?”

  John Henry turned away from the stern. The fog was not allowing any inspection of the tail they had at any rate.

  “Your assumption is correct, Miss.”

  “Every time you call me Miss I turn in circles looking for my very much older sister. Would it be presumptuous of me to ask you to call me Claire? Why be so formal? After all, you are accusing us of planting a French spy onboard the Yorktown, are you not?”

  “Well, he was in your company upon boarding.” He halfheartedly smiled as he took in the striking redheaded historian. “I may be just an old and broken-down horse soldier in the United States Army, Miss Richelieu, but you don’t have to kick me in the head like a stubborn mule to allow me to smell a rat hiding somewhere onboard this ship.”

  “Eloquently put, Colonel,” she said as she suddenly turned away but stopped short of leaving the quarterdeck. “I don’t know what has happened in your past to sour your way with people, Colonel Thomas, but I must say this: you are a horse’s ass of the first order.”

  John Henry raised his brows and removed his hat as he watched Claire disappear into the fog-shrouded deck.

  A dark form emerged from the fog near the very stern. It was Dugan, or his blurred image. He walked quickly past as if he were merely strolling in a park.

  “Still have away with the women, I see,” he said as he placed his hands behind his back and continued toward his destination.

  John Henry scowled as he lost sight of Dugan.

  * * *

  “You’ll have to excuse the colonel. He’s lost around women.” Dugan removed his cap and looked at the woman before him. “The loss of his wife has played with his mind some.” Dugan nodded as if Claire had spoken and then replaced his cap and started to move off.

  “The trouble between Colonel Thomas and Colonel Taylor?”

  Dugan stopped cold and then hesitated before turning to face her. He finally did and once more removed his cap.

  “I don’t go talkin’ out of school, ma’am.”

  “I know the two are brothers-in-law, so tell me what happened to make them despise each other so.”

  “It’s not Colonel Thomas who does the despising, ma’am, it’s the Reb. He blames the colonel for the death of his sister, the colonel’s wife.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Claire asked. Despite the fact that the president placed all his confidence in his friend, she knew absolutely nothing about the man outside of his army file.

  Dugan looked around and only saw crewmen going about their above-deck duties. He leaned in close to Claire.

  “The one and only time the colonel was ever fooled by Indians was the day his wife was killed at their small ranch near the Brazos River. He was off chasing Kiowa. Her brother, Colonel Taylor—this was before I knew him—was also in the regiment. You see, back then we were spread so thin in Indian Territory that the regiment was broken up into troops.” Dugan shook his head sadly as he remembered. “There just wasn’t enough men. They were both off chasing Kiowa in differing directions. They had both been bamboozled and led away from the small settlements that were their responsibility. It was a cold-blooded murder raid. They got six ranches. Butchered families, killed all the livestock. They even raided into several Comanche villages. Gray Dog’s family was lost on the same day. Yes indeed, ma’am, the Kiowa did a job that day.”

  “And each man is blaming the other?”

  “While both men made the same mistake and were lured out chasing nothing, the Kiowa took what was the best of both men, and Colonel Taylor cannot begin to forgive John Henry for the loss of his sister.” Dugan replaced his hat and took one step away and stopped. “The thing is, John Henry thinks the same way. He also cannot forgive himself.”

  Claire watched as the sergeant major moved away and knew he felt the colonel’s pain. She just wished she could break through his hardened shell long enough to make him understand that they were facing far more than just legends on this voyage. They were facing what men and women used to believe the world over—that mankind was not calling the shots. This was God’s domain and she believed as Ollafson did, that God would brook no interference in protecting what was his. She had most assuredly lost her scientific way of looking at the quest.

  * * *

  The Yorktown, Chesapeake, and Carpenter wit
h the Argo in tow made their way past the British stronghold of Gibraltar.

  The fog was still present as the sun rose over the Mediterranean. Gibraltar was now miles distant off their stern. An hour before, the gentle sound of the three signal bells of Chesapeake had chimed, so Captain Jackson knew that thus far they had transited the strait without landlocked eyes falling upon them. Now it was full sail toward the Aegean and then, for the Yorktown, Constantinople. It would be up to the Chesapeake to make landfall through the Bosphorus Strait and then the Black Sea. The land expedition would not fully form until Colonel Thomas’s team made it to the slopes of Ararat.

  Colonel Thomas soon joined Jackson on the quarterdeck and both watched as the Confederate prisoners slowly moved around the main deck. The mood was solemn, to say the least. Although they felt no love for the men that had been butchered in their cell, they still felt the loss of another three of their own. The mystery of their deaths had been placed on hold only because of the speculation and shipboard rumor that the French spy may have had something to do with it. Thus far neither Jackson, Thomas, nor even Colonel Taylor had denied the rumor. Murderous feelings had therefore been curtailed for the time being.

  Fifteen minutes before, Sergeant Major Dugan had knocked on John Henry’s door to inform him of the makeshift burial at sea. He had been heavy into his journal that he kept for the president’s eyes only and had not noticed the stillness of the ship. He was usually tuned into the happenings around him, but since the horrible murders his mind had been racing as to the real culprit in the savage attack. Thomas was more concerned at the moment for Gray Dog. The boy was refusing to sit with others. Avoided men of all affiliation, either north or south, with the same degree of mistrust. John Henry particularly noted Gray Dog’s sudden fear of dark spaces. Both he and Jackson believed that Gray Dog had indeed seen who the killer was, and John Henry assured Jackson that his young Indian ward would come to him when he was ready to explain what he had seen in the brig.

  John Henry watched as the three shrouded bodies were hoisted through the cargo hold at mid-deck. The bearers struggled as the marines and navy personnel watched. Thomas noticed that some men removed their hats while others watched with disinterest. Jessy was in the center and as John Henry watched, the Rebel colonel slowly removed something from his coat. It was a small Confederate flag. The stars and bars. It was only two feet by one and was hand-colored—with what, Thomas didn’t know. Jackson cleared his throat when the small flag was placed on the sailcloth-covered bodies. The two officers strained to hear what was being said in prayer, but John Henry knew the faith of Jessy had been tested to the limits and he had walked away with the firm belief that God could not exist. After the loss of his sister, his only living family, Jessy had turned away from religion. John Henry knew he had helped his brother-in-law with that fateful decision by failing to protect Mary.

  Soon Taylor lifted the small flag and then the platform was tilted and the bodies slowly slid into the sea. Jackson’s brow furrowed as humming came to his ears through the thick fog. Then the tune was picked up by others and soon enough they were listening to “Dixie.” Soft, mournful, and not at all directed toward the three men just committed to the deep. To Jackson and John Henry it was the sad refrain of lost men. When the sound softly faded away he heard Taylor dismissing the men. The colonel walked to the quarterdeck and offered John Henry the refolded flag.

  “I suppose this is contraband,” he said, holding the flag out.

  Thomas looked at the sad little remnant of these men’s faith in a nation that had caved in on itself.

  “I see an old and stained kerchief, Colonel, not contraband. You can keep that with the uniforms you had your men so meticulously repair.”

  Taylor smiled as he placed the flag back into his coat. He walked away without another word.

  “I do not understand the bad blood between you two, especially when a blind man can see you are closer than what you portray. That hot-and-cold affection makes those of us in the dark rather uncomfortable.” Jackson turned to face John Henry. “And that makes for mistrust. You have your mission at stake. I have three warships in that same position. May I suggest you sort this out immediately before we all wind up inside of a Turkish prison?” Jackson walked away. “We shall arrive at our destination in two days.”

  Thomas watched the back of Jackson until he vanished into the fog. He heard the anticollision bell sound four times and then the ship once more became silent, with the exception of the bow wake of the Yorktown as it cut through Mediterranean waters.

  Thomas stood silent as he thought about what Jackson had said. He knew as well as the naval commander it had to be done. If they expected to get back home alive, he and Jessy would have to come to an understanding, and John Henry knew that one of them had the possibility of not walking away from the confrontation.

  * * *

  Gray Dog had been in the rigging for three full days. He had entered the interior of the ship only for food after the mess stewards had closed down for the night. It had been mess steward Grandee who had a suspicion that the small red man was making his clandestine forays after lights-out in the galley.

  Gray Dog was moving cautiously in the dark all the time, staying away from the hull or anything that could cast a shadow by the lone oil lamp illuminating the galley. Suddenly he flinched when a wooden match was struck. Mess steward Grandee was sitting on a stool as he lifted the facing of an oil lamp and then stuck the match to the wick. He shook out the match and then looked up at an unmoving Gray Dog, who was standing rigid in the middle of the small galley.

  “I must say, you’re a real hard man to catch, yes, sir,” Grandee said as he placed the lamp on the small table where a large plate of hot food was sitting untouched. He laughed. It was a deep belly laugh that sounded as though the voice was full of gravel. It immediately relaxed Gray Dog.

  “I always wanted to say, I am sorely interested in that hat. What is it they call you?”

  Gray Dog reached up and felt the coyote skin on his black hair. Then he realized that the large black-skinned man was not laughing at his hat but was complimenting it. Gray Dog slowly removed the headpiece and then offered it to Grandee. “Gray Dog.”

  “Looks more like a little fox hat,” Grandee said as he slowly reached for the offered decoration.

  “No, my name is Gray Dog.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, Gray Dog. Well, Gray Dog, this is a mighty fine hat,” Grandee said as he returned the coyote head complete with tail after enough gushing over its beauty was accomplished. The mess steward smiled when he saw the Comanche’s eyes roam to the steaming plate on the table. The eyes followed when the steward slowly pushed the plate toward Gray Dog.

  “Go on, that’s for you. Take it. You can eat it here or up there with the seagulls,” Grandee said as his eyes rolled upward toward the deck and rigging.

  Gray Dog looked at the roasted chicken thigh and the canned corn overflowing the plate. He immediately went to the table and scooped a handful of corn into his mouth. Grandee laughed that hearty laugh once more and then slid a spoon forward but Gray Dog ignored it.

  “I didn’t think you were getting enough eatin’ done with you only taking stale bread out of here every night. You go on and eat up now. There will be a big plate for you right here when you’re hungry. Nobody goes hungry on my watch.”

  “Maybe he gets a good appetite after murderin’.”

  Grandee looked up and Gray Dog jumped back from the table a step, suddenly leery of both Grandee and the man standing in the small opening to the galley holding the gray curtain aside.

  Corporal Jenks walked in and with his eyes never leaving the two men he took a tin cup and poured himself a cup of coffee. The corporal’s eye was still swollen and the knot on his jaw was finally receding into memory. Gray Dog watched the man, his hand on his knife’s hilt.

  “Scuttlebutt says it was the Frenchman spy fella that the colonel tossed overboard that did the killing.”

  �
�Maybe, maybe not,” said another voice.

  Colonel Taylor came in and repeated the pouring of coffee. He nodded at Jenks, who placed his cup on the table and then walked to the small curtain and stood there looking into the dark companionway. He would make sure Taylor had the time needed to get answers. Jessy slowly sat down with a nod of his head at the larger-than-life black man who was watching the Rebel colonel with more than just a wary eye. His fingers tickled the handle of a meat cleaver on the stool next to him.

  “Why, I don’t believe our Indian friend here has the prowess to tear to pieces three fully grown men. But I think he knows who did have that prowess.” Taylor lifted the cup and took a drink of the thick, rich coffee.

  “What is prowess?” Grandee asked as Gray Dog continued to watch Taylor. His eyes moved quickly to the doorway but then just as quickly back.

  “The wherewithal to carry out the dastardly deed,” he explained. “He knows the man that did this to my boys,” he continued, “and I want to know who it is, now, tonight, or this mission comes to a stop right here.”

  “Now, you can’t hold us here. The captain will—”

  “No man.”

  The words caught both men off-guard. Grandee looked toward Gray Dog, who seemed to have shaken off his sudden fear of the two Rebels. He reached for the piece of chicken and then started to eat, paying no more attention to the men in the room than he did the rocking of the ship.

  “What was that?” Jenks said, taking a step back inside the galley.

  “Get back to your post,” Taylor told Jenks as he turned his attention back to Gray Dog, who had finished the chicken and was now once more shoveling corn into his mouth.

  “He says it weren’t no man that did the killing,” Grandee offered.

  “Don’t start with this Indian stuff. Tell me who did it,” Taylor said, slapping the table with the palm of his hand.

  “No man,” Gray Dog said and then started to turn away when his corn was done. Taylor reached out and took the Comanche by the arm, stopping him from leaving. Grandee tensed as Gray Dog spun on the colonel and slammed his knife into the wooden table right next to Taylor’s arm. Jessy slowly moved his hand away.