The Mountain

by David L. Golemon

  “You know they were not American. They are French citizens and our embassy would like them returned.”

  The lieutenant turned fully to face the man the colonel had uncovered as a spy.

  “I assure you, sir, there are no other personnel other than crew onboard Yorktown. If they’re not American, they’re against navy regulations.”

  “My men are inside that ship and I want them back!”

  The American turned and tilted his head at the three confused policemen. “Gentlemen, I would love to stay and chat, but we have to make a rendezvous in the Black Sea in just four days. I hope you find your men.”

  The agile lieutenant simply turned and jumped onto the low gunnel of the warship as she slowly drifted away from the giant dock. The lieutenant turned as his hand took a firm hold of the rigging and waved at the stunned men on the dock.

  The Frenchman cursed as the massive visage of the Yorktown slid into the fog as it drifted with the outgoing current. It was like the men were watching a spectral ghost slide into a white veil of nothing. The only sound heard was three bells as they chimed in the night.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. On behalf of the United States Navy, I bid you good night.”

  The voice had a light lift to it as it came from the dense fog. They could hear the rigging as it came taut against the light southerly wind. The bells chimed again and the American warship slipped into silence.

  On the dock the Frenchman turned angrily toward the three Turkish policemen.

  “You fools! You let them leave!”

  The three men exchanged amused looks. The man in charge stepped up to the Frenchman, whom he had decided early on was a cad of the first order. He smiled down at the smaller man.

  “And how do you suppose we should have gone about arresting a thirty-two-gun warship? Handcuffs, perhaps. Maybe my men should have shot at the fleeing ship to disable her sails?” The man smiled again as his two men laughed. “No, perhaps you’d better file a protest with the American Embassy, but from what I hear, the Americans are little preoccupied with a small civil war at the moment. I wish you good luck, sir,” the policeman said, and then said something in Turkish to the other two, who burst out laughing.

  Renaud turned toward the fog and the strait beyond as the last of the warning bells from Yorktown chimed.

  “You may think you are clever, Colonel Thomas, but I assure you my sense of humor has its limits.”

  The last sound heard that night on the fog-enshrouded Bosphorus Strait was the music of a harmonica as the tune “Dixie” was played by the northern navy men. The southerners had learned that the catchy tune was almost as popular in the North as in the South. It was a small tribute to the men who were now headed east toward a bleak mountain range that clung to the very edges of the ancient Persian Empire—Ararat.

  * * *

  Claire was still in the car’s only water closet. She was sick to her stomach after viewing the cabin onboard Yorktown. The clickity-clack sound and swaying movement of the train cars did nothing to alleviate the situation. Nor did the accusing eyes of John Henry Thomas after he had ordered her not to view the death scene inside his cabin. She had insisted on getting the artifacts into her own hands after Professor Ollafson had been removed to the train after discovering the massacre. She had paid dearly for her venture into the bloodbath.

  She started to use the pitcher of water to wash her face but then saw that the old and chipped pitcher had seen far better days, and the water within smelled as if it had not been changed. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and entered the private car that was attached to the train as a special office offered by the sultan. That was the last favor John Henry expected from the Ottoman government. Very soon their ruse would be uncovered and the pressure from the Europeans would come to bear on the sultan for his kindness to the lying Americans.

  John Henry had summoned all of the principal players for their discussion of the mission and what was left of it. Professor Ollafson was white as a sheet as he sat down at the long table. The mess steward, Grandee, came in with fresh coffee. Sitting next to Ollafson was McDonald, who was still a concern after he’d been noticed spending an inordinate amount of time with a few of the British Embassy staff at the ceremony earlier that night. Every once in a while McDonald would turn to look out of the train’s window as the fog-enshrouded night flew past outside. To Thomas, the man was starting to look frightened after the discovery of the three murders onboard Yorktown. John Henry had to make a decision sooner rather than later. If he were truly a spy, the man was a terrible one.

  Jessy had managed to change out of his dress uniform and was comfortably dressed in a white shirt with black work pants. His hair was askew and his beard was growing longer each day. After the Rebel colonel’s clean-up two weeks earlier, he was slowly starting to revert back to his guerrilla appearance. He was sipping coffee and waiting for John Henry to explain the situation that had developed in his cabin onboard ship. They were all interested.

  The door opened and through the steam and the noise entered Captain Jackson, followed by the newest member of the expedition, Daniel Perlmutter. The young man was looking quite uncomfortable, as a moment before he had run into a few of the Rebel prisoners and marines in the accompanying cars who had teased the boy about his dress and his lack of a manly demeanor. Then the strangest thing happened when they learned he was a photographer. It was like someone had turned on a switch and the men stopped teasing and started staring at the boy as though he were a plague carrier. Not one man, North or South, wanted the photographer anywhere near them. They were all having thoughts of the battlefield photographs emerging from the death zone that had become the American landscape. The boy clearly was confused, as he was used to working with willing subjects like Union officers wanting their glory depicted in image for all time. These men cared nothing for glory. They just didn’t want to be the subject of a death photo.

  Finally Gray Dog came in through the back door of the car where he had been found by Lieutenant Parnell, who was with him as they both sat, the marine officer at the table, Gray Dog on the floor by the cold wood stove. Grandee smiled down at his friend as he finished pouring the last of the coffee. He quickly reached into his overly large apron and tossed Gray Dog a biscuit and a small chunk of bacon. He winked at the Comanche, who dipped his head once in acknowledgment. So far the cook Grandee was the only person outside of Dugan and Thomas that Gray Dog conversed with. The former slave was most interesting to the young brave because of the scars he had seen on the man’s back during his fight with the Reb corporal, Jenks. He found that a man can suffer for what he dreams, and he could see the large black man had done that.

  “How are the men, Lieutenant Parnell?” Thomas asked as he pushed his tin cup away and spread the latest map delivered by the Ambassador.

  “Restless at the least, mutinous at the most.”

  “So, things haven’t changed?” Captain Jackson asked as he removed his hat and sat down at the opposite end of the table.

  “I do believe that you northern folk conveniently expect us to kowtow to your demands without memory of what we have tried to do to each other since 1861. While I gave you my word that we would see this through, do not expect us to embrace you for the chance to die on some other barren and lonely spot in the world. Dying is dying, and these men would rather that event take place a little closer to home. So if you expect singing and rejoicing that we are working alongside our northern brothers again, well, I’ll have to inform Mr. Lincoln that it may take a little bit more than just a fairy tale to draw us back into the fold. Maybe if the killing of our families had stopped first, we would be a little more cooperative, but alas, the war goes on and so does our disdain for all humanity north of the Mason-Dixon Line.”

  “That’s rich coming from you,” John Henry said as he slid the weeks-old newspaper toward Jessy, who stopped it and allowed the paper to open to the headlines. His eyes scanned it momentarily and then he returned the glare of Thomas
. “The war will be over soon, Colonel. The country will have to find a way to work together once more. This mission may help in that goal, or it may not, I don’t know. But if the president thinks it can, the least I can do is try. I owe the man that.” He looked around the table at each face. “A few years after this insanity is concluded, you will all see what this was about. Lincoln expects this nation to take its rightful place on the world stage, and now that we have close to two hundred years of hatred coming to a close, we can achieve that.”

  They all heard the mess steward, Grandee, cough as though he had choked on something as he was about to leave.

  “What is it, steward?” Jackson asked as Grandee opened the door allowing in the train noises from outside.

  “T’was nothin’, sir.” He started to exit.

  “I asked you a question, sailor,” Jackson insisted.

  Grandee stood silent with the empty coffeepot in his hands as the door closed, effectively silencing the night. Gray Dog was chewing his biscuit as he glanced up at his friend. He then looked at John Henry and hoped the colonel would open his ears to the black man.

  “Well, with all due respect to Colonel Thomas and the president, this war will never be over, sir.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Claire asked as she fanned herself with a bare hand.

  “You all have forgot what this war was about. No, sir, Colonel Thomas, it will take much more killing and hate before the last shots are fired, and I suspect that it won’t happen for a hundred years. America will be punished by God, for he did not mean this to be for the country.”

  All eyes and ears were open to what the former slave was saying and they all had to admit that it was a question none of them wanted to contemplate.

  “The way I figure it, the Lord allowed the founding of this nation for the purpose of freeing the world from bad men. Instead the Lord has watched as the nation committed suicide for something that should have ended in the time of Moses. So sad. Slavery is the darkest evil to ever infect men.” The mess steward lowered his head when he realized there was no comment from the people around the table. “May I be excused now, Captain?”

  “Return to your duties,” Jackson said as he could not look the black man in the eyes. “And thank you for your insight. We all pray that you are wrong.”

  Grandee shook his head and then exited the car without comment.

  “That opinion should not startle you, but it does. Freeing the slaves is only the start of the harsh feelings. It will take two hundred years to end the hatred between the races, maybe even more between North and South.”

  Thomas stared at Taylor and shook his head.

  “His opinion is valid, but one of the reasons we are fighting this war, Jessy, is the fact that you and your people in the South don’t give two tinkers’ damn for what his or any Negro’s opinion is. They had no say.”

  Jessy popped out of his chair so fast that it tipped and tumbled to the floor. Thomas remained staring at his old friend.

  “Gentlemen, this line of inquiry will only hasten our downfall on this mission. May I suggest we table that discussion for a later date when we can sit with brandy and cigars and discuss this with a little dignity?” Jackson said as he looked from John Henry to Taylor.

  “That is exactly how we wound up in a war. Gentlemen, all with brandy and cigars, discussing what to do about the abysmal mess we had gotten ourselves into. But I agree. Jessy, when the time comes we can settle this between you and me, but for now we have other enemies at our throats. I don’t expect they will differentiate between blue and gray if we are caught.”

  Jessy looked from Thomas to the others as he returned his chair to the upright position and then sat down. He looked again at the expectant faces around the table.

  “You have my apologies.”

  “Accepted,” Thomas said as his eyes locked with Jessy’s. The two came to an understanding at that exact moment. They would decide the right and wrong of their personal dilemma when and if they arrived back in Washington. They both knew they had far more than just hatred between them. They had blood, a history, and they once had love of one another.

  There came a soft knock on the door and once more Dugan rose to answer it. He saw a very young officer in dress blues standing in front of him, twisting his cap into an unrecognizable wad of cloth. Dugan smiled at the young officer and then allowed him inside.

  “We have company, Colonel,” he said as he returned to his chair beside the door.

  “Lieutenant Parmentier, reporting as ordered.”

  All eyes took in the youthful appearance and the sparkling blue class-A uniform of the second lieutenant. The handlebar mustache was one that impressed even Dugan, who had shaved for the greeting ceremony at the palace he wasn’t allowed to attend.

  Thomas smiled when he saw the terror on the face of the boy. He had been taken from the decks of the Chesapeake as she sailed past Constantinople for her run into the Black Sea. He was the leader of the band, so to speak, and John Henry Thomas’s unit commander for the forces arriving on the Black Sea side of the operation.

  “The lieutenant joins us from the new 316th Drum and Bugle Corps of the Army of the Potomac. Sit down, Lieutenant, please.”

  The young man looked around and then quickly moved to an empty chair next to Claire. The woman glanced over the boy’s features and thought to herself that he could not be more than seventeen years of age. She looked from him to Thomas and shook her head.

  “Lieutenant Parmentier will hear his final orders before rejoining the Black Sea expedition at rail’s end. A horse and escort will be waiting at our destination, and from there you will bring in the support if needed. Are you up to the task?” John Henry asked the stunned officer.

  “No, sir, not at all. I am in command of one hundred and twenty-two band members. We haven’t fired a weapon since they gave us basic instruction back in Ohio.”

  “Well, right now you and your men have been penciled in as window dressing. Hopefully just your mounted presence will scare someone off.”

  “Mounted, sir?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never ridden a horse before?” Taylor asked, smiling as he anticipated the boy’s answer.

  “No, I mean, yes, but most of those men in the band have never seen a cavalryman outside of a parade.”

  “Yep, you can tell this was planned by the U.S. War Department,” Taylor said.

  Even Dugan had to snicker at the obvious observation by Jessy.

  “Nonetheless, you were what was offered, Lieutenant. I will have the sergeant major show you the basics.”

  The young officer started to say something but a shake of the head from Sergeant Major Dugan stopped him. The lieutenant sat stunned and silent.

  Ollafson reached down and brought up the satchel and then started to remove the artifacts. It was Claire who stood so suddenly that McDonald next to her thought a snake had bit her.

  “Excuse me, but I would prefer it if that thing was taken from here while we discuss this mission.”

  “What?” Thomas asked as his eyes went from Claire to the satchel Ollafson was holding.

  “I want those items taken from this car.”

  “I understand that part of your request, but I need the reasoning behind it.”

  “There have been six unexplained murders revolving around those artifacts. Seven if you count the professor’s student in New York.”

  “From my understanding, the boy was mugged and stabbed by hooligans,” Ollafson said.

  “In the presence of those,” she said pointing at the artifacts as calmly as she could.

  John Henry remained silent as he took in a very clearly upset Claire Richelieu. His eyes went to a startled Ollafson.

  “Do we need the artifacts in our discussions here, Professor?”

  Ollafson slowly lowered the satchel containing the petrified wood to the floor of the private car.

  “Well, no, I guess we don’t—”

  “I mean out of the car
entirely,” Claire said, still staring at the satchel.

  “Now, now, let’s not be foolish,” Ollafson started to say.

  “I agree. I hate those damned things and would feel better if they were not present.”

  John Henry looked at Jessy and could see the colonel was not in a jesting mood. He was also looking at the satchel and Thomas could see his uneasiness. The room was so quiet that most jumped when Dugan spit heavily into a spittoon. The ting sound reverberated in the sudden silence.

  “Sorry,” he said as he wiped spittle from his chin.

  “Sergeant Major, place the professor’s valise in his car, please. Post a marine and then return.”

  “Sir!” Dugan said as he stood and almost had to pry the satchel from Ollafson’s hands. He finally managed and then left the private car. During this exchange, Gray Dog never allowed his eyes to leave the satchel.

  “I find this most disturbing, Miss Claire. I fully expected of all my associates you would be too professional to believe in such nonsense away from the mountain. The curse could never extend this far from the summit.”

  “But yet you still believe in the curse, just not now. When we arrive you will learn to respect its power. Well, I think its power is massive and can reach out wherever it needs to,” Claire said as she finally saw Dugan leave with the artifacts. She took in a relieved breath and then sat once more, feeling far better than a moment before.

  Ollafson knew she was right. You couldn’t believe in the curse as a matter of convenience when trying to convince people of your cause and then put it away until you needed the power of persuasion once again. No, the curse was real and he would have to start respecting that part of the legend.

  “All right, the curse can be discussed between you educated folk at a later time. For now, we’ve got to discuss the new directives from the president.”

  “New directives?” Ollafson asked as he sat back in his chair with a questioning look on his bearded face.