The Mountain

by David L. Golemon

  The men broke and started rousing the camp. The men grumbled, but soon enough word spread that there might be a hostile force nearby and they started moving more lively. John Henry gave the Rebel cavalrymen their due, they were fast and efficient after years following the zigzag command tactics in hit-and-run employed by Robert E. Lee. They were silent and precise as they hitched and reloaded wagons.

  It was Claire who noticed the rumblings first. Corporal Jenks and five other prisoners were speaking with Taylor and the talk looked animated. Claire turned to John Henry and pointed this out.

  “We may have a situation here, Colonel,” she said, getting his attention.

  Thomas turned and saw the confrontation developing between Jessy and his men. He watched as the colonel looked their way and then said something to the six men who also looked toward them. Taylor nodded and then turned away and made for John Henry. He rubbed his beard and then looked up into the expectant face of his former brother-in-law.

  “The men are scared. Besides that goddamn mountain spooking the hell out of them.” He turned toward Claire and dipped his head. “No offense.” She shook her head, indicating that his words did not make her blush in the slightest. “But that ugly mountain combined with our wandering friends out there is having a most undesirable effect on the boys.”

  “They want arms.” It was a statement from Thomas, not a question. “No.”

  Taylor didn’t say anything but looked over at Claire. “Does he realize that frightened men fail to do what’s expected of them?”

  Claire remained silent as she glanced at Thomas, who stood steadfast.

  “The marines are armed. If we move fast enough, we can—”

  The first gunshots caught John Henry in midsentence. He turned in time to see at least twenty-five riders top the small rise and charge into the head of the camp. Several were swinging large Saracen swords at the men as they raced past. Many more were firing old-fashioned powder-and-ball rifles. Thomas saw one and then a second man fall. One marine and one Rebel. The marine tried in vain to grab the reins of a passing horse and failed, being cut almost in half by the large, curved sword. The Rebel cavalryman was shot as he tried to get to the fallen lance corporal. Taylor and John Henry both pulled their Colts and immediately started to return fire. Slowly the marines started to respond. Several of the black-clad riders fell off their mounts and were beaten half to death by the unarmed men who descended on them like a pack of wolves.

  “My tent!” Ollafson screamed loudly, startling a frightened McDonald next to him.

  Thomas turned and saw several of the flowing headdresses as they entered the professor’s tent. The four men had sneaked into the camp from the side opposite the attack. Now John Henry could guess why.

  “The artifacts!” Ollafson called out as he blindly ran for the tent.

  “Dugan, bring that shelter down!” John Henry yelled.

  Sergeant Major Dugan saw what was happening and hurriedly ordered ten marines into a firing line and in seconds had them rapid-firing with their Spencer carbines into the large tent. Bullet holes appeared and the white canvas looked as though it were being buffeted by an internal windstorm as the large rounds tore it to pieces.

  “My things!” McDonald screamed in horror as the tent started to collapse.

  “The last of them are running, Colonel,” Jackson reported as he holstered his smoking navy Colt.

  The marine line ceased their torrid fire into the now-flattened tent. The only thing still standing was the shelter’s center pole, and even that strong member was tilted and shattered. Dugan approached cautiously and just as he got to the tent he was charged on from the inside. A large Persian with a gold band holding his headdress in place slammed into the sergeant major as he jumped from the wreckage of the tent. The man swiped at Dugan with his sword and the Irishman dodged backward and fell into the grass. Taylor raised his pistol to shoot but John Henry stayed his hand. Thomas shook his head as he saw the Persian had the satchel, which contained the two artifacts. As they watched, the man grabbed a set of reins and jumped aboard the horse. With a twirl of his sword he sped out of camp.

  John Henry looked quickly around. He saw who he wanted. It was Gray Dog, who had yet to leave camp. He was wiping blood from his knife, and that was when most noticed the dead Persian at his moccasined feet. Thomas whistled and when Gray Dog looked up he gestured at the fast-retreating rider. He pointed and then made a fist. Gray Dog jumped upon his horse and then sped as fast as a bolt of lightning toward the running Persian thief.

  “I need him alive!” Thomas said as the Comanche rode past at breakneck speed.

  The officers looked around the shattered camp. Men were assisting others who had taken sword wounds to their bodies.

  “Damn!” John Henry said as he took in the destruction that had occurred during the short and very one-sided battle.

  “I want my men armed,” Jessy said as he helped a wounded Rebel soldier to his feet.

  John Henry eyed Jessy and it told him that was now was not a good time. “Report, Captain,” he said instead, turning to Jackson.

  “Very lucky, for being caught off-guard, I would say. One dead and sixteen wounded. Two severely.” He turned to Taylor. “Both of them your men.”

  “Correction. From this point forward, they’re my men, Captain.”

  “Are they?” Jessy asked angrily.

  “Sergeant Major Dugan!”

  “Sir!” The sergeant major was a little embarrassed but no worse for the wear after his encounter with the sword-wielding Persian.

  “Break out the crates of arms. I want every man armed with one of the new Henry repeating rifles. Marines also. I want each trooper issued a sidearm with fifty rounds of ammunition for revolving pistol. Each is to get a full field pack. Is that clear, Sergeant Major?”

  “Sir!” Dugan started to turn away with a cautious look at Colonel Taylor. “Giving guns to those hooligans is like giving dynamite to a group of drunk Irishmen, I swear…”

  They watched the grumbling sergeant major inform the marines what to do.

  “I am happy to see you listening to the voice of reason,” Jessy said as he faced John Henry.

  “Hell, Jessy, I probably just signed the death warrant of every man in this expedition.”

  As Taylor walked away Thomas saw Claire as she tried to console Professor Ollafson. McDonald was using the toe of his boot to see if any of his personal property was still intact. But it was Claire he was thinking about. Issuing weapons to a band of Confederate prisoners who were over six thousand miles away from home seemed a good way to start either a war or a rebellious mutiny. As he watched Claire and her ministrations toward the old man, he wondered if he had also condemned her to a short trip and a brutal death, because the last he heard the Persians did not hold their women in high regard. He was terrified how they would treat the emancipated Claire Anderson, the former Madame Claire Richelieu.

  But even more confusing was the concern he was feeling for someone he hardly knew.

  He turned away from the image of the woman and saw the mountain ahead. What lay in store for them at the summit was constantly on his mind and the subject had him wishing his friend the president had just left him alone on the American plains counting savages.

  The Plains Indians were tame compared to the foreboding peaks of Ararat.

  * * *

  The marine medical corpsman had to sedate Ollafson. The young marine didn’t like doing it for the simple reason he suspected the old professor had a bad heart. The man’s color was faded and the rumors were quickly spreading, as rumors always do in camp, that Ollafson was being affected by the mountain. The corpsman had tried to put the kibosh on the ridiculous talk but it spread nonetheless. Having lost the only two artifacts to come from the summit of Ararat was just too much for the enduring Swede to recover from.

  The men and wagons had been loaded and John Henry ordered the column forward just before the sun set in the western sky. For the first time t
hat day the sun had actually peeked out from the ominous clouds, but only after the burning orb had been chased into the west and had lowered in the sky. Still, after the humiliation of the day at the hands of the Persians, Thomas observed that seeing the sun, no matter how brief in duration, assisted in putting the men in a better mood. That and being armed once more.

  “Your mount is saddled, Colonel,” Dugan said as he turned quickly and looked ahead to see if there was any sign of that troublesome Indian, Gray Dog. Thomas could see that even the heartless sergeant major was worried for the young Comanche, as this land was not exactly his element.

  “Don’t fret, Sergeant Major. I’m beginning to think Gray Dog understands more of what’s going on here than we do.” Thomas pulled on his leather gauntlets and then accepted the reins from a marine corporal with a nod of thanks. He saw Jackson and Jessy waiting. A wagon rolled past and he saw Claire in the back on the second in line tending to Ollafson. Even with John Henry’s assurances Ollafson had lost hope of ever seeing those cursed artifacts again. John Henry saw the gentle way Claire had about her. She looked up and gave Thomas the barest hint of a smile.

  “Rider!” one of the Rebels cried from atop his wagon.

  It was Gray Dog, and it looked as if he was dragging something behind the small pony he was riding. Many of the wagons and most of the riders slowed their march to see just what the Comanche was up to now. They were shocked, but pleased, to see that Gray Dog hadn’t failed in his mission. But by the looks of his captive, he might not have. Gray Dog pulled up on the reins and hopped from the pony just as it skidded to a stop in front of John Henry. He immediately drew his bone-handled knife and cut the rope he had used to tie up the battered Persian. Taylor was smiling and shaking his head as the Persian sat upright and cursed the young warrior. The bearded Persian spat as Gray Dog sheathed his knife. He turned and looked at John Henry and then went to his pony. He untied the satchel and tossed it to Dugan. Then he silently mounted and sped off to the east once more to start his scout.

  Two marines, with a helping hand from Corporal Jenks, slapped and kicked the Persian to his feet. Jenks reached out and pulled off his headdress to reveal the black hair underneath.

  “Take that to Professor Ollafson. Maybe it will cheer the old boy up,” John Henry told Dugan as he slapped one gauntleted hand into the other. Jessy saw the determined look in Thomas’s face and then decided he should be in on this before John Henry lost their source of intelligence.

  As Dugan rode off, Corporal Jenks pushed the tall Persian forward to face the officers.

  “That’s enough, Jenks,” Captain Jackson said from the back of his horse. The Persian turned and spit toward Jenks, who immediately made a move to throttle the thief.

  “At ease, Corporal!” Jessy called out.

  Jenks finally shot the Persian one last hateful look and then quickly mounted his horse and rode to hard catch up with the column, angry that he couldn’t question the thief.

  “Allow me the honor of questioning this man,” Jessy said as he also pulled on his gauntlets and eyed the large man, who was held on either side by two marines.

  John Henry was thinking the same thing as Taylor had thought just a brief moment before. He reached out and took Jessy by the arm and stopped him.

  “Maybe we’d better have someone a little more even-tempered do the questioning, Colonel,” John Henry said.

  Taylor gave Thomas a sly look. “And I suppose that’s you?”

  John Henry knew Jessy had a point. He was even more capable of losing control than the Confederate colonel. He hated losing men, and to lose them to brigands was something that irritated him to no end. Thomas looked from a smirking Jessy to the solid form of a perfectly dressed and comported officer, Captain Jackson.

  “Captain, have you ever had the duty of questioning a prisoner of war before?”

  Steven Jackson looked taken aback. He tilted his head as he looked from Thomas to the man Gray Dog had just chased down. The arrogant Persian looked hatefully upon the mounted naval officer.

  “No, I have not,” Jackson said as he calmly stepped from the saddle.

  “Careful, he’s a spitting sort of snake,” Jessy joked as Jackson approached the large man. The captain tilted his head as he stood in front of him. The brown eyes were calm and his face kindly.

  “I don’t know if you understand me, but it would be to your benefit to explain why you tried to steal something that wasn’t yours. What are you doing in this country?”

  The Persian looked at the strange two-corner naval hat Jackson was wearing and again the man spit into the grass at Jackson’s feet.

  “Told you,” Jessy said as he was finding Jackson’s interrogation method amusing.

  The cool and calm Jackson smiled and nodded his head. “Barbaric,” he mumbled as he faced the man.

  “You, you American, you dare to call the children of God barbaric. You, the unbeliever? I spit on you and your godless kind. You come to God’s mountain and you steal what is not yours.”

  “Damn, he speaks better English than I do,” Taylor said.

  The prisoner turned and saw the wagons as they moved east. “That old man is a blasphemer. He steals what is not his. He desecrates our most holy place and then returns as if this land is his. I spit on America!”

  “Your name, who are you working for? The French, British, the Germans?” Jackson asked, trying to get the true believer to talk rationally.

  “I am not in the employ of other dogs and their masters. I am Aliheem Akbar Mohamed Sutari, follower of Nasser al-Din Shah Qajar, the true King of Persia, not that pig of a man that sits on the Ottoman throne—the sultan of swine.”

  “You represent the Shah of Persia?”

  “The true Shahanshah of Persia.”

  “Whatever the hell that is, the title sounds made up,” Jessy said, eager for Jackson to finish with his interrogation so he could commence, but he wouldn’t be exchanging pleasantries with the man the way the captain was.

  “God’s messengers will not allow this desecration of his mountain to go unchallenged.”

  The Americans exchanged looks. The Persian only smiled.

  “I see the Angel of Death has already touched you. The curse of the mountain is upon you.”

  “I’m beginning to think this fella had that speech ready to go before he was even caught,” Taylor said as he looked at John Henry.

  “Our ancestors sprouted and grew from the spring of Ararat. Our great peoples are the family of man, the descendants of Noah, God’s messenger. We will not allow you to do what it is you are attempting.” The Persian smiled, showing blood on his teeth. “Either the faithful of God will stop you”—he looked around at the swiftly darkening skies—“or the darkness will claim you.”

  “You do know that if the sultan finds your people inside the borders of his nation he will kill every one of you.”

  “The heretic sultan has not long to rule. Soon the faithful will be on Ararat in force. If the curse of Azrael fails, I assure you, we will not.”

  Jackson turned and looked at John Henry and shook his head negatively. The captain removed one glove and then slapped it into the other as he turned and took in the Persian. The man wasn’t smiling, but just staring.

  “Get him a horse. Cut him loose.”

  “What?” Jessy was startled that Thomas was letting one of the killers of his men go free. It was Jackson who answered for the colonel.

  ‘He’s told us everything. Believe me, he held nothing back, as you heard. We don’t need him and we don’t kill prisoners, despite what you southerners think.”

  “Wait a minute. I’ve had firsthand experience at the subtleties of prisoner treatment by your northern standards, and believe me when I say you are full of goose crap, young captain.”

  John Henry saw that Taylor was about to lose that famous temper of his, so he stepped between him and Jackson, who looked stunned that the Confederate colonel was ready to kill him just for voicing his opinion.
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  “I want him to take a message back to his people.”

  Taylor turned on Thomas and waited. Fogged air billowed from the mouth of the Rebel colonel as he waited.

  John Henry approached the Persian and then everyone saw his black eyes go wide as Thomas pulled a large bowie knife from his belt. He shocked the prisoner by reaching around and cutting the ropes binding his hands together. The two marines were as shocked as everyone else when Thomas gestured for them to let the man go. Another marine brought an unsaddled horse forward.

  “Tell your master if he comes for us he better bring that vengeful angel with him, because we will chew his ass as well as yours. You took the lives of two men and wounded others. We don’t bow to people who commit murder, haven’t for many years. Now get the hell out of here.”

  The Persian, with his eyes wide in suspicion, looked from angry face to angry face. He quickly jumped upon the horse’s back and shot out of the camp.

  “I must say, Colonel, that your method of keeping our intentions secret fell by the wayside somewhat. I agree with letting him go, but letting him go after explaining that yes, indeed, we are climbing to the summit, well, let’s just say I’m a bit confused.”

  It was Jessy who angrily had to agree with what John Henry had done. It took him a moment but the thought struck him as John Henry smirked in his direction.

  “Would you like to explain it to the Captain, Colonel Taylor?”

  “If we crowd the field it will confuse all parties involved, muddy the water, make the situation unpredictable. The Persians are the wild card in the game.”

  “Why?” Jackson asked turning to John Henry.

  “Because they despise everyone, from the sultan of the empire, to the French, Germans, Russians, and the British.”

  “In other words, Captain Jackson, they may just come in handy,” Jessy answered for Thomas.

  “I think they’re too unpredictable to count on.”