The Mountain: An Event Group Thriller (15 page)

“Now, come inside,” he said as he eased back through the open window. Gray Dog easily ducked inside and then gave Dugan a withering look.

“Now, can you two get along long enough for me to find out why in the hell we are here?”

“Ah, Colonel, I can’t turn my back on this savage for one minute without him getting into some kind of mischief.”

“Deal with it,” Thomas said as he reached for the new hat box on the end of his bed. This was also delivered over from the war department. He opened the round box and withdrew a new hat. It was turned up on the side and had his silver eagle planted on the front. A bright red feather adorning the side made John Henry wince.

“Ah, that is an adorable chapeau, Colonel Darlin’.”

John Henry shot as angry a look at Dugan as Gray Dog had delivered only a moment before. Thomas ripped the long red plume from the blue hat and tossed it on the wooden floor. Gray Dog immediately sprang forward and retrieved the feather and stared at it.

“That may keep him occupied for a while.” He turned to face an astonished Dugan. “Now, go to your room and lock yourselves in so he doesn’t head down to the theater district or something. Can you do that, Sergeant Major?”

Dugan just glared at Thomas. “Come all this way to babysit a coyote-wearing savage, why I ought to—”

“That’s enough. Just follow orders without question, for once in your miserable career.”

Dugan saw that Thomas was not in the right mood for any bantering or complaining. He just nodded his head and then looked at Gray Dog, who was now blowing on the red feather, amazed at its softness.

Thomas shook his head, opened the door, and quickly left.

“Tonight John Henry learns his destiny as written by the Great Spirit.”

Dugan poured himself some of the colonel’s whiskey and then turned to face Gray Dog, who was still staring at the brightly colored feather and blowing lightly to see it fluff and wiggle.

“Great Spirit my Irish ass, boyo.” He swallowed the glass of whiskey whole and then reached for the bottle once more.

“This is why I am going with John Henry. The spirit that lives on mountain far away is calling me, as it is you, and I will go to see this great thing.” Again he blew on the feather. “Where does this big red bird live?” he asked as he blew on the feather again.

“Red bird?” Dugan then saw the feather and realized that Gray Dog had changed subjects on him. “Oh, no, that is from a peacock, a strange bird that lives down south, I think. Now what in the hell do you mean, ‘great thing’?”

“John Henry will know. We will both go into the darkness to find what calls us.”

Dugan stared at Gray Dog and shook his head before downing the second glass of whiskey.

“Darkness, Great Spirit, mountains, you talk like a bleedin’ officer, boyo. And don’t think I ain’t noticed your English gets better around John Henry.”

*   *   *

The carriage was out front of the Willard at precisely thirty minutes to midnight. The coach was empty, occupied only by the driver sitting on his high seat. The corporal saluted as he opened the door for the colonel. Once in, the coach sped off into the humid Washington night.

The road they traveled was a familiar one that led northward from the capital. John Henry felt as though he was heading into court to find out his execution date. After the debacle of Antietam, Thomas had decided to resign his commission after the last shot of the war was fired. His career was over in the army and he knew it. Even though most general officers knew he had been right to challenge the orders of Little Mac, he was never to be fully trusted again because of that challenge to command. He wouldn’t fight Indians after the war and he wouldn’t be garrisoned in some far-off European posting. He would return to Texas and live a quiet life raising his cattle. The life he always intended to live with Mary.

The coach soon arrived at a small farmhouse just three miles outside the city. The corporal opened the door for Thomas with a tip of his cap. John Henry stepped out and saw the small, but very well kept house with a picket fence surrounding a patchy lawn. He pulled open the gate and made his way up the walk. The house seemed dark but the lantern on the front porch illuminated the front of the yellow house in crystal clarity.

“My staff thinks my mind is gone, foregoing their security and meeting out here,” came a familiar voice from the porch.

John Henry stopped as he reached the front steps of the house. He looked to his left and saw two long legs with one pant leg showing a bony, white ankle. His eyes swept over to the man who was stretched out on the porch swing. John Henry immediately snapped to attention.

“We’ve come far too many miles for that nonsense,” came the soft, very tired voice. “Come sit for a moment before we join the others.”

The man John Henry Thomas had known for more than fifteen years sat with his trademark stovepipe hat upon his lap. His black hair was now graying and was in its traditional scattered state. The beard was thinning and the man’s eyes were as drawn as his face. He had aged fifty years since he’d last seen his friend.

“And don’t you dare say anything about how tired I look. I get enough of that from Mrs. Lincoln, and that damn Seward.”

“Never, Mr. President,” John Henry responded without much conviction as he eyed the president of the United States. He eased in beside Abraham Lincoln and then also stared out into the yard. The president reached out and patted John Henry on the knee.

“I am happy to see you, my boy.” For the first time Lincoln looked over and took in the colonel. “Glad the wild Indian tribes didn’t get your hair.”

“They may not be as wild as everyone has been led to believe, sir.”

“I suspect they are not. But some angry politician will claim they are eventually.” Lincoln took in a deep, long, and very sad breath. “I would like to protect them, but alas that task may have to fall to another.” Again the tap on the leg. “Life used to be a lot simpler. How long has it been since you escorted me around when I was an attorney for the railroads?”

“Fifteen years, Mr. President.”

“You were what was known as a young shavetail, Lieutenant, if I recall correctly.”

“You do, and I
was
a shavetail.”

Again Lincoln patted Thomas on the knee as he drew up his own legs and placed the hat on his head. “I wish we had more time, my boy, to reminisce about better days, but we have some surly gentlemen awaiting us inside.” Lincoln stood slowly. John Henry heard his joints popping audibly as the president stretched his long frame.

John Henry rose as the president turned toward the front door. “Sir,” he said as he gripped the ridiculous Union officer’s hat in his hands. Lincoln stopped and turned. His sad smile was in place as he waited for Thomas to say what was on his mind. “I never had a chance to thank you for what you did for me and Sergeant Major Dugan after Antietam.”

Abraham Lincoln allowed his smile to grow and for the first time Thomas saw a little of the old log splitter there. He shook his head as he turned away for the door once more.

“After all of this time I thought you would have hanged that ill-tempered Irishman by now. How is the old coot?”

“The same, only worse. But one thing he is, sir, is grateful.”

“I think maybe you both ought to hold off on your praise of your savior until you have heard why I brought you back from the wilds of Indian Territory. You may not be too grateful afterward.”

The door was opened for the president as he stopped and turned to John Henry with a sad look on his wrinkled and drawn face. “Shall we?” He gestured for Thomas to follow.

The living room of the small farmhouse was darkened as they were escorted in by a private from the Washington barracks. A door opened and Thomas heard the cessation of talking in a smoke-filled room. As the president entered many of the men around a large table stood, but Lincoln waved them down with a flash of his hat.

“Gentlemen, Colonel John Henry Thomas,” Lincoln said as he placed his hat on the table and then sat at its head.

John Henry looked around the room to see many a familiar face. Sitting next to Lincoln was the sour and long-bearded face of Secretary of War Stanton. His rotund size took up a lot of space as he was glaring at the new arrival. Stanton, it was presumed, had not been in favor of saving him nor Dugan after Antietam, but relented when he found out the order saving them would go against General McClellan’s wishes. He hated Little Mac as much as the president himself. Thomas nodded his head at the secretary. Next to him was the man he had seen that very afternoon, Secretary of State William Seward, his ever-present cigar lit as he looked at Thomas with raised brows. On the far side of the president was a man Thomas had only seen pictures of, and those images did not come close to revealing the stern presence of the secretary of the navy, Gideon Welles. Next were several men and a woman Thomas did not know.

“We’ll save the formal introductions and make them as we go, shall we?” Lincoln said and then cut off Secretary Seward before he could say something. Lincoln patted the man’s arm, trying to get his former antagonist, turned close friend, to relax.

“To begin, I would like placed into the formal record that I am in serious doubt as to the reasoning behind this action. It’s foolhardy and ill advised.” Edwin Stanton puffed out his chest and waited for the president to give him a rebuke.

As John Henry took his seat he made eye contact with the woman, whose expression told him he was just another despicable military officer to her.

“Yes, we know your position, oh mighty Hermes. Besides, wise one, there is no formal record of these particular proceedings,” Lincoln said, eliciting snickers around the smoke-filled room. “Colonel Thomas, the gentleman to your right is Professor Lars Ollafson, most recently a professor of biblical studies at Harvard University. My son vouched for him over three years ago when I was introduced to him.” Ollafson nodded his gray head at Thomas. “Next to him is an assistant to his former department, Miss Claire Richelieu, an interpreter of ancient tongues and written language—quite an accomplishment for a young lady.”

The woman who was known in other circles as Madame Richelieu didn’t nod or smile; she just looked at the colonel without greeting.

“Professor?” Lincoln said as he gestured for the small man to take over the meeting.

“In the spring of 1859, I and many close colleagues from differing nations funded and mounted an expedition to eastern Turkey. We gather tonight to discuss that journey and what we are to do next.”

“I guess that’s already been determined by God, without my approval I may add,” Stanton cried as Lincoln frowned at him, silencing the irritable man.

“As I was saying, after this meeting concludes, we should come to the logical deduction by all parties”—he looked at Stanton with raised brow waiting for another interruption, but Stanton only mumbled and grumbled—“that the new expedition must proceed at all cost and speed.” Ollafson looked at the president, visibly angry. “After all, this was supposed to happen last year immediately after the Battle of Gettysburg, but it is only now we prepare.”

“Professor, once more may I explain that an expedition this size and this complex takes planning, safeguards—that’s time, sir,” Lincoln said. “Now continue, please.”

John Henry looked from the white-haired professor and glanced at the president.

Ollafson cleared his throat. “The question Mr. Stanton needs to ask himself, and anyone else with any doubts, is why was it that so many knowledgeable men in the fields of not only religious studies, but also archaeology, lost languages, and human history, were so interested in Eastern Turkey?” Ollafson stood from his chair and then through the cloud of hazy cigar smoke lifted a small wrapped article and placed it on the table. He stared at the oilcloth-wrapped parcel for the longest moment and then he placed a hand on the shoulder of the pretty woman sitting next to him. “My assistant in ancient languages will explain.” The professor returned to his chair but kept his eyes on President Lincoln.

The lady stood and then without ceremony tossed the oilcloth away from the parcel. Lincoln watched the eyes of the men around the table. Only he, Stanton, and Seward had ever seen the artifact before. John Henry noted that Richelieu had a peculiar strength about her and automatically knew her to be the type that hated men for their preconceived notions on the subject of women in any profession. Thomas didn’t hold with that since he had seen plenty of women take a hospital element with all its death and horrors and make it their own. Yes, Thomas had grown to respect the women of the world.

“We have here two prime examples of what is known as Angelic Script, or what is being taught at universities worldwide as the Enochian language.”

“Which, I must confess from my limited reading skills, is known as a language thought up by two men in the 1500s, and that this Angelic Script you proclaim is the basis of this theory of yours, was and still is a fraud,” Lincoln said as he challenged the woman for the benefit of the men around the table. Lincoln never led anyone anywhere unless he knew his subject would benefit from it.

“Precisely.” The woman returned the challenge with her green eyes. She then placed a white glove on her right hand and lifted the blackened stone to the weak lantern light. “These symbols here are a warning, described in that very same Angelic Script alphabet. A warning, or a curse if you prefer.” She showed the line of strange circles and glyphs to the men in the room. “I have an alphabetic key for those who wish to double-check my facts.” Her gaze went to Stanton and then to Seward. Both men only looked on with mild interest.

“This, gentlemen, is wood,” Ollafson said. “We cannot know its age. We only estimate that it has to be at least five thousand to ten thousand years of age.”

Seward snorted and Stanton closed his eyes while shaking his head. Gideon Welles, the secretary of the navy, seemed keenly interested.

“How can you come up with that estimate of its age?” Welles asked, looking like a stern teacher at a boy’s school with his white beard and hair.