The Mountain: An Event Group Thriller (18 page)

The gunfire outside dwindled to nothing. Taylor eyed Freeman and then shook out of the wet Union-blue coat. He let it slide to the wet floor.

“Caught with a Union uniform in an escape attempt.” Major Freeman looked around first at his men and then the tidy office. He walked to an old file cabinet and tilted the five-foot box until it capsized. Drawers popped free and papers spilled. “Or was the colonel using the stolen uniform for spying purposes?” He looked around him, a look of mock disgust on his mustachioed face.

“He’s a spy, Major. Hell, as far as I can tell, there ain’t been no escape attempt. He was here to gather information and wasn’t wearing his proper uniform. Yep, a spy.”

“Which means, Colonel Taylor, I can legally shoot you.” The smile grew on Freeman’s face.

Taylor deflated when he realized they had all been set up to be murdered by the ingenious Freeman.

“I can see that Boston College education is paying off, Major,” the haggard Confederate colonel said as two men took up station on either side him.

“Actually, it wasn’t all that difficult to figure out what was happening. As you know, I keep my ear pretty close to the ground,” Freeman said as he walked to the main door, pulled it open, and allowed the wash of the rain to cool the room. He stepped back as a corporal entered the office portion of the quarters. “Report?”

“Thirteen dead, fifteen wounded.” The corporal smiled and looked at Taylor. “Them boys tried to put up a fight, Major. We had to subdue the escape attempt in the harshest terms.”

Before the corporal could react, and with the smile still on his face, Taylor reached out and grabbed the man’s well-maintained sideburns and brought his face down into his right knee. He felt the corporal’s nose break under the onslaught and the man screamed in pain. Taylor was about to bring his knee up again when Major Freeman brought his pistol down on Taylor’s head, dropping him to his knees.

“Colonel Jessup Taylor, you are under arrest, sir, for spying inside a federal installation. You are hereby ordered to face camp punishment. This is to be carried out at noon tomorrow. These men will witness on an official basis, not that we will need their testimony.”

Jessy heard the words as they were spoken but the world had become a spinning, blurred view that made his stomach give up the watery celery soup he had eaten earlier. He went to his hands and vomited as blood coursed down his head and onto the wet floor. He was grabbed and brought to his feet. He wobbled and one of the men holding him slapped him hard on his bearded face. Then as the corporal straightened he pulled his hand away from his destroyed nose and delivered a punch to the colonel’s face, making him go limp as he was held. His eyes remained closed until the pistol barrel of Freeman’s weapon raised his chin. When his eyes opened he saw a man enter the room.

“No one does anything in my camp without me knowing about it, you traitorous scum.” Freeman laughed as the image of the man came into Taylor’s view.

Taylor let out a moan that was quickly covered by the Union guard’s laughter. Standing before him, twisting the Union cap he had stolen and still wearing the Union-blue jacket, was Private Johnny Wilcoxin, the same lad who had provided the stolen laundry for the escape.

“I … I … just didn’t want to hurt no more, Colonel.”

Taylor tried to raise his head and speak to the boy but Freeman stepped forward and brought the barrel of his Colt revolver down once more. This time Jessy Taylor went out for good.

“Rebel force, turned back.” Freeman looked at his men. “That’ll look good in the papers, huh boys? Maybe get me a personal write-up for that baboon in the White House to read?”

As the major’s men laughed, Lieutenant Colonel Taylor was taken away to face his execution the next afternoon.

STATEN ISLAND FERRY, NEW YORK CITY

The silence had been palpable since the train ride north from the capital. It had continued in New Jersey and even now as they looked out at the early afternoon sun from the deck of the paddle steamer, S.S.
Westfield II
. The rainstorm of the night before had made the afternoon clean, the smell of the city having been washed away.

Sergeant Major Dugan watched John Henry Thomas for a long moment and then glanced at Gray Dog. The Comanche was wearing his bright purple shirt and was currently touching a small redheaded child. He had never seen such majestic, bright red hair before. Just as Dugan was about to slap Gray Dog’s hand, he heard a gasp and a rotund woman in a black dress pulled the boy away in terror. The child was still smiling at Gray Dog as his mother admonished him for being so close to the savage.

“Don’t touch people, you … you … damn Indian! This here is not the plains, boyo, it’s civilization.”

The look on Gray Dog’s face was incredulous. From what he had observed thus far in the east, these people were anything but civilized. Not like his own, where anyone’s property in camp was shared by all. He would never understand John Henry’s people.

“Now, are you going to tell me what has you so riled up?” Dugan asked, turning his attention to the colonel, who had his hat off and was looking toward the docks of the city as the ferry made its way across the sound.

John Henry remained silent as he took in the skyline of a city he had visited many times in his youth. When on holiday leave from West Point he couldn’t rightly just hop on a train and return to Texas, so he would come to the city with other displaced classmates. This was the city where he had met his wife. A small cotillion had been put on by the Gentlemen’s Club of Astor Place. He wanted to smile at the memory but knew it to be too painful. John Henry had lost his young bride Mary five years earlier near the Brazos and his family’s ranch. She had been killed in a Kiowa raid when he had been deployed into southern Kansas chasing Gray Dog’s people. He always blamed himself for her loss.

He finally turned to face the sergeant major. Gray Dog even moved closer to the two soldiers when he thought the colonel was finally going to speak for the first time since he had awakened them at three in the morning and then placed them all on a semi-deserted train north.

“Sergeant Major, this afternoon I want you and Gray Dog to return to Washington. I will have transportation orders for your return to posting in Kansas. You two will not be traveling with me after today.”

The Irishman laughed and nudged Gray Dog, who took the shot to the ribs with annoyance as he didn’t understand the white man’s humor.

“That is one thing we won’t be doin’, Colonel Darlin’. You know better. Now, just tell me what those madmen in Washington has us doing.”

Thomas was about to explain when an old deckhand approached the three men. “Gentlemen, please step back. We are about to dock, and the crazy son of a bitch driving this damn thing has a tendency to smash the bow into the wharf every now and again.”

Thomas saw the ferry coming in at breakneck speed so he decided he would have to delay explaining until later.

“Secretary Stanton telegraphed Fort Hamilton to send over three mounts and a small detachment of marines to escort us to Fort Lafayette. Evidently the camp commander is one of those Boston bluebloods and a hard-nose when it comes to his prisoners.”

“Another war-avoiding rich man, you mean, and just what do we need a detachment of marines for?” Dugan asked while looking suspiciously at Gray Dog.

“We are heading into hostile territory to see an old friend of mine.” He looked back at Dugan. “And as far as the detachment of marines is concerned, that will become obvious when I’ve had time to explain.”

Dugan and John Henry watched as the ferry was tied to number-three dock. As for Gray Dog, he was busy looking at a few of the Union warships that had gathered in the harbor. The Comanche had never laid eyes on anything larger than a shallow-draft river barge in his life. He gaped at sailors scrambling up and down the ships’ rigging and was in amazement at the sheer size of the frigates and cruisers. It wasn’t until Dugan nudged him that he came out of his trance.

Many men, women, and children walked past the three men with wary eyes upon the Indian. Dressed as he was in leather leggings, the coyote head on his top-knotted hair, his bone chestplate, and the brightly colored gift from John Henry, the purple shirt, he was a sight among the working men and civilized women. His black hair was hanging loose, and two large eagle feathers dangled from the back. Children were amazed and men and women horrified at the sight. Sergeant Major Dugan dipped his head at the ladies and nodded at the men but made a horrid face at the children as they walked past.

“There’s our men,” John Henry said as he spied twelve blue-clad United States Marines with three extra horses arriving just beneath the dock area. The three men walked down the gangway and were greeted by a young lieutenant who saluted as he stepped forward.

“Second Lieutenant Jenson Parnell,” he said as he saluted John Henry. The salute was returned but the young clean-shaven lieutenant, a recent graduate from the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, kept the salute in the air as he examined the Comanche, who was staring at his turned-up hat with a red feather pinned to the side.

“At ease, Lieutenant. He’s not exactly officer material,” John Henry said just as Dugan slapped Gray Dog’s hand away from the marine’s hat.

“Uh, uh, yes, sir,” Parnell said as his hand slowly came down and his head bobbed to avoid having the feather garment taken from him by the Comanche.

John Henry didn’t hesitate as he climbed aboard one of the horses, realizing just how much he missed it when he wasn’t in the saddle. Dugan followed suit but stopped short when the enlisted marines in the group shouted at Gray Dog. Thomas and Dugan watched as the Comanche fulfilled a ritual that most white men could not fathom. Gray Dog had unbridled his horse and tossed the McClellan saddle from its back, leaving only the blue blanket. Then he grabbed the animal’s mane and pulled himself up onto the creature’s back. He looked at the men staring at him and realized that he was the center of attention.

“Excuse my friend, Lieutenant. He’s a little more at home feeling what his mount will do. That’s a Comanche way of feeling the animal’s back muscles and the leg tendons. He knows in advance what a horse will do. That’s their way.”

Parnell looked from a curious Gray Dog to the colonel, quickly gathered up the discarded saddle and handed it to the unit’s corporal, and then mounted himself.

“Just never seen no Indian before, sir,” he said as he took up station next to Thomas.

Thomas pulled the reins of his mount and started forward. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. His people are probably the greatest light cavalry on the planet. Now, shall we go meet my new second-in-command, sir?”

*   *   *

Lieutenant Colonel Jessy Taylor was chained and shackled to the wall inside the barn. The blow to his head delivered by Major Freeman had concussed him enough so that Freeman was actually sorry the Rebel colonel would more than likely expire before he had a chance to hang him. Taylor felt the pain in his wrists and hands long before the pounding of his head as his eyes fluttered open. He blinked against the bright sunshine that reached his eyes through a hole in the old barn’s roof. The colonel tried to get his bare feet to move to take some of the strain from his shackled wrists. He finally managed to relieve the pressure by standing as best he could. He tried to open his eyes once more.

“Excellent! You’re not going to die after all—at least not until I say so,” said a familiar New England–accented voice. “You had me worried enough that I had my corpsman stitch up your head to stop the blood loss.”

Taylor blinked as his blurry vision started to focus. He took in the thin frame and the immaculate uniform of Major Freeman. He stood before him, but when Taylor moved his head he hastily stepped back. The Confederate colonel knew the man to be afraid of his own shadow. Taylor had seen men like Freeman the whole of his military career. From West Point to the Cimarron River in Texas, either wearing Union blue or Confederate butternut, it never mattered. Cowards like Freeman would forever be a blight on the fates of real soldiers.

“My … my boys?”

Freeman took a cautious step forward, making sure the guard armed with the Spencer rifle was aware he was doing so. The weapon was cocked, ready to dispatch Taylor at the moment the order was given.

“Excuse me, Colonel? What was that?” Freeman placed a hand to his ear in mocking fashion.

“My men?” The words were barely audible.

“You mean
my
men? You obviously don’t take care of them the way you should, Colonel Taylor, so now they are my men.”

“Where is Sergeant Major McCandless?” Taylor’s head finally moved upward to glare into the dark eyes of the abolitionist’s son.

“Ah, the sergeant major.” Freeman placed a manicured hand on Taylor’s black hair and patted the colonel like a wayward child. “Well, he is a responsible noncommissioned officer, Colonel. He is with your men, watching over them since you sent them off to die in a manner not befitting a real soldier. Yes, he is with the others.”

“Don’t hang my men. They … were following … orders.”

Freeman stepped back from Taylor in mock shock. “Hang them? I would never do such a thing.” To Taylor’s horror the major laughed and stepped away, but reached out and took a brutal hold of curly black hair once more and forced the colonel’s head up. Taylor’s vision focused as he knew immediately what he was looking at.

“No, I won’t hang them, but their suffering at your hands and through your orders is over, Colonel Taylor, as you can clearly see.”

A moan escaped Taylor’s bloody mouth as he saw the bodies on the hay-strewn floor of the barn. They were uncovered and each was caked in thick mud. The blood coating them had dried to a sickening maroon color. His eyes roamed the twenty corpses in front of him. Sergeant Major McCandless was near the center. His bearded face was looking up blindly at the rafters of the roof. The men he had sent with the sergeant major were arrayed to his left and his right. Another moan escaped his lips and his head started to dip once more as he wanted nothing more than to seek shelter from this horror by slipping into the pleasures of unconsciousness. Freeman’s hand once again brutally pulled Taylor’s head up.