The Mountain: An Event Group Thriller (20 page)

Thomas looked at the boy holding up the officer. He nodded at the boy as John Henry removed the rope from around the man’s neck and then the private’s. He allowed the officer to fall forward and Thomas eased him onto the mud-covered decking of the scaffold. The black hair was blood soaked and the eyes nearly swollen shut. Suddenly the green eyes flashed as the man tried to sit up. “No,” he said in a barely audible whisper. “Not my men, it was me!” This came out a little louder.

“Easy,” John Henry said as he tried in vain to wipe some of the blood away. The green eyes were barely visible through the swelling but John Henry hoped the man could see him nonetheless. The wounded officer raised a hand, took a filthy grip of Thomas’s tunic, and pulled him close. “Hang me, not them.”

“No one is getting hanged today,” he said, as even Gray Dog had stopped to watch the exchange. Thomas removed the grip of the man’s hand and then looked at the face and how it had aged since he had last laid eyes on him.

It had been in Texas in 1861. They had served together chasing Kiowa and Comanche who were raiding frontier farms and ranches along the Brazos and the Cimarron. When the war began, like most of the professional officers at the time, they had said farewell as the war divided the army like nothing before. This man had been called home to Virginia, himself to the Army of the Potomac and Washington. From the looks of things they had both taken a bad road and now were here together again.

“Jessy. Jessy,” he said as quietly as possible.

The eyes tried to open but the swelling kept them mostly closed. The green eyes, bloodshot through and through, opened as best as they could. They focused on the clean-shaven face before them.

“John … Henry … Thomas,” Taylor whispered, and then the eyes closed.

Thomas laid Taylor’s head down and then stood to face the men below.

“This prison is now mine.” He saw the arrival of fifty U.S. Marines as they entered the post at a rapid pace and in formation. They split off as if on cue to cover not the prisoners, but their guards, who started to lay down their weapons in the mud. The bayonet points looked very menacing. These were not unarmed and defenseless prisoners—these were marines and they looked the part. Thomas then looked down at the major, who was still holding his head where Dugan had tapped him.

“This action is illegal,” was all he said.

“Sergeant Major, place this officer into submission, and you do not have to be gentle about it,” he said as his eyes grew with the fire he was feeling in his gut. “Place him in irons and then have the marines escort him to Fort Hamilton. The same for the noncoms. For now, allow that ladies’ group in to care for these men, make sure they are fed.” Thomas stood and then pulled Dugan in close. He looked at the lined-up bodies of Confederate murdered lying in the mud and grime of the parade ground. “And get one of these marines to get the
New York Herald
over here before officialdom takes charge. People need to know about this.”

“Still won’t be a lot of sympathy for the Rebs, you know that. Our boys fare far worse down south.”

“Do as ordered, and make sure those ladies are forewarned of what they will encounter this side of the gate. Is that clear?”

“It sure is, Colonel Darlin’.”

“You don’t have that authority,” protested Freeman. “I was appointed by General McClellan himself.”

John Henry knew the letters tucked inside his tunic at that moment made him the most powerful man outside of the White House. Instead of telling the major the predicament he was in, he watched as Gray Dog with the help of two marines assisted Lieutenant Colonel Taylor from the scaffolding.

Thomas’s second-in-command might not see the sun set that day.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Claire had been sleepless since the meeting the night before had broken up and she and Professor Ollafson were escorted to the Willard Hotel. While lying awake in her room she had heard sounds in the hallway outside her door. When she cracked it open she spied Colonel John Henry Thomas, a gruff little man in sergeant’s stripes, and a third man dressed in leather leggings and a purple shirt walking down the empty hall toward the stairs.

Throughout the sleepless night she had deep and disturbing thoughts about the artifacts Ollafson had surprised everyone with that night. The images of the Angelic symbols flew through her mind and each vision gave her uncontrollable chills. It was as her mother used to say about a goose walking on one’s grave.

After her futile hours chasing sleep, Claire ended up in the hotel’s dining area. She had just finished her morning tea and was about to make her way back to her room when she saw a familiar face staring at her from the corner of the room. The brazenness of the man never ceased to amaze her. The French master spy was sitting in the dining room with no more fear than a man would have at his own breakfast table. Their eyes only met for a moment before Claire left the dining room.

Madame Claire had been in her room less than five minutes before the light knock sounded on the door. She knew the game she played was the most dangerous in the world. She removed her long, sharp hatpin, took a deep breath, and then made her way to the door and cracked it open an inch, making ready her hatpin weapon.

“Are you going to wait until I am discovered lurking in the hallway like a forlorn lover?”

Claire swallowed when the man spoke in his unfettered and unaccented English. She opened the door and stepped back to allow the Frenchman in.

Paul Renaud walked toward the desk and then tossed his hat on its polished surface. “Generals, generals, generals everywhere. They ply the waters of Washington like a grouping of sharks smelling blood.” He smiled. “Each one wants to become the next man in charge.”

Claire closed and then locked the door. “I suspect that Mr. Lincoln may have found the right man in this General Grant. I believe he may make short work of the South. The president seems to like him very much.”

“Speaking of the apple of the president’s eye, what have you learned about our colonel from the west?” he asked as he made his way to the sofa and then sat. He touched the material and grimaced as he rubbed his fingers together with a sour face. The Willard was not exactly the Knickerbocker Hotel in Manhattan.

Claire slowly pulled the light blue gloves from her hands and then tossed them on the bed with her unpacked luggage. She took a deep breath and then made her report.

“The man, unlike most military professionals, keeps his private opinions to himself, so that makes him a very hard read. But you can tell the president trusts him like no other, even his closest advisors.”

Renaud looked curious. “And why is that, do you think?”

“From what I could learn, this Colonel Thomas has been associated with Mr. Lincoln for nearly fifteen years. The army and the railroads assigned him to be Lincoln’s personal bodyguard during the president’s legal days when he represented the railroads in several hard-hitting litigations. From what I hear they are extremely close. So close that Lincoln actually intervened when Thomas faced a general court-martial on charges of dereliction of duty and disobeying a direct order of the commanding general at Antietam.”

“Yes, I seem to have read something about that when last in Paris. I understand that caused a rift between General McClellan and the president.”

Claire turned and wanted to smile at the small man but stopped herself. It seemed she knew something he didn’t. “No, the rift between McClellan and the president is a little deeper than that. Thomas was on the fast track for a star on his shoulder-boards before the incident. Who knows, maybe even eventual command of the Union forces? Lincoln has that much confidence in John Henry Thomas.”

“All right, they have their man and now we have him. Now, you and the professor, are you in on the expedition?”

Claire walked to the credenza and poured herself a glass of water. She feigned taking a drink and then turned to face the most dangerous man she had ever met. That was when the thought struck her. It had come to her only a half hour since she had seen Angelic Script on the petrified wood. She shuddered as the image of the symbols blazed into her mind.

She mentally shook herself and then halfheartedly smiled. “Yes, we are in. From what I understand we will depart without much notice and at the colonel’s discretion.”

“Excellent. I need the names of all naval vessels involved.”

“I don’t have that information.”

“Obtain it, Madame.”

“That you will have to do on your own. I haven’t the time.”

He laughed as he stood and placed his expensive hat on his head. “I also do not have the time. You see, I must pack because I am now a part of the team.” He held a fist halfway up in mocking gesture of a cheer. “I am replacing the student that came up mysteriously dead in New York.”

“Is that why you murdered that boy? Just to gain passage?”

“I am just taking advantage of an accidental death,” he said, his eyes sparkling as he opened the door and then paused. “It was nothing to get a letter of introduction to Ollafson from Harvard, as you know we have many high-placed officials ensconced there.” Again he smiled, and then he left.

Claire turned and faced her unpacked luggage and then went to the door. She had to stop to clear the images of the professor’s symbols from her head. She didn’t let Renaud know about what she had discovered or what Ollafson had held back from her. She had her reasons, none of which coincided with the fact that Renaud might not be the most proficient killer on this trip after all. She suspected something on that mountain may be even better at it, and Ollafson had actually seen it in action.

Claire went to the hallway and then took the stairs down a flight. She cautiously walked the corridor until she came to the right room and rapped her small knuckles against the door. It opened and she stepped through. The man was wearing his uniform. She thought maybe the arrogant bastard slept in it, but that was as far as she would allow her private thoughts to go when she thought of the man before her.

“Wonderful, you weren’t arrested after all.” The British Army officer closed the door. “So, the meeting with the president went well, I take it? You and Ollafson will be included?”

Claire appraised the blond Englishman. Captain Steven McDonald, British Army Intelligence, was chipper of mood as he waited for her answer. The man who had couriered Her Majesty’s wishes overseas stood and waited with that irritating smile he had.

“Yes, but I am afraid we are not the only ones included on the passenger manifest, Captain.”

“And just what does that mean?” he asked as he gestured that she should sit.

She ignored his hospitality and turned to face him.

“Our friend Renaud will also be going. He will be attached to the professor and myself as an assistant.”

“A very dangerous game he is playing,” McDonald said as he placed a hand to his chin and started pacing.

“It is also a dangerous game I also find myself in, Captain.”

McDonald stopped pacing and smiled. The man’s Scottish aristocracy came through at these moments of levity and she hated him even more for it.

“Such is the life of a double agent. But you will also have the company of one who will watch over you.” He smiled as he took in her beauty. “I am also included on the crew’s manifest.”

Claire was shocked. “You?”

The smile remained. “Yes, you are not the only persuasive one. I am to be included as Ollafson’s personal secretary. Hired just this morning by your dear employer when he requested a diarist from his old department at Harvard.”

Claire watched as the captain turned and opened the door for her. He smiled again. “My dear, it will be reported to Her Majesty that you have done an excellent job of infiltrating the French spy ring here in America. She will be most grateful.”

Claire was in shock as she left the room. Was every spy in the western world going on this expedition? For the first time since becoming an agent for both France and England, Madame Richelieu was beginning to think she was as insane as the rest of them.

6

FORT HAMILTON, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

John Henry watched Jessy’s eyes as they fluttered open. It had been three hours since he had taken over the prisoner-of-war camp at Lafayette. The U.S. Marines were now in control. The prisoners would get better treatment, at least for the time being.

The colonel knew he didn’t have much time to do what needed doing. He looked to the corner of the darkened room and saw Gray Dog praying to his ancestors. John Henry didn’t know if the prayers were for them, the Reb colonel, or something else. He never asked Gray Dog about his praying habits.

Thomas removed the wet cloth from Jessy’s forehead and then stood and removed his double-breasted tunic. The cottony white shirt was already soaked through in perspiration. He tossed the coat on the floor, adjusted the suspenders, and then leaned over his old friend and classmate.

“I would have sworn old Jeb would have had you shot by now,” he mumbled as he applied another cloth to the back of Taylor’s head.

Thus far there had not been much of a stir at Fort Hamilton as far as the takeover of the prison was concerned. A simple and very brief telegram from the war department had seen to the quick and thus far quiet transition. The letter from the president bearing his signature had had the desired effect on the marine major manning Fort Hamilton.

“Maybe he didn’t have me shot, but he sure as hell … left my ass in the bushes a week before Gettysburg.”

John Henry smiled as he heard the softly spoken words.

“Yeah, that’s the Jeb Stuart I know. Great tactician, terrible friend.”

Taylor finally managed to open one eye as he took in Thomas. Then with a curious look he turned his head to the right when he heard the soft humming and chanting coming from the dark corner. He managed to focus momentarily on Gray Dog and then his head fell back.

“I see you still associate … with … the … very best … families.”

John Henry laughed as Taylor regained some of his old self.