The Mountain: An Event Group Thriller (22 page)

“Mr. Ericsson, do you have any idea what all this work was for?”

“Yes, yes I do, Colonel Thomas.” The man’s eyes were alight with passion.

“And your belief in—”

“Does it matter what one’s beliefs are, Colonel Thomas? What is a worthier goal in life, fulfilling this mission of discovery, even if nothing is discovered, or using my inventions to kill other men?”

Thomas watched the crazed man in whom Lincoln had such a firm belief. By all accounts the mad little Swede was insane at the least and a genius at the most.

“No, Colonel, this mission is the only mission. To die in an attempt is so much more desirable than taking a bullet from a brother, wouldn’t you think, sir?”

For the first time John Henry was going to show a hole card in his personality. He raised his dark eyebrows and his blue eyes blazed at the smaller man.

“I have found dying is dying. It doesn’t matter to the dead what the cause was, all he knows is that he’s dead and would much rather have been alive and bypassed all of this so-called glory.”

Ericsson did not take offense. He nodded his head. “I think the world would be a better place to live in, Colonel, if there were more professional soldiers such as yourself. But until that day arrives, I will keep building my little wonders to stop those men who do not think as you and I. Now, shall we go?”

Thomas watched the man walk away with a light step. He closed his eyes and then opened them to see the giant tented tarp and wondered just what in the hell he was to do with Ericsson’s gift. He looked up and saw a skeletal locomotive being loaded onto the three-hundred-foot barge.

As Thomas watched the activity at the navy yard he turned away and saw the sun lowering in the eastern sky and wondered what was waiting for his little madcap expedition over that horizon.

As he watched, the cloud formation of billowing fluff made the shape of a huge mountain with its peak rising to the sky. The sun cast an angry glow to the image and then the shape vanished as if he had been seeing things.

Out there the mountain waited.

PART THREE

THE NEW ARGONAUTS

For the moment, let them enjoy a calm sea and a fresh breeze, but for Jason, there are other adventures—I have not finished with Jason …

—Zeus, father of the gods

7

FORT HAMILTON, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

John Henry was escorted to the fort’s main orderly office where he was shown a desk he could work at. He removed his tunic and hat, he untied his black tie, and loosened his collar. As he walked to the far corner he was happy to see that the fort’s marine major had left him a bottle of whiskey. He shook his head in appreciation and poured himself a drink. Just before he lifted the small glass to his lips he saw dust filtering down from above and he slowly pulled his Colt revolver from its holster. When he stepped back and looked up he cursed as he saw Gray Dog sitting atop the room’s rafters. His legs were crossed and he was balanced as he watched John Henry below.

“Damn it, get down from there. What are you doing in here? You’re supposed to be with Sergeant Major Dugan.”

“I don’t like forts. Bad places. The big city across the river smells bad. We will go soon?”

John Henry took one last look up into the rafters, holstered his weapon, and finally took a sip of burning liquid. A knock sounded on the door.

“Come,” he said as he placed the glass by the bottle and then returned to the small desk and seated himself. Thinking quickly, he unbuckled his gun belt and placed it on the desktop.

The door opened and Thomas saw it was Dugan. The man was filthy, evidence that while he had been at the navy yard, the sergeant major had been helping with the prisoners. For a man who had so little love for the South and the men fighting for her, he had even less sympathy for those who committed atrocities like they saw today. A good man, a little bad tempered, but Dugan could usually be counted on to do the right thing … eventually.

“Colonel Darlin’, that sawbones is out here and wants to report.”

“Send him in and then bring Colonel Taylor in after.”

“He’s getting ready for chow, the first they have had in three days.”

“Bring him here, and tell Hamilton’s cooks I want one full meal with plenty of vegetables for all of his men. The colonel will eat in here with me. See to it.”

“Yes, Colonel.” The head remained looking inside the office.

“What?” Thomas asked, annoyed.

“I have to admit it, I have gone and lost old coyote head. Can’t find him anywheres.”

John Henry just used his thumb and pointed upward. Dugan squinted into the darkness of the room and saw Gray Dog looking at him.

“Why you little—”

“Sergeant Major, the doctor.”

With one last glare upward into the room’s rafters, Dugan stepped aside for the aging physician.

The doctor, instead of reporting, nodded at a curious Thomas and then walked straight to the whiskey bottle. He poured himself a drink and quickly downed it. Then he poured another and drank that. Thomas didn’t bat an eye when a third was poured. Finally with an overflowing glass the doctor walked to the chair in front of the desk and then sat heavily. His white coat was covered in blood and filth. His eyes were red and bloodshot. Thomas could see that the naval physician was a virgin to brutality on this scale; thus he knew the doctor had never seen a battlefield.

“Now that you have had your drink, Doctor, do you have a report for me?”

With a withering look of despair the doctor downed the third drink and placed it on the desktop with an eye toward the bottle a short distance away. John Henry reached out, placed a hand over the mouth of the glass, and pulled it toward him. The doctor looked momentarily offended and then nodded.

“Most of those men won’t see the next snowfall, Colonel.” The doctor pulled out a filthy kerchief and wiped his brow, then covered his mouth momentarily. He coughed with a threat of losing the whiskey he had just consumed. He got his nausea under control and glanced up and saw the strangest thing. An Indian was looking down upon him. “Does the colonel know he has an Indian in his rafters?”

“How many men can make the trip, Doctor?” he asked, ignoring the physician’s observation.

“In my professional opinion, none, Colonel. There is not one man ensconced in that infernal camp that is not malnourished, filled with lice, or has dysentery. Hell, most have bad feet from the mud. We call it immersion foot.”

“If fed properly for two to three weeks, would they regain strength?”

“Yes, but until then many would die. It’s not just the intake of food, Colonel, it’s the intake of vitamins the men have been missing.”

“How many, Doctor?” John Henry knew the man to be near shock after treating the wounded and the sick, but he had very little time.

The naval physician looked at his notepad and grimaced. “Out of four hundred and sixty-five, those that made it through the murderous night, that is, I can scrape together one hundred and two semi-healthy bodies.”

“Far short of the hundred and fifty required,” John Henry mumbled. Then he looked up. “What is the lieutenant colonel’s condition and prognosis, Doctor?”

The man looked at the empty glass and then he lowered his head, knowing that avenue of escapism was closed to him at the moment. He flipped through his notes.

“Lieutenant Colonel Jessup Taylor, malnourished and has dysentery. He has also contracted scarlet fever. The man is a walking reference book on illness. I also treated the colonel for an infection from a saber wound he received last year. I can’t believe it hasn’t killed him after so long. One tough soldier. Yes, he will heal. He is currently suffering from a severe concussion.”

John Henry studied the doctor for a good while. The heavyset man was becoming uncomfortable when at last John Henry slid the glass back to him across the desk. With a grateful nod, the doctor immediately went to the corner and poured himself another drink. He hesitated momentarily and then, instead of drinking it, he slammed the full glass down on the tabletop and then made for the door, opened it, and then without asking permission left the office.

Thomas understood. He had seen death in all forms, but this doctor was used to treating ailments no more threatening than the scurvy or intestinal problems the navy encounters. He’d seen for the first time what army surgeons were dealing with on a daily basis while the world around them committed suicide. He was thinking how close in feeling the doctor and he were when the door opened and two guards escorted a very much cleaner Jessy Taylor inside, wearing shackles on his wrists. The two marines looked uncomfortable as they stood on either side of the Rebel.

“Remove the shackles,” John Henry said as he kept his eyes on the doctor’s report in front of him. They did so. Taylor looked at his onetime friend and then rubbed the spot where the shackles had chafed his wrists.

“Gentlemen, please pass the word, until the army comes to take possession of the prisoners, they are not to be shackled. I want every asset of Fort Hamilton brought to bear. These men need to be fed, clothed, and have medicine available to them. See to it,” Thomas ordered, and the two marines saw the determined look in the man’s eyes.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Excused.”

“Sir, there is a large tray of food out here.”

“Bring that in.”

Taylor remained staring down at Thomas. He looked far better than he had that morning. The swelling had gone down around his eyes enough so that Taylor could at least see. The two men remained quiet while the guards brought in the food and placed it on the colonel’s makeshift desk. They left and still the silence continued. John Henry made a note on the doctor’s report and then placed pen and paper aside.

“Sit, Jessy. Eat something.”

When he didn’t react but just stood rooted to the floor in front of the desk, it was Gray Dog who silently hopped down from the rafters, went to the large tray, and lifted the covers off the dishes one at a time. He looked at John Henry and then at Taylor. He grabbed a small game hen and held it in front of the Rebel officer.

“You can have it,” Taylor said as he saw the Indian’s fingers digging deeply into the greasy meat of the small bird. Gray Dog looked from the colonel to the bird and then started eating. He walked to the corner and sat on the floor.

“You’ll have to excuse Gray Dog’s manners. Sometimes his etiquette and English vanish at the same time. He likes to revert when the mood suits him.”

“I remember Comanche manners, John Henry. He was more than likely hoping I was going to choke on it.”

“More than likely. Now, please sit. We have much to talk about.”

Taylor looked at the tray of food before him and swallowed. He took an apple from a plate and then with a curious look at Gray Dog, he finally sat. He took a bite of the apple and then closed his eyes as he chewed. He grimaced as the hard fruit hurt his teeth. After so long with a diet of oatmeal and maggoty meat, his teeth had grown soft and almost dysfunctional. Still, the apple tasted better than any he could ever remember eating.

John Henry studied his old classmate. He reached out for the coffeepot and poured two cups. He slid one toward Taylor, who took the cup with the apple still in hand and then drank the hot liquid. He didn’t care about the burn to his lips and tongue. The coffee tasted heavenly. Finally Jessup Taylor laid down the empty tin cup and tossed the apple core on the tray. John Henry drank his dark coffee and watched Taylor.

“My men, are they being fed?”

“As we speak.”

Taylor placed a hand over his eyes. “It’s my fault. I knew what Freeman was capable of, but as always I thought I could outthink the bastard. I gambled with my men and they paid the price.”

“You did what a commander does—he looks out for his men. I know you were watching them die slowly and I know what is happening on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line, and it isn’t pretty. The hate is going to continue long after we stop killing each other in droves.”

“And this asinine scheme of Lincoln’s is going to change that?” Taylor laughed for the first time in what seemed like ages. He scratched his beard and then reached out and took a pecan from the tray and popped it into his mouth. “We are going to chase a child’s Sunday-school fairy tale and this will make everything good again? And all along I thought the South had all the arrogance needed to call the entire war effort insane, but I see you northern boys don’t do too badly at delusional thinking either. The plan is foolish and we won’t find nothing out there except a pile of rocks and dirt. I’m surprised Lincoln was able to talk you into this. And I thought he was your friend.”

“If there is only a slight chance that Ollafson is right, we may do some good, Jessy. I have never known that lanky bastard in the White House to be wrong about anything.” He fixed Taylor with a withering stare. “Anything.”

“And that is where you and I part ways, again,” Taylor said as his green eyes returned the look of mistrust. “That man will not only leave this nation a laughingstock in the world, he’ll start a war overseas that this country will never be able to win.”

“I disagree. We could win that war. As a matter of fact, if that’s the downside to this mission, the president is willing to do it. A war would also bring the nation together as much as this fairy tale you speak of.”

Taylor looked from John Henry to the food. He looked back.

“Okay, John. What if I say yes? Do I get to command my men?”

“Yes, I will be in overall command, you will be my adjutant.”

Taylor leaned back in his chair. “I want as many men as I can take out of here. I don’t care if they die on the way to the docks, as long as they are free of men like Freeman.”

“Done.”

Taylor reached for a large slice of bread and started eating. “I suppose you have a plan that doesn’t include a section where we all die, or are able to avoid a world war?”

“Not yet, but by the time our train arrives at the capital we will.”