The Mountain: An Event Group Thriller (33 page)

“That was rather unethical,” Parnell said as he angrily looked over at Taylor, who was smiling as if he had been given the world’s best Christmas gift.

“Ethical goes out the window when you’re outnumbered, son, you know that,” Taylor said, jabbing at the air with his closed fist as he watched another solid blow land on Grandee’s nose, causing him to stagger once more.

“It’s one against one!” Parnell shouted over the noise of the cheering prisoners, naval personnel, and Marines.

“Precisely,” Taylor said, laughing aloud. “Outnumbered!”

Parnell turned back and had to admit that Grandee’s size alone made the odds a little long for the Reb fighter.

Grandee stopped the next blow by grabbing Jenks’s right fist and holding it in mid-throw. The large man shook his head to clear it, and then he became angry at the sneak attack by the corporal. Grandee brought up his right forearm and pounded Jenks on the back. Every centimeter of air expelled from the smaller man’s body as he crumpled to the deck. Before Grandee could take advantage of his blow, Jenks knew he had to think of a better attack. He came up between the steward’s legs and drilled him harshly in the testicles. The big man grunted and his hold on Jenks loosened. Jenks did it again, to the moans and groans of those men watching—even the southerners. After all, the man was hit in the true equalizer of all men, white or black.

On the quarterdeck Thomas worried Jenks’s blows would take down his man for good. But he saw Grandee shake his head once more and then he roared like a caged animal and grabbed the kneeling man’s fist in mid-strike with his massive paw.

“Uh-oh,” Jessy said as he saw the demise of his man fast approaching.

Grandee pulled Jenks upright and then held him up by one arm with the frightened Rebel kicking and screaming. For a moment, the men watching thought the steward was going to just toss the Confederate overboard, but instead he slung the man like a paper doll into the crowd of cheering men. Jenks landed between four marines who laughed and called for his quick surrender. This infuriated Corporal Jenks, who was hefted to his feet by the very marines who were laughing at him. He quickly turned and hit the face closest to him. The marine went flying backward into several Rebel soldiers, who were now afraid of their man’s eminent loss. They turned angrily toward the one man who had slammed into them. One of the angry Rebs then struck the fallen man in the nose. This action brought more marines forward as the Rebel prisoners simultaneously did the same.

Jenks was just about to throttle a second marine when a giant hand stopped him once more. Grandee was at him again as the marines and the prisoners started to exchange serious blows.

On the quarterdeck John Henry Thomas smiled.

Captain Jackson gestured for the marines in the rigging and the guards along the rail to be ready. “I knew this would happen.” He looked over at the smiling John Henry and was confused by his utter lack of worry about what was taking place onboard his ship.

“When you are trying to make a sculpture, you start out by kneading your clay mercilessly.”

“What in the hell does that mean?” Jackson said, astonished at Thomas’s utter lack of concern.

Thomas just smiled wider as the brawl below was turning into a full-scale riot.

“This is enough! I’m going to stop this.”

“You will do no such thing, Captain. You let this play out.”

No one saw Gray Dog as he slipped from the high rigging, slid down an exposed rope, and then disappeared into the bowels of the
Yorktown
.

“You men, stop that!” Parnell yelled at his men as they were quickly losing control. They outnumbered the Rebel prisoners, but the worn and tired men were giving his fresh troops all the fight they could handle. He had to stop this before it got out of control. As he stepped forward, a tired-looking old man he recognized as one of the Confederate cooks from Taylor’s division smiled up at him. As he was about to order the gray-bearded old fool out of his way, the old man reached up and clocked the lieutenant right in the mouth. He fell backward into Taylor’s arms. His hat went flying free as Taylor pushed him forward.

“For right now, you better worry about your own front, Lieutenant!” Taylor said, trying to control his laughter.

Parnell quickly recovered and was about to turn on Taylor when he saw the small, old man approach with his fists raised.

“Now you halt right there, soldier! I am an officer in the United States—”
Boom
, he was struck again in the nose, and he staggered backward once more only to be caught again by a furiously laughing Colonel Taylor. The man and his men had lost all control at this point. He again pushed Parnell forward. This time the marine lieutenant turned quickly and before the roaring Taylor could react, Parnell punched him right in the nose. The lieutenant laughed himself and then put his fists up in a prize-fighter stance. Taylor held his bleeding nose and then broke out laughing as the old man had recovered and jumped on the lieutenant’s back. The two twirled off into the melee taking place in the center of the main deck.

Thomas outwardly laughed as he watched the fights below. Men were taking out the frustrations of a war that had sapped all of their will power to ever laugh or be friendly to men different than themselves ever again. He watched the men actually smile as they were struck and struck hard by the marines, who were watching their hard-earned brawling reputation go down the drain pipe as the Rebel prisoners were more than holding their own.

The gunshot froze every man in place as they thought the marine guard had opened fire on them. Grandee, who had lifted Jenks over his head, turned and saw Colonel Thomas holster his smoking Colt revolver. Grandee let the beaten Jenks slip through his hands and land hard on the deck. When the large black man saw what he had done he quickly reached down and helped the stunned Rebel to his feet. He brushed at him as the other men, marines, sailors, and prisoners alike, started to return to their senses. There were some cuts, bruises, and missing teeth, but otherwise no serious injuries. Thomas looked at Taylor as he picked himself up from the deck. He wiped blood from his nose and then looked up at John Henry.

“At ease,” Thomas said, as the naval officer Jackson watched this very confusing army officer and his strange methods. He slowly started to realize that Thomas had taken a shortcut as far as getting the men to become comrades rather than continuing enemies. He also realized that John Henry had taken a chance on his prank failing and seeing the prisoners cut down by the marine guard if the fight had gotten serious.

“Feel better?” John Henry asked as he watched the embarrassed marines starting to realize they’d had their hands full defending themselves. Respect for the weakened prisoners had sprouted in just the past three minutes—just as Thomas had hoped. “Okay, every man is to clean himself up and then get below. Prisoners are not to be shackled, and have the full privileges of the ship. Lieutenant Parnell?”

Parnell wiped the last of the blood from his nose, recovered his hat from underneath the boot of a Rebel, and then came to attention, expecting Thomas to ream him a new ass for fighting with the prisoners.

“Sir!” he said as his polished heels came together. Taylor smiled and then looked from the frightened marine officer to his old friend.

“I want new hammock assignments for all Confederate and marines. They are to be placed in together, and physical training is to commence in the
A.M.
with mixed troops. Is that clear?”

“No, sir, it is not,” Parnell said, still at attention.

“Lieutenant, I want a mixed command. These men have now fought alongside each other, against each other, and I am here to tell you they are all lacking in the arena of defending themselves, even the marines. A new roster, Lieutenant. Now do you understand?”

Parnell finally relaxed and then looked at Thomas. “Not at all, Colonel.”

Thomas looked frustrated. “Let me explain,” he said as he stepped up to the set of stairs leading to the quarterdeck. “Colonel Taylor, join me please.”

Jessy smiled, wiped his nose once again, swiped it on his civilian clothes, and then stepped forward, climbing the six steps slowly, watching John Henry the entire time.

“The object of this exercise, gentlemen, was to get out some of that animosity you have stored up for each other. Like this.” Just as Taylor hit the top step, Colonel John Henry Thomas punched him right in the jaw, sending the colonel flying out and off the quarterdeck and into the arms of a stunned Parnell and several Rebel soldiers who were just as shocked as the marine lieutenant. Thomas shook his hand in pain. “You see, now my frustrations have been relieved and my animosity has magically vanished.” Thomas took the steps quickly and then assisted Taylor from the arms of the men who had kept him from hitting the deck.

“That was for the night you broke your word to me, Jessy. Don’t ever do it again,” Thomas said so that Taylor was the only one to hear.

“Next time let me in on the plan,” Taylor said and then stopped suddenly. “And by the way, John Henry, you’re right about one thing—frustration, animosity, it does get to you.” He turned and faced the colonel.

“Your point, Jessy?”

“This.” The punch caught the colonel totally unaware. The blow sent Thomas spinning until he was finally caught by a smiling Sergeant Major Dugan and held in place as John Henry wiped his own nose free of the blood he had just spilled. “That was for my sister.” Taylor tuned and walked away.

“Goes to show you, Colonel Darlin’, never give a Reb an inch or he’ll end up taking a mile.”

“Oh, you’re just full of great offerings, aren’t you?”

Dugan straightened the colonel and made sure he was stable and then he smiled.

“I try to be, boyo, I try.”

*   *   *

Gray Dog had been in the ship’s high rigging watching what he considered even more white-man insanity as the fight was about to start below. Suddenly the Comanche looked from the scene below to the stern of the ship. He didn’t know what had attracted his attention but a chill coursed through his bronzed skin as if a sudden cold snap had surrounded the
Yorktown
. The wind was strong enough that the nine enormous sails were full and billowing. Gray Dog knew the chill had not come from the weather. His eyes remained fixed on the stern of the ship. There was something either on deck or just below, he could not figure which.

Just as Taylor had stepped to the center of the mob below, Gray Dog silently slid down a rope and onto the ship’s railing, startling a marine guard who gave the strangely dressed Indian a wary look. Gray Dog went below, hesitantly at first because he didn’t like the confinement of the interior nor its varied navy smells, usually preferring clean air to breathe. He never would understand how men could live like this. He slowly eased himself down the steps and into the semi-darkness as the fight erupted on deck. He didn’t notice the shouts and the yells as his eyes adjusted to the blackness that accompanied his initial steps inside.

He looked to the stern and saw the passageway that led to the captain’s quarters, and he even saw shadows of movement inside and suspected it was Ollafson and the woman, Claire. He heard a noise and the door opened and the small man, Cromwell, stepped from the cabin. Gray Dog stepped farther back into the shadows as he watched. Cromwell closed the door and then stood rooted to the spot for a moment, and then Gray Dog saw him lean over and listen at the door. The man then straightened and rummaged into his coat pocket and brought out what looked like a hand mirror. Gray Dog’s eyes narrowed as he watched the man move toward the stern staircase heading for the aft quarterdeck. Gray Dog was curious if this was why his senses had told him to come below. He started to follow and then suddenly felt a change come over the companionway. He stepped back and watched as the shadows near the door to the cabin seemed to expand as if the sun—if there had been sunlight inside the bowels of the ship—had very quickly changed positions in the sky. It was like a deep breath was taken by the darker elements of the ship’s construction.

Gray Dog heard the fight above and the cheers and jeers of the men watching. The thump of footsteps echoed through the teak decking of the warship. He saw something slip out from under the cabin door. He blinked as he thought he was seeing things, and then he froze as he felt deep, penetrating cold through his purple shirt and even through the bone-and-feather chest plate he wore at all times. He felt the sensation leave his body almost as if it had never been there at all. He closed his eyes, not knowing why he felt such relief in feeling the overheated interior of the ship once again. His eyes went to the bow of the vessel and knew that whatever force he had felt had gone in that direction. As his eyes probed the darkness ahead he saw another shadow expand, shrink, and then break free of the hull and vanish forward like a small dark thunderhead vanishing over the horizon. Gray Dog followed the strangest trail he had ever tracked.

Above deck, the two forces of men came together with a crash. Gray Dog came to the hatchway that led to the third deck, a section of the ship into which he had never ventured. He looked around one last time at the battle stations of the
Yorktown
, whose thirty-two cannon lay silent but still deadly looking. He decided he had to know what the movement of shadow meant. He started down the steps and into the total blackness below.

As he placed his moccasined feet on the third deck he felt the change come again. Suddenly the crowded warship was a menace, and for the life of him Gray Dog could not understand why. He sensed his answer was forward. He moved slowly until he saw a small porthole that allowed light to filter through to illuminate a certain area. He realized where he was as he stopped by a large barrel of flour that was strapped down to the decking. He watched as the weakened light slightly illuminated the small brig that was an even smaller joke on the
Yorktown
. The man inside, Gray Dog remembered, was the Rebel almost hanged four days before, Corporal Loudermilk. Even his own confederates had turned on him and the two men next to him in the small cell.