The Mountain: An Event Group Thriller (37 page)

“I suppose this is contraband,” he said, holding the flag out.

Thomas looked at the sad little remnant of these men’s faith in a nation that had caved in on itself.

“I see an old and stained kerchief, Colonel, not contraband. You can keep that with the uniforms you had your men so meticulously repair.”

Taylor smiled as he placed the flag back into his coat. He walked away without another word.

“I do not understand the bad blood between you two, especially when a blind man can see you are closer than what you portray. That hot-and-cold affection makes those of us in the dark rather uncomfortable.” Jackson turned to face John Henry. “And that makes for mistrust. You have your mission at stake. I have three warships in that same position. May I suggest you sort this out immediately before we all wind up inside of a Turkish prison?” Jackson walked away. “We shall arrive at our destination in two days.”

Thomas watched the back of Jackson until he vanished into the fog. He heard the anticollision bell sound four times and then the ship once more became silent, with the exception of the bow wake of the
Yorktown
as it cut through Mediterranean waters.

Thomas stood silent as he thought about what Jackson had said. He knew as well as the naval commander it had to be done. If they expected to get back home alive, he and Jessy would have to come to an understanding, and John Henry knew that one of them had the possibility of not walking away from the confrontation.

*   *   *

Gray Dog had been in the rigging for three full days. He had entered the interior of the ship only for food after the mess stewards had closed down for the night. It had been mess steward Grandee who had a suspicion that the small red man was making his clandestine forays after lights-out in the galley.

Gray Dog was moving cautiously in the dark all the time, staying away from the hull or anything that could cast a shadow by the lone oil lamp illuminating the galley. Suddenly he flinched when a wooden match was struck. Mess steward Grandee was sitting on a stool as he lifted the facing of an oil lamp and then stuck the match to the wick. He shook out the match and then looked up at an unmoving Gray Dog, who was standing rigid in the middle of the small galley.

“I must say, you’re a real hard man to catch, yes, sir,” Grandee said as he placed the lamp on the small table where a large plate of hot food was sitting untouched. He laughed. It was a deep belly laugh that sounded as though the voice was full of gravel. It immediately relaxed Gray Dog.

“I always wanted to say, I am sorely interested in that hat. What is it they call you?”

Gray Dog reached up and felt the coyote skin on his black hair. Then he realized that the large black-skinned man was not laughing at his hat but was complimenting it. Gray Dog slowly removed the headpiece and then offered it to Grandee. “Gray Dog.”

“Looks more like a little fox hat,” Grandee said as he slowly reached for the offered decoration.

“No, my name is Gray Dog.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, Gray Dog. Well, Gray Dog, this is a mighty fine hat,” Grandee said as he returned the coyote head complete with tail after enough gushing over its beauty was accomplished. The mess steward smiled when he saw the Comanche’s eyes roam to the steaming plate on the table. The eyes followed when the steward slowly pushed the plate toward Gray Dog.

“Go on, that’s for you. Take it. You can eat it here or up there with the seagulls,” Grandee said as his eyes rolled upward toward the deck and rigging.

Gray Dog looked at the roasted chicken thigh and the canned corn overflowing the plate. He immediately went to the table and scooped a handful of corn into his mouth. Grandee laughed that hearty laugh once more and then slid a spoon forward but Gray Dog ignored it.

“I didn’t think you were getting enough eatin’ done with you only taking stale bread out of here every night. You go on and eat up now. There will be a big plate for you right here when you’re hungry. Nobody goes hungry on my watch.”

“Maybe he gets a good appetite after murderin’.”

Grandee looked up and Gray Dog jumped back from the table a step, suddenly leery of both Grandee and the man standing in the small opening to the galley holding the gray curtain aside.

Corporal Jenks walked in and with his eyes never leaving the two men he took a tin cup and poured himself a cup of coffee. The corporal’s eye was still swollen and the knot on his jaw was finally receding into memory. Gray Dog watched the man, his hand on his knife’s hilt.

“Scuttlebutt says it was the Frenchman spy fella that the colonel tossed overboard that did the killing.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said another voice.

Colonel Taylor came in and repeated the pouring of coffee. He nodded at Jenks, who placed his cup on the table and then walked to the small curtain and stood there looking into the dark companionway. He would make sure Taylor had the time needed to get answers. Jessy slowly sat down with a nod of his head at the larger-than-life black man who was watching the Rebel colonel with more than just a wary eye. His fingers tickled the handle of a meat cleaver on the stool next to him.

“Why, I don’t believe our Indian friend here has the prowess to tear to pieces three fully grown men. But I think he knows who did have that prowess.” Taylor lifted the cup and took a drink of the thick, rich coffee.

“What is prowess?” Grandee asked as Gray Dog continued to watch Taylor. His eyes moved quickly to the doorway but then just as quickly back.

“The wherewithal to carry out the dastardly deed,” he explained. “He knows the man that did this to my boys,” he continued, “and I want to know who it is, now, tonight, or this mission comes to a stop right here.”

“Now, you can’t hold us here. The captain will—”

“No man.”

The words caught both men off-guard. Grandee looked toward Gray Dog, who seemed to have shaken off his sudden fear of the two Rebels. He reached for the piece of chicken and then started to eat, paying no more attention to the men in the room than he did the rocking of the ship.

“What was that?” Jenks said, taking a step back inside the galley.

“Get back to your post,” Taylor told Jenks as he turned his attention back to Gray Dog, who had finished the chicken and was now once more shoveling corn into his mouth.

“He says it weren’t no man that did the killing,” Grandee offered.

“Don’t start with this Indian stuff. Tell me who did it,” Taylor said, slapping the table with the palm of his hand.

“No man,” Gray Dog said and then started to turn away when his corn was done. Taylor reached out and took the Comanche by the arm, stopping him from leaving. Grandee tensed as Gray Dog spun on the colonel and slammed his knife into the wooden table right next to Taylor’s arm. Jessy slowly moved his hand away.

“You are John Henry’s friend, so that is why I will not kill you. I did not kill those bad men. No one on this boat kill them.” Gray Dog removed the embedded knife and then turned and left.

“Uh, Colonel?”

Taylor turned and saw Jenks being shoved into the galley at gunpoint. Sergeant Major Dugan once more had his pistol out and while still in a dressing gown that flowed to his ankles, he shoved the shocked Jenks inside. They were soon followed by John Henry. He was bare-chested and his suspenders were the only thing holding his blue pants aloft. He too was armed with a Colt.

“Colonel Taylor, would you join me in my cabin, please.” John Henry uncocked the pistol and handed it over to Dugan, who was smiling at Jenks, who had been placed next to the man who had nearly beaten him to death four days before. They exchanged uneasy looks.

Jessy stood. He reached down and took his last sip of coffee and then half-bowed to the colonel. “By all means.”

*   *   *

John Henry closed the door after leaving Dugan standing outside with pistol in hand. He walked to the small sideboard and then he shocked Taylor by pouring two glasses of whiskey. He turned and held one out toward the Rebel colonel.

“You’re going to need this.” Thomas nodded as Jessy took the glass, and then he raised it. “To the president,” he said.

“Yes, President Jeff Davis,” Taylor said with his own smile and then both men drank.

John Henry set his glass down, and then just as Jessy lowered his, Thomas punched him with a roundhouse blow to the side of his head. He staggered into the hull, which held him upright. Taylor shook his head and looked up at his brother-in-law. He smiled.

“’Bout goddamn time!” he said as he launched himself at Thomas. He struck the colonel right at belt level and drove him into the table still strewn with maps. The two men fell, and that was when the close-in fighting of the cavalry officers really commenced.

*   *   *

Captain Jackson was in a blue robe that had been a gift from his mother when he had been promoted at the early age of twenty-three to lieutenant commander. He was holding a carafe of water as he slowly moved back to the small makeshift cabin he had been in since offering his to Colonel Thomas. He was stopped and his sleepy eyes rose to the large man.

“They’s fightin’, Captain,” Grandee said as his wide eyes went from a yawning Jackson to the smiling faces of Dugan and Jenks, who stood facing each other just outside the main cabin. The noise coming from inside his old cabin was like a hurricane ripping the place apart.

“Now, now, this has been coming on for some time. Don’t get your knickers in a bunch,” Dugan said.

Both Jenks and Grandee looked horrified, as they knew both men inside were in a killing mood for deeds done years before.

“What do we do?” Grandee pleaded with Jackson as the young officer yawned once more and then started to move away toward his bunk.

“This is an example of an army problem, cookie, not the navy’s.” He stopped only momentarily and said without turning back, “I am interested in the outcome, so see me in the morning and let me know who won,” he said as he parted the curtain and entered his small space. “Good night, gentlemen.”

Jenks and Grandee looked at each other, and then without a word both turned their heads to see Sergeant Major Dugan smiling like this was the most marvelous thing since P. T. Barnum’s museum opened.

*   *   *

Dugan could not remember a fistfight lasting so long without someone calling for a doctor, or a mortician. The sounds of breaking furniture, glass, and the occasional “umph” ended only a few minutes later when the sergeant major was approached by Professor Ollafson, Claire Richelieu, and the ever-present Steven McDonald.

“I demand this foolishness be stopped immediately!” Ollafson said to a smiling Dugan when they approached. Claire looked absolutely horrified that not one man belowdecks had made an attempt at stopping the two madmen from this disgraceful act that surely was not the way an American military officer should comport himself.

“Sorry, Professor, orders were clear on this one. Until I hear a gunshot coming from that cabin, no one gets in.”

“They could be killing themselves in there!” Claire said as her eyes went to the suddenly silent cabin door.

“That, ma’am, is highly probable,” Dugan said, and then cocked his ear to the right. “Sounds as though they may be taking a small breather, or one of them is dead.”

“Well, man, open the bloody door!” McDonald said.

“You all just go back to your studies or beds. If someone in that cabin needs attention, the ship’s doc is standing by. Now go on, leave the two colonels alone to sort out their differences or this little fantasy mission will end before we reach Constantinople.”

“This disgrace will be entered into the official report, I assure you,” Ollafson said as he turned and left.

“Be sure you enter that little tidbit of information right alongside the entry about you allowing a French spy onboard.”

Ollafson stopped, hunched his shoulders, and then continued on.

McDonald, with one last look at the sergeant major, quickly followed just to get those beady little rat’s eyes off him. On the way he almost bumped into Gray Dog, who was waiting just underneath the stairs leading to the upper deck. Grandee was there also. Both were eating buttered bread from the galley.

“What is this, a prize fight?”

Both men looked at him. It was Grandee who summed it up the best.

“Soldiers fight.”

“Oh, of course, that explains all.” McDonald shook his head and then left the aft compartment.

Dugan faced Claire, who wasn’t moving. She turned and pulled over a small stool and then sat.

“I’m not leaving until you allow me to enter that cabin.”

“Then I suspect we’ll be waiting together, Miss.”

*   *   *

For a reason John Henry couldn’t remember, he was staring at the polished tips of his boots. As he did, the left-side suspender attaching his pants to his body snapped. His head jerked as the elastic popped and stung his bare chest. Blood had coursed down from his left brow and dripped onto the floor. He managed to look to his right as Jessy was trying in vain to lift himself from the floor. The last time these two men had done battle with each other like this was back in their junior year after family day at West Point. That was the very first time that John Henry had seen Jessy’s sister, Mary, visiting with their parents from Mobile. Thomas had never seen a girl like her before. Her confidence obviously had been earned after so many years with her brother, but it was her kind eyes that John Henry remembered first and foremost. That night when he had mentioned it, Jessy went crazy and they ended up in just about the same positions they were in now. The remembrance was short lived as Jessy gave up and then slid back down the damp hull to sit hard on the deck.

“You still hit like a flower-picking Yankee.”

“Is that so? Well,” John Henry swiped blood from his mouth and then spit a mouthful of it out onto the wooden deck. “This flower-picking Yankee just put you on the deck.”

“Ha! And just where do you find yourself, Colonel?”

Thomas looked up at Jessy, who was also spitting out blood.

John Henry tried to rise, failed, stumbled backward, and then sat heavily on the floor. He let out a breath and then rolled over and lay down. He suddenly became inspired and rolled to a spot he saw upside down in his vision. Once where he wanted to go, he retrieved a bottle and then rolled back to his section of hull, where he finally managed to sit up. He uncorked the bottle of whiskey and took a long, double swallow of the amber-colored liquid. It burned but it was a good burn; it let him know his nervous system was functioning just fine. He held out the bottle toward Jessy, who was still cursing a loose tooth that John Henry had managed to dislodge from his cheek. He took the offered liquor and held it up. He wiped the lip of the bottle with a dirty sleeve and then took a drink.