The Mountain: An Event Group Thriller (38 page)

“I loved your sister.” John Henry took the bottle back and then looked at Taylor.

Jessy tried to stand again but this time he surrendered halfway up the hull and slid back. He closed his eyes and then reached out and snatched the bottle from Thomas’s hand.

“The one man in the world I thought I could trust in protecting my sister failed me and her. Instead of leaving her in the east where most married men felt their families were safer, you brought her out to Texas. How did that work out, hero?” He took a drink while his eyes remained on his former brother-in-law.

Thomas remembered the day he and his troop were led away from the small settlement of six ranches. He never in his wildest imagination thought the Kiowa could mount a murder raid on so many ranches on the same day. He had been outsmarted, and that more than anything had driven him mad and led to him leaving his assigned patrol area to pursue Kiowa who weren’t where they were supposed to be. Jessy had figured that out, and was the first of his troop to reach the ranch, only to discover he had been too late. The massacre had been complete. John Henry remembered riding up to the ranch after finding the small three-lodge camp of Gray Dog and his family. They had suffered the same cruelty as the settlements. Gray Dog had been shot in the shoulder with a Kiowa arrow and was riding behind John Henry when they came upon his home, the ranch that would allow him and his wife to live a life outside of the army. He had planned to resign his commission after 1859 and he and Mary would start raising children and cows on the Brazos River. But as he saw the smoldering house and barn, the outbuildings, and the covered bodies on the ground, he knew that his life for the most part was done. Until a few days ago he’d only seen Jessy one other time since he lost his wife. That was the day the regiment broke into two factions when President Lincoln had called for volunteers to fight the rebellious southern states.

“Tell me, John Henry, how many mistakes in judgment have you made? Or was it just the one?” Jessy spit again and then handed the whiskey back to Thomas. “The one that cost me my little sister?”

Thomas looked at the bottle in his hand. “Just the one.” He took a drink.

“I don’t care, it’s been too quiet in there! Open the damn door!”

At that moment Sergeant Major Dugan opened the door and backed in with a furious Claire Richelieu jabbing him with Dugan’s own cocked pistol. The sergeant major’s eyes were wide and his hands raised.

“Now, Missy, you put that gun down before we have us an accident.”

“If this gun goes off, Sergeant Major, it will be no accident.”

Suddenly Claire tossed him the cocked weapon and Dugan almost shat himself as the gun landed in his bumbling hands, where he finally managed to secure it.

“Goodness, we arrive at the capital of one of the largest and most unstable governments in the world and you two look like you just fought the battle of Bull Run all over again.” Claire reached down and started to dab a white linen cloth to John Henry’s eye. Then she heard Jessy start his slow descent to the floor once more from his sitting position. She grabbed the bottle of whiskey and before turning her attention to Taylor, took a long pull from the bottle. She placed it on the floor and then stopped Jessy from rolling completely over onto the deck. “Stupid son of a bitch,” she mumbled as both Taylor and Thomas looked at the woman who cussed just as well as Dugan, who was also standing wide-eyed at the woman’s harsh words.

“What are you standing there for? Go get the doctor!” she said as she looked back to Dugan, who finally broke the spell the woman had cast by the use of her foul language. Dugan had obviously come up with newfound respect for the ancient-languages expert.

“I hope it was worth it,” she said as she grimaced at the nasty cut on Taylor’s lower lip.

“The only good outcome would have been me shooting him,” Taylor said as John Henry finally managed to get to his feet.

Before Claire could berate Taylor for being foolish, a drum started pounding the call to general quarters.

John Henry immediately broke for the door just as Commander Jackson came from his small space, placing a coat on. The man was completely dressed as if he had been waiting for the call to arms.

“I was afraid of this,” Jackson said as he hit the stairs leading to the upper deck.

“The French?” John Henry asked as Dugan tossed him a shirt as he too made the stairs.

“I suspect the British aren’t too happy with us sneaking by Gibraltar without paying our respects.”

They made the quarterdeck as men ran to their battle stations. They were met by Jackson’s first officer.

“Battle stations manned and ready, Captain.”

“Very good,” Jackson said as he took the long glass and scanned the horizon to their stern, and then his first officer pointed him in the right direction.

“Not there, sir. Over there.”

As Jackson brought the scene to their front into focus he held his breath. Aligned three ships abreast was the Royal Navy. They were at half-sail and moving toward them slowly. He scanned the gun ports on the first ship in line. They were closed and the deck activity looked to be minimal. Jackson lowered the spyglass and faced Thomas.

“They’re just trying to get our dander up a little. They know if they raise those gun ports I’ll blow them out of the water. No, they’re not looking to fight—just showing us they are the Royal Navy.”

“But what if those cannons are ready to fire behind those closed gun ports?” John Henry asked as he felt someone step up beside him. It was Jessy. Thomas handed him the spyglass.

“Nah, those boys don’t want a fight. Jackson’s right, they’re just wanting to see what we will do. No, there will be no first shot fired from these boys.” Taylor lowered the glass and then handed it back to Jackson. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll let Miss Claire tend to my battle wounds.”

Jackson raised the glass as he studied the three British warships in front of him. As he watched, the first started peeling off to the starboard, effectively making room for his two ships to pass. He lowered the glass and then looked at John Henry.

“From our secessionist friend’s attitude, your little meeting of the minds didn’t turn out the way you had hoped?”

John Henry finished buttoning the shirt and then started to turn away. He stopped and shook his head. “I was hoping to get the air cleared, but as in this entire war there’s been too much blood spilled, too much talk. No, Jessy won’t come back. He hates not only me, but himself.”

“I don’t follow your logic,” Jackson said as he watched his men at their stations.

“Colonel Taylor fails to realize that the area of responsibility for my wife’s death resides not only in my camp, but his also. He ignored my order to keep his troop in the vicinity and went after the Kiowa raiding party that killed the first family near where his troop was quartered.”

“In essence he is as much responsible for his sister’s death as yourself?”

“Yes,” John Henry said as he started to walk away. “No,” he quickly corrected. “I own that.”

Jackson watched the army colonel walk away and kept his next question unasked. He knew why John Henry didn’t use that against Taylor; it was simply because one man accusing the other never solved anything. He could not imagine having that thrown in his face—that the death of his sister was his responsibility also. Maybe that’s why the hate was so deeply imbedded in the Confederate.

Jackson watched as the British warship slipped past the
Yorktown
. He eyed the English captain standing at his station on the quarterdeck. He watched the man raise a hand toward him and he could swear he saw the smile from that great distance.

“I’m sure we’ll meet again, Captain. I have no doubt.” He smiled and saluted also.

*   *   *

One hundred and thirty miles astern, the French navy, with a very angry Paul Renaud ensconced on the first warship, entered the Mediterranean. The entire world was now focusing its attention on the Aegean Sea as they entered the azure waters of the once-mighty Greek nation. In a day and a half they would reach the departure point for their meeting within the Ottoman Empire.

Ararat was growing ever closer.

13

CONSTANTINOPLE, CAPITAL OF THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE

The
Yorktown
was being tied up to the crowded dock. Many citizens of the empire’s capital had spilled out to see the American warship as she entered the harbor. The sailors and marines were surprised to hear the “Star-Spangled Banner” playing. A thirty-piece band had been secured to welcome the Americans and their kind but surprising gift of a railroad to the empire.

As John Henry came topside he felt embarrassingly uncomfortable in his dress uniform. The bright red sash highlighted the saber in its polished sheath, and his boots had been cleaned and polished by the crew of the
Yorktown
. The one accoutrement that he despised was the helmet with its gold trappings. The braided plume that rose from the centerline spike made him feel more like a flamingo than an officer in the United States Cavalry. John Henry pursed his lips and then placed his white gloved hands behind his back as he awaited the others by the gangway.

He was soon joined by Jessy, dressed the exact same way as Thomas, and he was feeling equally awkward in the Union colors. He hated the fact that his men down below had gotten a very good look at their commander as he quickly walked past them a few minutes earlier. Both men still carried the battle scars of their fight three days before. Claire and the doctor had done an admirable job of stitching and making the bruising look far less than it really was. As Captain Jackson joined them he had to smile at the uncomfortable way the two army officers waited for the others. Unlike the two men who stood before him, Jackson felt no discomfort whatsoever in his dress blues. The two-corner hat was a bit much, but he was still proud to wear the gold braid and tails of a U.S. naval officer. He’d had many more chances to become comfortable in his uniform than the other two frontiersmen.

“Well, I must say, you two cleaned up nicely,” Claire said as she stepped around the two for a quick inspection.

“I know to you this may be a ridiculous question, but why is she is coming along, again?” Taylor asked without turning his eyes away from the overflowing dock area.

“Because the planners of this so-called mission neglected to include an interpreter that speaks the language of the empire,” Jackson said as he saw his second-in-command approach.

“I’m being brought along for purely aesthetic reasons, I assure you. You know as well as I that according to Secretary of State Seward’s report, the sultan is an unapologetic womanizer, and that I very well could be an asset for keeping his mind on something other than your railroad ruse.”

“I can’t believe she said that all in one breath,” Taylor mumbled. In their silence the others secretly agreed.

They heard Sergeant Major Dugan long before they saw him.

“Why do I have to stay aboard and watch Gray Dog and these Rebs?”

“Because we don’t need you popping off at the wrong time and creating an international incident. Now, you watch things and we’ll rendezvous with you across the strait to catch that train east.”

Dugan frowned and glared at Thomas and then saluted and moved off.

“All lines secure. Deck watch has been set, Captain,” said the young lieutenant, Junior Grade.

“Very good, Daniel. Now, as soon as we leave, and when this crowd finally gets tired and moves off, cast off and get to the eastern side of the strait. Keep the professor off the main deck, Lieutenant. He is not to show his face. No telling how many eyes are on us. Once tied up, get our supplies off-loaded and leave them with Sergeant Major Dugan and his team. The prisoners will be guarded and then placed aboard the train as soon as it arrives. The train’s passenger cars are to be quarantined for the duration of the trip east. Once that is done, your orders are to set sail through the strait and rendezvous with
Chesapeake
and
Carpenter
in the Black Sea. Clear?”

“Yes, sir. Good luck.” The boy saluted and then returned to his duties.

Jackson turned to face the others in the official party of Americans. “Lady and gentlemen, our carriages await.”

*   *   *

The trip through the city streets was an uneasy one, especially when they passed the berthing area for a British warship that had docked not long after the
Yorktown
. Her name was emblazoned in gold script across her stern. H.M.S.
Westfield
was a forty-two-gun battle cruiser.

“Damn,” Jackson mumbled under his breath, drawing the attention of Taylor.

“What is it?” he asked as his eyes examined the giant cruiser. Her sails looked brand-new and her cannon was on full display as she tied up and opened her gun ports, to the thrill of the gathered onlookers. The British flag flew proudly at her stern.

“The
Westfield
is the newest ship of the line in the Royal Navy. Forty-two rifled guns. She could punch holes in us all day if we aren’t careful.”

“She looks like a handful, all right,” Taylor agreed.

“Don’t worry, Colonel Taylor. I’m a very careful man myself. I don’t give ships all day to do anything.”

Taylor saw Jackson’s arrogant smirk and wondered if Lincoln and Ericsson’s wunderkind was up to the task or if his bravado was the act of a scared young man. Time would tell, as their escape was purely in the captain’s hands.

In the second carriage John Henry had also noticed the newest arrival in the harbor of Constantinople. He wasn’t as worried about the giant battle cruiser, as he was paying attention to the way their guest, Mr. McDonald, took note. He saw the way he looked at the ship and then quickly looked away. He observed that Claire Richelieu had noticed also, but for the life of him he didn’t know why he felt she knew something about McDonald that he didn’t. She had claimed never to have met the man from Harvard before, but knew him by reputation, and that reputation was a good one. He regretted not having a full investigative report generated for both of the men that had accompanied them from Baltimore. One had already proven to be a spy, and now this one wasn’t making any good impressions either. John Henry might have to consider finding out this man’s real credentials, or as he thought about it, McDonald’s real profession.