The Mountain

PROLOGUE

The family gathered as the sun broke free of the black, roiling clouds for the last time. All forty-two men, women, and children sat silently on bedding of wool and goatskin. The evening meal was a heavy one. A virtual feast compared to normal building days, for the great father had warned all who would listen that there would be many days of hunger ahead. Three goats and twenty fat, roasted goslings sat before the group untouched as the darkness and an uncommon cold reclaimed the world after their brief taste of sunshine. For many in the group that darkness brought on horrid visions of what was to come. The family of men grew silent as each one heard the same sounds emanating from the closed-off world outside.

It was a three-year-old great-granddaughter who broke the spell of silence when she began to cry. Her mother, only fourteen years of summers herself, was feeling the fear just like her daughter and all of those gathered around the meal that night. The young woman began to remove the child from the supper circle as others of the family averted their eyes.

“No, bring me the child,” the great-grandfather ordered moments before the young girl could slink out with her crying daughter clutched tightly to her chest. “She is only feeling and saying what the rest of my children are thinking and hiding. Everyone at our circle of family wants to do nothing less than the child is doing, even unto myself, so how can I fault the child?” His granddaughter reluctantly handed over her baby.

The large family watched as the old man held the girl to his face so he could see her better in the tallow-fueled illumination of the lamp bowl.

“I shame myself, granddaughter, but I cannot remember the child’s name,” he said, not so much in embarrassment but as a way of reminding his extensive family that he had been rather busy the past fifty-six years. Or was it simply because the elder was ashamed that over those same years he had completely ignored the trappings of a normal father — he failed to know and therefore love his own kin.

The girl-child stopped crying and started hitching her breath when the old man’s long and graying beard caught her attention. She slowly reached out and took a small fistful of whiskers and tugged. The move elicited the first smiles around the meal fire in what seemed like many years — ever since their father had ordered the family away from their ancestral home to this makeshift tent village deep inside the last forest near the confluence of the two great rivers.

“Her name is Leah,” his granddaughter said as she looked apprehensively to her husband when the baby took hold of the great-grandfather’s beard. He was smiling at the baby and so she relaxed. Finally there was a great belly laugh from the man most of the older children had not seen jest in their entire lifetimes.

“You have named her after my sister?” the old man asked as he finally managed to control his laughter.

His wife of sixty-five years laughed also, happy to see her husband finally view them as his family and not the slaves they had been for the past half-century. All thoughts of the darkness and shadows were absent from the old man’s mind for the first time in years. The angels of the Lord may have been God-sent, but the old man knew exactly what they were — the deliverers of death. He despised the orders of the Lord to allow the destruction of so many innocents, and he was not allowed to help them. God was allowing children, such as the girl-child he was now holding, to be destroyed by his edict. His enemy was now those very same blackened angels of death that haunted his world. The old man and his God had come to a crossroads and the split was evident.

He again saw the eyes of the child as she laughed and continued to tug at his beard. His eyes softened and he allowed the thoughts of darkness and angels to slip out of his mind as his great-granddaughter convinced him he had done right by his family.

The design and building of his life’s ambition had been given to him in thought and dream by the Lord God. It had also come to him in dream that his was the only family of man that would survive God’s wrath. The shadows punished him every time he attempted to convince his onetime friends and neighbors of their true plight. The old man went against the decision of God himself.

His wife reached for a wooden bowl and started filling it with meat and herbs for her husband. She ladled thick brown gravy over the meat. The old man handed the child back to her mother and then nodded his head in thanks when his wife held before him the steaming bowl.

The mood was soon broken and the smiles died away as surely as the sun setting behind the darkening storm clouds to the south and west. The elder was the first to see the shadows near the animal pens move. He knew they were there with his family. He had been warned in dream and nightmare many years before that the shadows would be with them in the days leading up to this night of nights. He averted his eyes so that the children would not notice what had joined the family this evening in the midst of the last days.

“Father, I saw a long line of soldiers today. They marched to the south. The gossip near the two rivers reports that the war you predicted began two years ago in the great southern sea and the ringed island at its center.”

The old man, grateful to turn away from the hovering shadows of them, placed a piece of bread into his mouth and looked at his second-eldest son.

“And how does my son Shem know this when he was to be harvesting the bounty of hay and barley our livestock will need upon our great journey?”

“Because it is now impossible to travel anywhere without crossing the paths of many soldiers gathering to fight the evil in the south. Your son Shem has learned that there are even strangers from a distant land calling themselves Greeks among the rebels that are joining forces.”

The old man continued to chew his bread and look at his son. His eyes moved to the darkest corner of the enclosure and saw a large shadow break free of the wooden side of the Ark and then disappear through the unpitched crack in the large loading ramp. That shadow was soon followed by four others.

“Father, if what you have said is true, we are out of time. The war has been raging for two years now and from rumor we hear that the final blow to the evil ones on their island fortress has commenced. They say the combined barbarian army will win.”

“My son Shem has always been the thinker, and now we learn that he is a war general also.” The old man smiled for the briefest of moments. “You are so sure of this great military campaign that you are predicting outcomes, both victor and vanquished?” He tossed the remains of his bread into the fire. “Tell me, Shem the thinker, the family’s master general; do the barbarians have the essence or the sheer power to end our world with their bone-edged swords and wooden ships?”

“How would I know this? We here in this valley know nothing of war, nor even the people fighting it. The barbarians like ourselves wear nothing but skins, hides, and roughly woven homespun, when the false gods on their island kingdom wear finery the likes of which we have never before seen. They have science, we have goats. They have riches and slaves while we have nothing but mouths to feed. No, father, the barbarians cannot end this world. As you have said to us as many times as there are stars in the heavens — only God can end the time of men.”

The old man knew the shadows, although departed from the interior, could still hear and feel what was being said in their absence; they always had. He again tried to ignore the thoughts of shadows. “You think, but you do not take the path that will allow you to think it through without cloudiness, Shem. The barbarians are no better than those they see as evil. They want the power and knowledge of the island people, and if they had this power of knowing God’s sciences they would be no gentler a taskmaster than the Titans on the ringed island. This is why the world ends. All of this” — he gestured at his family who watched him now with their frightened eyes — “will be gone and that is the way it was meant to be. The great ringed island has brought the very power of God’s elements to bear upon the world — a power only the Lord our God was ever meant to wield, and thus our world will come to an end, and only the righteous” — he smirked at his gathered clan — “or the stubborn will live to start anew.”

“Grandfather, will our family be the only ones left upon the face of the world?”

The old man smiled in all sincerity and then reached over and placed his hand on his great-grandson’s cheek.

“No, there will be thousands, hundreds of thousands who will join us for the second coming of man. It will be a time and a place where we can live and grow together and not seek the ways and riches of those civilizations before us. No, we will see and come to know many different peoples on our path back to our home.”

The great-grandson was about to speak again when the first rumblings from the earth were felt through the furs and homespun cloth upon which they sat.

The father slowly stood with the help of Shem and looked at his large family as the shaking earth gradually settled.

“The time of the end is upon us.” He looked at his three sons, their wives, and many, many grandchildren, and using the strength of his convictions the old one remained calm. “We must set our minds to what is to be done in this, the beginning of end times. You must harden your hearts, for the next two days will be the most horrible of your lives. You will all, every one of you, see friends and yes, even family, perish as the world shakes off the evil that has dominated it for over five thousand years.”

At the end of his words his family started to rise as one. He looked at each and prayed that his path had been the right branch in the road to take. A barren road he had been placed upon at birth was now coming to an end as once more the world started to shake. This time the earth moved in a deeper and more pronounced motion.

The war between the barbarians of the combined world and the false gods of the south — the Atlanteans — had begun in earnest and the false gods were losing.

The known world of the first age of man would end in less than two days.

As Hamm traded the last of their hoarded gold for the remaining three shoats left in their neighbor’s pen, he grimaced as he heard the laughter behind him from his shameless old friends. He ignored them as best he could as his five sons maneuvered the three small pigs from their pen and started them along the path to the once-thick forest that grew between the two rivers.

As the laughter at his family’s lifelong endeavor continued, Hamm looked up and saw the giant trees ahead of him, and it was then that he realized how much the forest had vanished in the thirty-two years they had been building their father’s hopeless folly. The deforesting had caused many a hardship for his kin and even more so for their neighbors, who had come to hate the family of Noah.

As they cleared the screening line of giant trees, leaving the mocking laughter behind them, Hamm had to stop and look upon the false deity they had built. The Ark had taken thirty-seven years to design and construct and had cost the family everything they had in life, and even that of their children’s and grandchildren’s lives. From the gold riches of his father’s family to the many hundreds of pounds of precious coin made by his sons, all had gone into the construction of the monstrosity towering to the top of the few trees remaining, which were tasked with holding the great vessel anchored into place. The once-great and very powerful family was now close to destitute and with everything they owned aboard the Ark, they had nothing but the clothes on their backs and the laughter of old friends in their ears.

As he was about to turn away he saw a shadow peel away from the highest point of the Ark and then vanish beyond the curvature of the bow. This was not the first strange darkness he had seen. For the past forty years the shadows that acted as if by magic came and went and their father, who Hamm knew had seen the strange shadows, never spoke of them. Even when one of his many offspring asked him about the darkness that seemed to have an intelligence, he would just shrug his aging shoulders, smile, and then say he had not seen a thing. The subject of the shadows was rarely brought up any longer.

The trees held the enormous Ark taut to the earth in the ever-increasing winds. The giant, ages-old trees and their vines were intentionally entangled among the wood of the great vessel anchored to the earth. The Ark stretched four hundred and fifty-five feet from arched end to arched end. The spire-like bow of the ship rose to a hundred feet above the ground and it was there that Hamm saw his father perched, looking to the far-off southern borders of the two rivers. The skies there were glowing red and black. White and gray ash had started to fall only an hour before, falling ever thicker, like sickly snow from a dying sky.

Hamm could see and hear the near panic in familial faces and voices as they herded the last of their farm animals over the thick, strong ramp and then aboard the Ark. They had bought as many animals and beasts of burden as they could before the end days, making them the butt of even more laughter and mockery by their neighbors, extended family, and former friends who counted the money offered for their animals and grain even as they laughed at the foolish family of Noah.

“Hamm, you and Shem commence to raising and moving the ramp into place. The Atlanteans have unleashed Hell to the south. It is now time!”

Hamm heard the words of his father and wondered as always how he knew these things, but did not ask. All the same he felt his blood go cold as the skies started to darken even more than the previous two days. The earth once again lurched under his feet and he stumbled as the ground seemingly came out from beneath his sandals.

The world started to break apart from the power being unleashed by the warlords to the south.

The known world of the first age of man had actually ended two hours earlier in the Poseidon Sea. The large body of water, which would eventually become known as the Mediterranean, exploded with the power of ten thousand nuclear weapons as the seabed cracked and split from the power of the Atlantean sciences of earth and sea, along with the necromancy of tectonic earth movement. The combined strength of the allied barbarian states that had suffered through the reign of terror for five thousand years at the hands of the inhabitants of the circular-ringed island was now devastatingly close to their homeland.

The attack started in earnest on the morning of the end of days. The strength of the Greek fleet under the command of Jason of Thessaly, coupled with a ground attack under the command of another Greek, Heracles the Barbarian, had pushed the Atlanteans to use the one thing they thought could save their island empire — the total destruction of the combined Greek and Egyptian fleets. This would be accomplished through the use of sound-inducing bells arrayed on the sea floor. The audio assault would fracture a localized section of tectonic plate, and that localized fracture would in turn create massive tsunamis that would swallow the entire thousand-ship fleet of their barbaric enemies.

As the great machines were put into motion the world erupted. The Atlanteans’ map of the tectonic plates had not taken into account the spiderweb makeup of the earth’s crust. The grinding of one plate would cause a domino effect of the audible attack on the planet and spread far beyond the defensive area desired in the middle of the Mediterranean. Each was linked one with the other, which meant that the advanced race of Atlantis had set off a worldwide chain reaction that would change the face of the earth for all time.

The earth continued to rumble and roll beneath their feet. As Hamm looked to the sky, lightning wrenched the darkness and brought fire to the night, affording him a look at what it had taken him a lifetime to build. The Ark stood strong against the increasing winds and the constant shaking of the world. The ground beneath his sandaled feet lurched and the Ark rolled. The father heard the screams of the children inside as the wooden vessel rolled to the right and the old man feared it would continue to tumble until it tipped on its keel and was crushed beneath its own weight. Just as it hit the optimum point where it had to roll over, the restraining ropes still attached to the strongest of the remaining trees snagged and held firm as the Ark stopped its roll. The towering trees continued supporting the Ark but swayed as the smaller trees were uprooted and thrown into the hurricane-force winds shaking the world. Then the rains started in earnest. Viscous mud and stone struck the wooden ship at the same time as the first dirt-infused drops of rain started to fall. Enormous fireballs arched across the night sky as mountain-sized boulders and spits of land were hurled into the air from the horrendous explosions of the earth to the south.

The father watched as Shem sent the last of the goat herd aboard. He knew they had lost a good ten percent of their animals because the firestorm had started without notice of quake or wind. The water was now broaching the banks of both the Lira and Mud rivers, or as they are now known, the Tigress and the Euphrates, sending freshwater to mix with the sea falling from the sky. As the old man looked around he saw the waters rise to the base of the ramp, and he felt the first true fear he had felt since he had been a child when the nightmares of water and of drowning had started — the sea was coming and nothing in God’s world would stop it.

He felt the first sensation through the thick leather soles of his sandals and then the night sky started to shimmer and shake as the vibratory effects of the incoming sea distorted the perception of all living things. The father stumbled, trying desperately to gain his feet.

“Now!” he screamed into the blowing wind and falling mud and rain. “Raise the ramp!”

“Father, we need to cut down the remaining trees!” Shem called as he took his father by the arm to stop him from gaining the sloping ramp, which now had a quarter of its length under water.

“There is no time, the sea comes now! Do you not feel it?”

Shem did. The black clouds above started swirling as the distant waters came on so powerfully that they actually changed the direction of the winds, causing so much static electricity in the air that the trees around them were terrifyingly illuminated with what would eventually become known as St. Elmo’s fire.

“Go, my son, the Lord’s night of nights is upon us!”

Noah stood by as he watched his sons and grandsons fight to raise the ramp. Ropes were taut and the men were screaming in terror as the weight of the large wooden ramp slowly started to rise from the gathering waters. As the men struggled to shut out the horror of the night, Noah wiped water from his eyes, fighting to see the outside world for the last time as the ramp was slowly raised. He saw several dozen women, children, and men claw through the rising waters and beg for entrance. Several men even managed to take hold of the rising ramp as it cleared the swirling waters. Noah so wanted to assist the men who only hours before had laughed and ridiculed his salvation, but as he started to reach out for the hand that was pleading for help, a shadow shot past the old man and as Noah watched in abject horror, the shadowy figure seemed to reach for the struggling man’s hand and pry it loose from the ramp, brutally snapping the man’s fingers as if they were nothing but dried twigs. The shadowy entity flew from the death of the first to a second set of hands that had managed to grab the ramp, prying them off even as Noah reached to help. The shadow turned on the old man and he felt its force as it slammed into him, clearly revealing the face of darkness for the first time. The mouth extended and Noah felt as well as heard the roar of an otherworldly animal. The large blackened teeth were transparent, but lethal looking. Noah jumped away, truly frightened for the first time after seeing the angels for what they were — not angels, but God’s killers of men.

The ramp closed for the last time. The screams of the lost were clearly heard above the wrath of the storm. Noah was in shock at seeing the shadows send his neighbors to their deaths.

He felt his chest where the shadow had slammed into him as he had attempted to help the men he had known his entire life. It was ice cold to his touch and he knew then that whatever was watching out for his family was as merciless as the Lord God that had sent them.

Before the initial wall of water struck the land side of what is now modern-day Iraq, the rivers themselves had exploded from their shallow banks to drown or crush most of the inhabitants of the two-rivers region. Men, women, and children, who had spent the bulk of their adult and young lives ridiculing the family that had foolishly built the Ark on dry land many miles from any body of water deep enough to carry her weight, were dying a death they had been warned was coming.

The old man was struggling with six oxen as the wide-eyed animals fought panic. They too had the instinct to know the world was breaking apart. All two thousand seven hundred animals of the family of Noah were close to panic as the great Ark rocked on its ten-foot-wide keel.

The trees holding the giant ship in place swayed in the increasing hurricane-force winds that now gripped the entire Middle East. Shem and Hamm with their sons at their sides were battling ever-changing forces in an attempt at placing the last of the thick pitch around the ramp’s strong frame. But still, water forced itself through the small areas where the builders were off on their measurements, and no amount of pitch in the world would seal the doorway completely.

Noah watched as the women finally tied the last of the livestock down in the animal hold where water was falling rapidly as each and every flaw in the Ark’s design was now under relentless attack. Noah knew his life’s work would only last so long in the disaster. The design that had come to him in a series of dreams that had lasted the whole of his first twenty years of life was now close to falling apart.

Women, men, and their children were in the water outside the Ark pounding and pleading to be allowed inside. Hundreds of their neighbors were screaming for help as they pounded on the thick wooden hull of the only structure left standing within a hundred miles. The old man saw the shadows return, and then several broke free of the wooden wall of the Ark and vanished between the minuscule cracks in the framing. Then the sounds of screams were heard over the roar of the storm. It sounded as if the men and women outside were being attacked by something unseen. Noah, grateful his family was now too busy to see and hear what was happening outside, placed his hands over his ears in an attempt to close out the horrible misery on the other side of the thick hull.

“Father, we can still get a few of those men and women inside before—”

Hamm’s words were cut short as every member of the family of Noah felt it at the same time. The sound of wind, rain, and thunder was silenced by the deep bass rumble now coming from the south. Everyone with the exception of Noah froze as the terror of what was coming stilled their hearts. The old man knew he had been meant to see the killer of their world. He was to bear witness to the death of the first age of mankind.

The paralysis of his sons and family broke as they screamed for their father to come down. The old man was climbing through the crisscrossed beams securing and strengthening the thick members that made up the massive hull. As the Ark announced the arrival of the sea and its preceding waves by rolling once again, Noah breached the top deck and slammed his hands into the small wooden doorway that led out onto the long, sloping deck. He gained the slick, wet, and mud-covered beams and immediately looked toward the south over the chest-high side wall.

He turned away from the death below and tried desperately to pierce the frightening storm and the darkness that fought to hide their unseen killer. Then he saw it as well as felt it. A brief flash of chain lightning illuminated the sky to the south and that was when the wave became visible.

Noah’s eyes widened and he took hold of the Ark as he searched for the peak of the giant tsunami but was failing to see it. Then he finally realized why — he was looking for the wave at several hundred feet and not high into the sky. His eyes roamed to the heavens and then he saw it. The deliverer of death. The wall of water was forty miles away and closing fast on the two-rivers region, and as far as he could tell the wave was over a mile in height.

“God protect us,” Noah screamed as he now hurriedly entered into the dark as the sound became unbearable. The wave was destroying everything man had accomplished in his first age and the world would soon be changed forever as they fought to start again. Finally the tsunami crested at thirty miles out and was over a mile into the sky. The white foam of its roll was self-illuminating because of its lightning-white brightness against the blackened night sky.

The sea struck the land with the force of two worlds colliding. The water hit and then rebounded into the sky and then hit again. The water of three differing seas scrubbed the land clean of all features as it took tree, shrub, and beast in its rush north. Noah looked far below at his drowning neighbors as they went under. The strange shadows below ceased their killing and then vanished inside the Ark just before the final verdict of man was handed down.

Noah felt his legs pulled out from under him as his sons finally broke their paralysis and attempted to get their father under control as he fought the door against the hellish winds. As they pulled him inside they latched the doorway and Shem quickly started slamming pitch into the seal, and then they made their way back to what they hoped was the strongest section of the Ark — its exact center. The animals were screaming and trying to break free of their restraints as the ship rocked sharply to the side as the first of the advancing waves struck. The trees securing the Ark stopped the roll of the four-hundred-foot behemoth but could not stop the whiplash that came when the trees snapped back against the onrush of advancing water.

The roar of the wave was deafening. Children added their screams to those of the animals as the sound was seemingly coming from the heavens far above them. It was almost as if the planet itself was crying out in pain and anguish. Noah prayed that the crest of the tsunami was now low enough not to engulf the Ark and crush it under its incalculable weight.

The wave struck the giant ship and all heard the sound and feel of the trees securing the Ark to the earth being torn out like turnips. This time the Ark had nothing to stop its roll and it went over onto its side, throwing men, women, children, and their thousands of animals into the leaking walls.

The wave snatched the Ark as if it were a feather in a windstorm. The force of the blow coupled with the spin of the ship sent Noah and his family against the sides and held them in place by sheer centrifugal force alone as the ship spun in a circle. Still the sea rose as the great oceans to the south, east, and west finally met at the junction of the two rivers. The Ark was taken almost a half mile into the sky by the roll of the largest tsunami ever to hit the planet, and still the earth moved from the disaster brought upon their home by the advanced race of Atlanteans.

The Ark was traveling northward at a speed approaching one hundred miles per hour and the ancient home they left behind was now nothing but an inland sea.

The known world and the first age of man ended at exactly 7:35 in the evening of October seventeenth, in the year 13,002 BCE.

With aching legs and pounding hearts ready to burst from their chests, the four men stopped and tried to hear the sounds of the night around them. The rain was making it impossible to know how many of the devils were nearby. Real shadows blended perfectly with the darkness that had seemed to engulf their world since leaving the mountain. An hour earlier they had lost professors Beckley and Thorsten, and student assistant Harold Iverson, at the small boat where they had attempted to rendezvous with their ship, which awaited the return of the expedition in the choppy bay.

The three men had fallen to the silent and very deadly shadows that had come at them from hiding. They had reached for the men and then drew them screaming into the blackness beyond this life. The devilish shadows had even brought down a burly Turkish policeman who was assisting them with their equipment. Now the citizens of the small port town had been alerted to the research team’s presence and the remaining four were on the run from not only the shadowy killers of the mountain, but also the much-angered Turkish townsfolk.

“Look, let us face facts, gentlemen. Not all of us are going to make it,” Professor Kensington said in a staccato, out-of-breath voice as he pressed his back to a wet and age-worn brick wall. He looked at the oilcloth in his right hand and then thrust the parcel into Ollafson’s shaking fingers. “It’s your show, old boy, your theory, your discovery. Get this to whoever will listen.” He held the cloth to the chest of the older Scandinavian professor until he accepted the charge hesitantly. “The three of us will cause a commotion. You get to the boat and then to the ship,” the younger man said, smiling briefly, “and to place a dramatic point on this conversation, old man, don’t look back.”

The professor took the bundled artifacts and then looked to his colleague. “I can’t do that. I cannot leave you behind!” Lars Ollafson shook his head as he looked from frightened face to frightened face. “How will you explain a dead policeman to the authorities without explaining why he had to die and what it was that killed him? They will think you mad!”

“The authorities will be the least of our worries, Professor,” Kensington answered and again smiled sadly. “Now, when we move, wait a moment and then get to that boat. Don’t ever stop, no matter what you hear. This find must make it back to the States at all costs.”

“But…”

“Believe me, Lars, I’ll accept being caught by the Turks, but those others from the mountain I would just as soon not deal with. Now, you have to—”

Kensington was stopped in midsentence when suddenly the oil lamp bolted to the side of the brick wall flared and then slowly died. As they nervously watched they saw the shadow cast by the wall start to expand, as if the darkness was drawing an awakening breath.

“Damn, they’ve found us again!” Kensington said harshly as he reached out and took Ollafson by his coat collar. “Please, old boy, that thing cost the lives of everyone except you on this expedition.” He patted the older professor on his shoulder as he looked around him through the relentlessly falling rain. “Good luck, Professor. Get someone, anyone, to listen to our story. Make them understand that it is up there, waiting for man to reclaim it! Now, off with you, sir!” he said and then sprinted from the safety of the small alley followed by the two remaining men from the shattered expedition.

Lars Ollafson saw the three men, his last remaining friends in the world, leave him alone in this hostile, far-off empire. He heard the shouts and the angry voices of the villagers as they gave pursuit. He thought to himself, and not for the first time, that it would be far luckier if his friends and colleagues were caught by the Turks rather than the darkness that had already claimed more than eighty-two lives. He knew the townsfolk, angry after finding their dead policeman, were preferable to facing the shadow creatures. Hanging would be a far better fate than being dragged into the shadows and lost forever to God only knew what evil dwelled on that cursed mountain. Yes, he thought, hanging by the Turks was a far better alternative than the damnable shadows.

He waited as long as his nerves would allow. The old man looked down at his small package and closed his eyes against the raindrops. He shook his head and then without thinking another moment he ran from his hiding place. He heard a scream fill the night above the din of falling rain and shouting men. He squeezed his eyes closed and fought his way to the dock. He saw the boat before him. One of his companions was still half in and half out of the boat, having fallen where he had died a half hour before when a shadow lurking under the old, rickety pier had reached for the man’s throat and taken his life as the others cowered in fear only feet away. The sailor’s skin had turned an icy white under the touch of the darkness and then it seemed the life had drained from his eyes with a suddenness that explained to the educated men in no uncertain terms that they were dealing with a part of nature that no man had ever seen before.

Ollafson quickly shoved the dead man’s feet over the side and let the body slip beneath the dark waters of the bay. Professor Ollafson swallowed and allowed a whimper of sadness and fear to slip through his bearded features as he watched the body of the young man vanish from view.

He quickly untied the boat from the wooden cleat and then hastily sat on the wet bench and started rowing blindly from the dock. He chanced a look back at the small village. He was confused, as instead of seeing candles and lanterns alight from the noise interrupting their sleep, it seemed the villagers were actually extinguishing the lights of their homes, not wanting anything to do with the strange calls and screams of the night around them. He spied many of the angry men of the small town returning quickly to their homes as something had quelled their anger over the murder of their local constable. It was as if the men thought the darkness around them was a far greater threat than the foreign devils they pursued. As he watched, the shadows seemed to engulf the small seaside village. He saw shadows lengthen and then roll slowly through alleys and streets looking for the men who had invaded the mountain.

He tried to breathe through his sobs of terror and sadness as he rowed toward the awaiting vessel that would take him from this nightmare land. He chanced a look forward and hoped the Agatha Anne, the ship that had brought the ill-fated expedition to the Ottoman Empire, was still there.

As he rowed he saw the oilcloth-wrapped bundle awash in seawater on the bottom of the small skiff and he couldn’t help but think it was something they were never meant to take from the accursed summit.

The lives of eighty-two men had been lost on the black slopes and the pass leading to the flatlands after their running battle from the summit. The fortunes of six American and three British families lost for the simple cost of discovery. Now he alone had the task of persuasion ahead of him. Ollafson knew he had little time to act as the world was near the point of tipping into darkness more fearful than even the shadow demons of the mountains. He knew trying to get those in American power even to listen to his fantastic story would be a battle as fierce as the one they had just fought on that blackest of mountains. He would now return home to a country that was about to rip its own guts out in an internal conflict that would change the face of the world forever just as a flood had almost fifteen thousand years before.

The year was 1859, and in America, brothers would soon be killing brothers by the thousands.

The small detachment of cavalry was hidden behind a stand of trees that lined the southern bank of the Rappahannock River. The rainstorm hid the small unit well from the eyes they knew were upon them across that small ribbon of swollen water. Men and horses had been through many years of war and were disciplined not to utter a sound even in the driving rain. Horses didn’t whinny or snort and men sat stock-still in their saddles. The experienced cavalrymen knew the art of war and how to achieve their ends.

All eyes were on the lone rider in rain gear who sat upon his horse just at the edge of the southern side of the Rappahannock. The rebel officer was on a large roan with a gold-trimmed Union saddle blanket, something he’d had since his earlier days as an officer and a gentleman for the enemy he was now facing — the U.S. Army. The man silently continued to watch and wait.

On the northern side of the river a singular figure on horseback lightly laid spur to his mount and the horse and rider moved easily out of the cover of trees. He eased his horse toward the water’s edge and then lightly placed pressure on his knees, telling his mount that was far enough. The horse stopped and pawed at the swollen, swiftly running river.

The rider’s men watched silently. Most had hands on pistols just beneath their foul-weather slickers, as the meeting taking place was not something they could have ever imagined since the whole bloody mess had started in 1861. The man at the edge of the river moved his head only slightly and looked at his men. He knew they were as anxious as he to receive their guest, but unlike his men his apprehension came in the form of knowing just who it was that had braved the storm and several miles of Confederate pickets to attend the meeting. This man was either the biggest fool in the world or the bravest, because the army he was here to see had just suffered its first humiliating defeat just twenty-one days earlier in a small valley whose name would forever haunt the men who fought there those long, lost days — Gettysburg.

The man turned back to face his opposite on the far bank. He then looked toward the dark sky and wondered if God would ever allow his army to see the clear moonlit sky again. It was as if the Lord had forsaken their cause in the span of three days of hard fighting that left General Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia hurt and on the run. The man with the feathered, plumed hat then fixed the man across from him with his dark eyes.

Major General James Ewell Brown Stuart, Confederate States of America, waited on the United States to make the next move. Stuart, Jeb to those who knew him best, felt the rainwater running through his thick beard but fought the temptation to wipe it clean, deciding if the rain did not bother his adversary across the river he wouldn’t allow it to bother himself. He waited.

The soldier across the river seemed to break the statuesque spell he had been under and then turned his horse away and bounded up the muddy bank of the Rappahannock. Jeb Stuart could see the gold piping running the length of the man’s uniform pants. He knew then that the visitor was a Union cavalry officer. Horse and rider vanished into the trees on the far side. He knew without turning around in his saddle that his small unit of men were now preparing for any nasty surprises that might arise from this highly unusual and clandestine meeting.

The rain seemed to diminish as the rider returned, this time in advance of an ornate carriage with oil lamps illuminated on each side of the driver who sat atop it. The officer upon the mount took hold of the lead horse of the six that drew the carriage and eased them and their charge into the fast-moving waters of the Rappahannock. The horses flinched at first but Stuart could see that the rider had a calming effect on the team as they eased into the river and made the crossing. The horse and rider then allowed the carriage to cross as they made the far side. The cavalry officer easily approached Jeb Stuart when the carriage finally battled its way up the bank.

Stuart waited. What they were doing this dark night was far beyond the pale of Stuart’s understanding. General Robert E. Lee had ordered that he meet and safely escort the envoy directly into the camp of the Army of Northern Virginia. Stuart had the feeling that President Lincoln was asking for a truce so Lee could consider the surrender of the army to General Meade, who had failed to destroy Lee at Gettysburg. This was the reason Jeb Stuart was tempted to end this little meeting right now. He kept his hands on his saddle as the Union officer approached until their two horses were nose to nose. The man raised his right hand into the air and brought it to the brim of his dripping hat.

“Lieutenant Colonel Hines Jorgensen, First Division of General Buford’s Corps, at your service, sir.”

Stuart was hesitant in returning the military respect accorded by this officer, but in the end Stuart’s West Point training kicked in as if he had never left the service of the United States Army. The salute was returned.

“General J. E. B. Stuart, at yours, sir,” he said, and then bowed and amazingly his horse did also, allowing its right foreleg to stretch out and its left to bend. The Union officer was impressed, but then the man had seen this Confederate general do some amazing things on the field of battle, as he was a rebel that every cavalry officer in the United States knew on a level they wished they didn’t. Horse and rider straightened and then Stuart gestured toward the trees behind him as his small unit of cavalrymen made their presence known. Jeb Stuart turned back to the Union officer and held the man’s eyes.

“You were supposed to have only you and one other,” the Union man Jorgensen said, “not an entire unit.”

Stuart smiled for the first time in what seemed like months. “These men are not a unit, sir, they are my personal guard. It would be somewhat of a personal embarrassment if Mr. Lincoln’s mysterious envoy turned out to be an assassin, now wouldn’t it?”

“Mr. Lincoln is far above such intrigues and you of all soldiers should know that, General. He wants this foolishness to end and end soon.”

“That, sir, is not up to me.”

“Then may I suggest that you take us to the man that it is up to?”

Stuart didn’t say anything in return but instead spurred his large horse and made his way to the carriage where he stopped and looked up at the carriage driver. The man had a set of three stripes up and three down, and the single star in the middle told Stuart all he wanted to know. His eyes roamed to the man’s face and then recognition struck his memory like a hammer slamming home upon a nail.

“Sergeant Major Wilkes, it has been a long time. I think it was on the Cimarron I saw you last.” Stuart smiled at the memory. “I think a wild Comanche was attempting to fill your hindquarters with arrows. How have you been, Sergeant Major?”

The bearded soldier sitting atop the carriage kept his eyes straight ahead. Stuart felt his horse move as he waited for his old Indian-fighting comrade to respond.

“Sergeant Major? It’s me, Captain Stuart,” he said, refreshing the sergeant major’s memory with the rank he had at the time they served together in Texas.

“I know who you are, sir, and I wish to gather no memory wool with you.” The sergeant major finally looked down at the general. “Nor do I wish to recall our past service together, sir. The captain I served with was a United States cavalry officer. The man who stands before me here on this dark night is a traitor” — the sergeant major looked away — “to not only his country, but also to the men we buried along those dry riverbeds in Texas.”

Stuart lowered his eyes and his head and moved his horse to the carriage door and then leaned over and pulled the door’s handle. He looked down and inside the dry compartment and his eyes widened, and he hated himself for allowing the man to see his surprised expression.

“Young man, you are allowing rainwater to enter my carriage, so if you would not have me drown, may I suggest you close the door and get me to the man I came here to see. I’m rather chilled to the bone and my whiskey flask is running dangerously low.”

Jeb Stuart closed the carriage door and then straightened in his saddle. He turned to his second-in-command and nodded his head. The captain eased his horse up to face the carriage driver but the sergeant major kept his eyes straight ahead. Stuart watched the exchange.

“You will follow these men closely. Any variation in our route that is not initiated by my men, and you will be shot as spies. Do I make myself clear, Sergeant Major?”

“The sergeant major knows how to follow orders,” Stuart said as he sadly turned away from his old friend, knowing that no matter the outcome of this war, it would take years to heal the wounds of the country. Stuart guided his horse back to the driver of the carriage.

“I’m glad you’ve survived thus far in this insanity, Sergeant Major. So few of us have,” he said and then eased his horse into the trees and vanished.

The small but stout sergeant major watched his old commanding officer leave the clearing and then he lowered his eyes.

“He’s tired. The war is finally getting to his conscience, I believe,” the captain said by way of explaining Stuart’s behavior.

Finally the bearded sergeant major broke his spell after the shock of seeing the one-time U.S. Cavalry officer in the garish gray uniform of a Confederate general, and slowly glanced down at the captain and, with rainwater flooding from the leather bill of his cap, cleared his throat.

“That man was born to fight and he won’t give a good goddamn for his conscience until one side or the other wins. No, Captain, that is a soldier,” he said and then took the reins and whipped them upon the team, drawing the carriage forward to follow his old friend who was now his bitter enemy.

The Confederate captain watched the carriage vanish into the line of trees with his men closely following. He was amazed to hear the sergeant major describe Stuart as a traitor complete with hate-filled eyes, and then to hear the same man turn around and praise his old commanding officer as a friend would have.

The war was taking a toll on the very fabric that made the country great — the division of brother against brother and friend against friend would be the death of the dream.

The war had to stop and stop soon.

The old man saw the wagons overflowing with wounded as they slogged their way through the rain-soaked, tree-trunk corduroy road the engineers had laid down just a few weeks before when the intact Army of Northern Virginia headed headlong into the disaster that had become Robert E. Lee’s only blemish on his Confederate war record — Gettysburg. The lone passenger inside the dry interior of the ornate carriage saw the misery that had become the new face of Lee’s undefeatable army. He leaned back in his seat and knew that the South would never smile again after Pennsylvania. He tipped the open flask of whiskey to his lips and drained the contents that eased his mind at seeing this great travesty firsthand.

The faces that stared back at him and the sergeant major were not in the least hostile, but rather offered expressions of utter disbelief at what had happened just two weeks past in that small college town across the river. The men did not have the look of defeat on their tired, muddy faces; instead, those faces held the belief that Lee would see them through. No, the man thought, this army was far from defeated and he knew that was why he had been sent — for that day when this madness would finally end.

The carriage was brought to a stop but not before the man inside saw the armed guards just outside his window. He braced himself as the door opened.

“Sir, I trust you will comport yourself as a gentleman during this meeting. I do not believe I have to offer any dire warnings if you do not,” Jeb Stuart said as he took a quick step back and then nodded for an aide to take his place as an umbrella was held out for the occupant of the carriage.

As the guest of the Army of Northern Virginia exited the carriage to curious looks from every man in view, Stuart tipped his hat and then turned to leave, his knee-high boots splashing through the water.

“General, sir,” the sergeant major called out as he tied off the carriage’s reins on the seat and then expertly hopped down from the bench in a graceful leap. He adjusted his blue and gold cape and his uniform tunic as he waited for Stuart to approach.

“How may I be of service, Sergeant Major Wilkes?” Stuart asked, slowly pulling off his gauntlets as he waited for the bearded sergeant to state his business. He was shocked when his old comrade came to attention in the driving rain.

“You have my apologies, General Stuart, for acting the boor, and for not conducting myself properly as a noncommissioned officer in the United States Army. I must state that our past association was … is … far more relevant than I led you to believe earlier.” The sergeant major half-bowed and then returned to attention. The soldiers who witnessed this man, who only weeks before was more than likely trying to kill the very man he was saluting, were mindful of what was really happening inside the camp of Robert E. Lee.

The reputation of J. E. B. Stuart was that of a southern gentleman, and even back in his cavalry days in Texas he held firm that you always conducted yourself as such even when faced with adversity, and even defeat. All eyes widened when Stuart removed his famous hat with the ostrich feather cocked at the side.

“Apology accepted, Sergeant Major,” was all he said, and then turned to leave, replacing his hat. It had been as if he had no response to his old friend.

“Jeb?” the sergeant major said before Stuart could get too far in the rain.

“Sergeant Major Wilkes?” he said as he slowly turned back to face the Union noncom.

“You watch yourself and get through this, you hear?”

“Always bossing me around and never knowing who outranks who,” Stuart said, but with a smile. He then straightened to the posture of a ramrod and brought his hand up to his hat to salute his old friend. “When this is over I’ll continue to teach you those etiquette lessons I started on the Rio Grande a million years ago.”

The sergeant major slowly lowered his hand and watched his old friend walk into the rain-soaked world and into American history.

As he turned, Sergeant Major Wilkes was confronted by three men. He came to an abrupt stop and then relaxed when he saw one of the men with as many stripes as himself holding out a tin cup of steaming liquid.

“T’ain’t no South American coffee, only chicory,” the sergeant with the graying beard said as he held out the cup.

“It would curl your hair to know what Captain Stuart and I had to drink hunkered down fighting the Comanche in North Texas, I ought to tell ya,” Wilkes said as he accepted the hot tin cup with a nod.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re a’ goin’ to tell us anyway, Billy Yank?”

The Union civilian was hunched over with his cloak protecting him from the downpour of rain that had Lee’s camp swimming. The fires were built high and then he realized why — the Army of Northern Virginia was getting ready to move and the high campfires would tell the Union sentries across the river that they were hunkering down for the night. The old man’s eyes saw the wagons being hitched and the wounded being loaded. Yes, the army was making a run for Richmond and the embrace of Jefferson Davis and his Confederacy.

Two well-appointed guards stood on either side of the door fronting a modest home. An old woman sat in a rocking chair darning as the two sentries kept their rifles straight. When the guest stepped onto the porch, the one on the right eased the door open as the guest removed his hat and sloughed off some of the rain.

“Thank you, young man,” the guest said as he stepped into the warm house where he was greeted by a dark-haired major with a beard that was thin enough for a lad of fifteen.

“Sir, I am Major Walter Taylor, steward to General Lee. May I take your cloak and your hat, sir?” the man with the sparkling uniform asked as he half-bowed to the much older man.

“You can do more than that, young man. You may offer me some libation to warm these old bones, as I have seemed to run out of my own supply while wading across that damnable river.”

The major seemed uncomfortable as his reach for the hat and cloak faltered momentarily.

“Sir, we carry no such refreshment at headquarters. I’m afraid the general—”

“—will have to assign the major another dangerous mission to find our guest his whiskey. After all, his reputation very much precedes him and thus we should have been far more prepared.”

The old man turned and saw a somber soldier with white hair and even whiter beard step from the back of the small house. The eyes were dark and they looked as if they had not closed in the days since the common massacre in Pennsylvania. The man looked as if he was no longer invincible — just the way the visitor wanted him.

“Perhaps our host, Mrs. Gandy, has a supply of medicinal whiskey in the house that you haven’t found and destroyed, Major.”

The old man nodded his thanks at General Robert E. Lee, who stood with his hands behind his back. Lee’s right hand felt for the rocking chair and then his body seemed to stabilize as he nodded a greeting to his guest. Lee was dressed in a clean uniform that looked as if it had been recently pressed. His gold sash was wound perfectly around his waist and his boots were recently polished.

Major Taylor finally accepted the soaked hat and cloak, nodded at his commanding officer, and then quickly vanished.

General Robert E. Lee stood his ground next to the fire and the welcoming embrace of the rocking chair but made no move to sit. His gaze held the man before him and a silent standoff ensued. It was Lee, ever the perfectionist, who broke the spell.

“It is an honor to see you once again, Mr.—”

A door in the back of the house opened and Lee was interrupted by a small man impeccably dressed in the battle-red blouse of Her Majesty’s government. The man glared at Lee’s guest as if the politico carried the plague.

“Many apologies, Colonel. I’m afraid my guest has arrived and I have to attend to urgent matters. May we continue our meeting in the morning?” Lee said to the British army man, who looked from the uneasy guest to his host and then bowed to the general.

“As you wish, General,” the British colonel said as he retrieved his coat from a hook on the wall and then bowed once more on his way through the door, but not before giving the visitor a stern look as if it had been distasteful even being in the same room with him. The door closed and Lee’s guest turned back to face the general who was finally moving forward to greet him properly.

“Excuse me for not introducing you to the colonel, but I quickly assessed that your mission to my encampment may be more covert than I was led to believe. After all, it’s not every secretary of state for the Union who would brave the wilds and enter the camp of his mortal enemy.”

“Then how about accepting it at face value as one American speaking with another; that way you may be able to maneuver around it.”

Lee smiled. It was a sad and lonely-looking effort but he finally held his right hand out. At that moment his aide returned holding a clear bottle filled with clearer liquid.

“Colonel Freemantle didn’t look at all happy,” the major said as he removed his rain slicker and watched his commander with his very unusual guest.

William H. Seward, the United States secretary of state, took Lee’s hand and lightly shook it.

“Yes, Colonel Freemantle was against me taking an envoy from Mr. Lincoln into my camp. He seems overly worried about something and I suspect it has to do with the flurry of message activity between the colonel and his queen.” Lee released the hand of Seward and then gestured for his aide to assist his guest to a chair in front of the fire. “And I must admit to finally having something in common with our friend from the Empire, as I am just as curious to know why Mr. Lincoln is reaching out to me at this particular time.”

“General, after the savagery of the past three weeks, the president believes it is time we start talking.”

Lee sat in the old and rickety rocking chair and gestured to Taylor that he should tend to his guest’s request for a drink. As Taylor brought Seward a teacup with apologies for it not being a glass, Lee fixed the secretary of state with his intense eyes.

“Any communication pertaining to the continuance of the war should properly be directed south toward Richmond, sir, not here. The civilian leadership has control of this insanity, not I.”

Seward accepted the small teacup with a nod of thanks. The long gray hair of the radical Republican shook with nerves as his head bobbed to drink from the small cup. He took a sharp intake of breath before placing the cup back into the saucer as he managed to swallow the burning liquid.

“Many apologies, sir, but since the Confederacy is being starved by your blockade our normal supply of whiskey has vanished, we are thus left with what the boys can make on the run.”

“That is quite enough, Major Taylor. I’m sure Mr. Seward does not need to be educated on the supply and logistics problems of our new nation, especially since he probably knows our troubles even better than ourselves.”

The major bowed and then with an apologetic nod to Seward, left the room.

“Tempers are rather short these days and nights, Mr. Seward.”

Secretary Seward placed the cup and saucer on the small table to his right and fixed Lee with his own look that had frightened many a senator before this insanity had begun two years before.

“Yes, the president is also not in a jovial mood. Not only for the Union boys lost, but southern youth also. He’s sick of this war. The man has not slept a full night since Fort Sumter.”

“As much as I would like to please Mr. Lincoln, his sleepless nights are somewhat out of my area of expertise or control, sir.”

“General, I must say that the mission the president has seen fit to send me on goes against everything I stand for. I believe this war should be brought to its inevitable conclusion and what comes after that war should be hardship for your people to make up for the countless deaths in this war. I am not of the same mind as the president. I and many others believe the South needs to be punished.” He deflated somewhat. “But as I said, the president has chosen another path.”

Lee stopped the slow movement of the rocker as the true feelings of the secretary of state were made crystal clear. He sat motionless waiting for the small secretary of state to get to his point.

“However, I was not sent to conduct an investigation as to the cause and effect of the war and what will come after for your people.”

“If the outcome of the war will be as you say, Mr. Seward, won’t they be Mr. Lincoln’s people, not mine, nor Mr. Davis’s, but his?”

“Just semantics, General Lee — nothing but semantics. It’s obvious through the sheer force of President Lincoln’s will your people will see far more leniency than either American political parties would ever be willing to accede to on a natural basis. Too many have died.”

“Then thank the Lord for Mr. Lincoln’s clear vision of what’s right and what’s wrong.”

Instead of continuing the debate, Seward reached into his greatcoat and brought out a sealed envelope. As he held the letter out to Lee, the general saw the simple scrawled words on its front. It was addressed to General Lee in a flowing handwritten style that spoke of education. He accepted the letter as Seward leaned back and retrieved the teacup filled with the harsh moonshine, which in his opinion proved the southern soldier far superior in at least that area of war — drinking. Seward watched Lee turn the envelope over and examine the red wax seal securing it. The image of the American bald eagle was embedded in the wax with the nation’s motto — “E Pluribus Unum,” Latin for “Out of many, One.”

The general looked at Seward as the old man sipped the harsh brew and continued to watch and gauge Lee’s reaction.

“The battle we have just endured does not spell the end of this army, Mr. Seward. Before I open this letter from your president, I want that made perfectly clear. Until the leadership decides otherwise, I will continue to fight and the Army of Northern Virginia will do the same.”

Seward placed the cup in the saucer and then fixed Lee with his dark eyes.

“That is the president’s belief also, General, so perhaps you should read the letter first before you declare war all over again.”

Lee’s eyes held those of the secretary of state for the longest time. He had always heard about Seward’s sharp tongue and now he realized just why Lincoln had chosen him as the secretary of state — the man was not made to end this war, he was appointed to see it through, and his harsh rhetoric would make that happen sooner than would have been possible with a more soft-spoken man. Seward was, Lee realized, here to ask something the secretary of state personally didn’t agree with, which intrigued Lee to no end. He knew Mr. Lincoln had ideas that were well in advance of the rest of the nation, so the message made him as curious as a schoolchild waiting for his marks. Lee broke the seal and slowly rocked as he read.

The secretary of state noticed with raised brows when Lee’s chair suddenly stopped moving.

William Seward accepted a refill of the burning liquid from Lee’s aide as the general read and then reread the letter. He examined the signature at the bottom and then gestured for the major to join him as he stood slowly and tiredly from the rocking chair and moved toward the back of the room. He folded the message so only the bottom portion showed and held it for Major Taylor’s perusal of the document.

“Major, you more than anyone on my staff has seen captured communiqués from Washington, and you know the signatures of most who give orders in that mosquito-plagued city.”

“Yes, sir, I believe I am comfortable with your assessment.”

Lee gave him the note, being sure that only the signature was visible. The major examined the name — A. Lincoln. The flowing tilt lent credence to Lee’s assessment of an educated hand. Taylor looked up at his commander-in-chief and slowly nodded his head.

“You are sure this is Mr. Lincoln’s signature? There is no doubt?”

“General, either the president signed that or they have a forger in their government that could falsify my own signature in my presence.”

“Thank you, Major. Would you excuse us, please?”

Major Taylor bowed and left the room. The rain was still falling and Seward could hear it drumming off the roof of the farmhouse. General Lee slowly sank into his rocker, folded the letter, and started to place it in his tunic, but Seward quickly placed the cup and saucer down and held out his hand, which had finally stopped shaking since the warm homemade whiskey was flowing steadily through his old and tired system.

“Yes, I would presuppose the president would not like the contents of that letter getting out to the press, as it would surely mean the end of his political career and more than likely the beginnings of a long stay in a sanitarium.”

Seward took the letter and without a word tossed it into the large fireplace. He watched the last of the note go up in flames and the red wax seal melt into the flaming wood. In just a few seconds the message was nothing but ashes. Seward then took the poker and smashed the ashes until there was nothing left. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath as he reached for the fortifying home-brewed whiskey once more. He held the cup in the air in a mock toast.

“To the president of the United States, for as insane as he is, he has managed to surprise even myself.” Seward finished the cup as Lee watched him in silence.

The general finally ceased rocking and looked toward the fire. In the flames he could see the burning of southern cities. He could smell the lives of many a family going up in smoke just like the firewood he was watching. After reading the letter he knew that the world had finally gone insane.

“General Lee, would you please put pen to paper telling the president that his wild plan is not acceptable to you at any cost or in any form? That you, Robert E. Lee, agree with the many of us in his own cabinet that this … this … proposition is pure folly.” Seward closed his eyes momentarily and then they opened once again as he tried to control his passion. “Getting more boys killed for something as foolish as this makes both sides in this loathsome conflict seem desperate and insane to the rest of the world and would generate a contempt among civilized nations as to our childish ways. All to bind wounds at the end of this conflict. Believe me, General Lee, there is no salve in the world that we as a nation can apply to our wounds that will ever allow either side to forget this madness. Far too many an American boy has died to just forget.”

Lee stood and walked to a large table where the battle maps of his campaign had been covered with a bedsheet in anticipation of Seward’s arrival. He took up a pen, dipped the tip into an ornate inkwell, and started writing. He finished by placing his own seal on the envelope and then paced back to Seward, who was now standing and donning his coat, holding his hat in his hand. General Lee handed the American secretary of state the sealed envelope with his own crest on the seal.

“Then the world will believe both Mr. Lincoln and myself insane, Mr. Seward. Tell the president I have given him reluctant permission to use volunteers only” — he lowered his eyes — “as I figure my boys would rather go to their deaths that way than dying off in a northern prison camp.”

Seward looked at Lee with astonishment written across his lined and tired face. “You are acquiescing to the president’s request?”

Lee turned away from the stricken secretary of state. “I have explained my actions in my response to Mr. Lincoln.” He turned back to face Seward. “The president is right, Mr. Secretary. The nation will be devastated after this conflict has played out to its final passion play, and something will desperately be needed as a balm to every American’s soul.”

“The president is a fool, and I expected you to tell him so in not so many written words, to deny him permission to use your men in this folly that will only see embarrassment and death to those boys.”

Lee smiled, a sad and forlorn gesture that did not sit well with Seward, and then the general walked twenty feet and opened the door for his guest.

“Tell me what your interpretation of insanity is, Mr. Seward. Mine is killing each other by the thousands just because we’re Americans and slaves to our outdated causes — on both sides. No, Mr. Secretary, I believe the president’s insanity and my own walk hand in hand down this mad trail to our own individual hells that await us.” He held the door for the northern secretary of state.

Seward placed the return answer for his president in his coat and then angrily put his top hat on his head. He reached out and took the clear bottle of whiskey from the table and then turned to leave. After this meeting he wanted nothing more than to get drunk on his long ride back to Washington.

“I beg your pardon for one moment, Mr. Secretary,” Lee said as Seward stopped at the bottom step and turned.

Both men failed to notice Colonel Freemantle of Her Majesty’s Cold Stream Guards, there in the capacity of an observer to the American Civil War, as he watched and listened beneath the shelter of the front porch. He was beyond curious as to the politician’s business in the headquarters of the Confederacy.

“I believe you gave me all I needed to know, General, that both sides are so maddened by bloodlust that they will send American boys off to die in a foreign land that they only read about in Sunday school.”

Lee ignored Seward’s anger. “I am obviously curious, Mr. Secretary — what Union officer has the president chosen to lead this impossible sortie into the unknown?”

Seward looked up at the dwindling rain and then back at Lee. “I believe he is an officer you may know very well, General.”

Lee stepped out onto the porch and waited. Colonel Freemantle pretended as though he were wool-gathering by looking away.

“He’s an officer that fell out of favor with General McClellan after the Peninsula campaign when this officer accused the general of cowardice. The president ordered Secretary of War Stanton to hide this man away from McClellan by sending him out west to count red savages or something to that effect.”

“His name and rank, sir?” Lee persisted.

“Lieutenant Colonel John Henry Thomas.” Seward turned and made his way back to the carriage.

At that same moment Colonel Freemantle, the British observer, slipped away off the porch and into the rainy night. The colonel had his own communiqués to write to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria regarding the most unusual meeting in the annals of modern warfare. He was sure to remember the name that he overheard on this rainy night in Virginia. That would be the starting point where Her Majesty’s government would start to unravel this strange development in the American destiny.

General Lee turned and entered the house. He walked to the rocker and then eased himself down. His aide came in and placed a blanket over his legs and then waited for the general to speak. Lee only sat and stared at the fire.

“I wish I were going with them,” Lee mumbled under his breath.

“Sir?” Taylor asked.

“It is nothing, Major, just gathering wool.” Lee seemed to come awake as he forced the strange meeting from his thoughts and quickly returned them to where they desperately needed to be — the conduct of what remained of the war and how he could make the Army of Northern Virginia hang on long enough to get peace negotiations started.

The aide was about to ask the general his meaning, but Lee stopped him with his quiet voice.

“Send for General Longstreet. We move the army south before midnight.”

With the most unusual meeting of the Civil War concluded, the United States of America was about to embark on the most dangerous international excursion in its short history — the invasion of the Ottoman Empire.

The dawn skies broke open with bright sunshine only a few hours after the heavy rains had washed the British capitol clean with their fury. The palace was all bustle this morning in preparation for the queen to meet with the French ambassador. All who worked within the confines of the palace knew only too well that if Victoria was anything she was a stern hater of French politics. Today she would harangue the French representative about their massive ship-building program that had begun to worry the queen’s admirals.

The prime minister of the United Kingdom sat patiently in the long and richly appointed hallway awaiting the call that would see him into the queen’s drawing room, where she sat eating a hastily prepared breakfast. As servants hustled from one end of the hallway to the other he watched the faces of those who worked closely with the queen and he could tell they were all on edge. Hushed whispers that would represent shouts in other parts of the country were heard coming from the head butler to all of his minions.

The telegram from Portsmouth had arrived at his offices at three thirty that morning and the prime minister had informed the palace that he needed an immediate audience with the queen as soon as humanly possible. He had been granted the time and now he sat waiting on Her Majesty to finish her toast and tea.

Prime Minister Henry John Temple, the third Viscount Palmerston, or as the queen herself liked to call him, Pam, was a humorless man who found the shortcomings of others far more irritating than a man in his position was allowed to feel, or, voice.

“Excuse me, sir, but Her Majesty will see you now,” the queen’s attendant said, clearing his throat as an interruption of the thoughts of the sour man.

Lord Palmerston nodded once and then reached for the leather satchel at his side, which contained the information he had received from Portsmouth that morning. He stood, fussed with his coat, and then followed the assistant into the queen’s private quarters.

The news would soon be delivered to Her Majesty that the Americans were once more raising their ugly heads.

The queen of Great Britain and her colonies turned her head and faced the prime minister as he began the established procedure for greeting the queen. She wore an intricate woven bathrobe and her thinning hair was hidden under a white nightcap. She said nothing but swished her hand through the air toward the small table at which she sat. Palmerston finished his bow anyway and then came forward.

Victoria an the aura about her that she was destined to be the leader of the most powerful nation on earth, and she knew it — current state of dress notwithstanding.

“Pam, what brings you out of that little hovel of an office at this hour?”

“Your Majesty, I have received a communiqué wired from Portsmouth this morning. The message was relayed from the HMS Slaughter as soon as she docked.”

Victoria sat stoically and with her delicate right hand shoved a small piece of leftover bread from one end of her empty plate to the other as Palmerston opened his case.

“It seems I remember that my ship Slaughter was attempting to run the American blockade outside of Charleston. Am I correct in this or is my memory failing?”

“Your memory is as sharp as ever, Your Majesty. She was indeed and she did manage to break into the harbor and deliver the war materiel we promised the Confederacy.”

“Not that it will do our American southern friends any good at this point. It seems their setback in Pennsylvania early last month may have written the final chapter in their rather short history,” Victoria said as she sadly shook her head.

“From the reports I received, their General Lee is quite capable of reversing the current trend of defeat.”

“A flood is a flood, Pam, you know that. Once the waters of defeat gain a sloping ground there is no stopping it from inundating your house, and the southern house is taking on water at an alarming rate, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, Majesty,” Lord Palmerston said as he nodded and then held forth the cable from Portsmouth. “It took some time for HMS Slaughter to sneak out of Charleston, but she finally managed to get past the Union blockade in a thick bank of fog. She carried back far more than cotton mercantile on the return trip.” He handed Victoria the yellow paper. She took the offered telegram and then held up a small pair of reading glasses to her gray eyes as she read.

“Our Colonel Freemantle has spied more than war in America. What do you make of this meeting between Secretary of State Seward and General Lee? I would think that any surrender request would have been forwarded through to Richmond and President Davis.”

“Normally yes, but my people suspect it is more than that.” Palmerston again reached into the satchel and brought out another flimsy telegram delivered by ship. “Our man at the White House has passed along a report of a seemingly benign meeting between President Lincoln and Professor Lars Ollafson. He’s a theology professor at Harvard University. A rather brilliant scholar, so much so that he had accompanied our own Professor James Kensington, of Oxford, and three other Englishmen and four American scholars on a field expedition.”

“Pam, why exactly are you telling me this?” Victoria asked as she stood from the small table and gestured to her ladies in waiting that she was ready to get dressed.

Palmerston averted his eyes as the queen maneuvered to a large silk screen.

“I’ll refresh your memory,” he said as he placed the satchel down. “Professor James Kensington was the man who had an audience with you more than four years ago to ask for funding for an expedition.”

Queen Victoria stuck her head around the screen and looked at the prime minister. “Not that silly old wives’ tale again?”

“It seems our esteemed Professor Kensington received outside assistance after you curtly dismissed his expedition as” — he lowered his head — “folly.”

“So I did,” she said as she again vanished behind the screen. “So, what have we, Pam?”

“Professor Kensington is dead, along with six others, and the entirety of the expedition’s personnel have vanished with the exception of one man — Professor Ollafson. He escaped Turkey with a large parcel and then made his way back to the United States where he took the meeting with Mr. Lincoln and most of his cabinet, and after this meeting there was great dissention, as reported by our man in the White House. After that the professor vanished. Where? We do not yet know.”

Victoria reappeared from behind the dressing screen still wearing her robe. Her hair was now exposed and brushed, but the prime minister could see her aging was progressing quickly with the strain of her rule.

“Mr. Lincoln is reputed to be an extremely smart man. You are not telling me he will choose to go after this rather dubious prize that has exactly zero percent of a return on investment?”

“Evidently, Your Majesty, Mr. Lincoln was shown something from Ollafson’s venture to Turkey that may have changed his mind.”

Queen Victoria closed her eyes and then stepped back to continue dressing. “Right now we have our own troubles with the French, and now we receive word that hostilities could break out at any time in Africa. The Province of Natal’s a little nervous about the Zulus across the Buffalo River. And here we are, using resources we cannot afford to be wasting, to examine if the American president has gone completely insane. With the problems he faces, even if the war is truly coming to a close, he has no time for foolishness such as this. So, from this point forward, Lord Palmerston, we take a wait-and-see attitude toward this preposterous theory that seems to have taken hold of every theologian in all of Europe. We wait, we see what our very-puzzling Mr. Lincoln will do. Instruct your man at the White House that his queen is curious as to the details of the plan” — she again stuck her head out from behind the dressing screen — “if there is a plan. If there is, then we will deal with the Americans accordingly. If they make a run for the Aegean Sea and the Strait of Constantinople beyond, we will know Mr. Lincoln has fallen for this rather dubious fairy tale. If the Americans think they can get into Europe, we’ll be there to remind them who rules the world’s oceans.”

Palmerston gathered his satchel and bowed even though the queen couldn’t see him. He stopped and faced the dressing screen again.

“Your Majesty, if this is a fairy tale, as you believe—”

“You did not hear that from me, Pam,” she said as she stuck her head out again. “My beliefs in that regard wouldn’t go over too well with my subjects.”

“But, if you believe that, why would we worry about Lincoln and what he believes may be there?”

Finally the queen emerged from behind the screen fully dressed. Her gown was rigid, but sparkling. She looked well, and now a far better match for the French ambassador.

“Because, Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. Lincoln is as much an agnostic as myself. However, if the president of the United States sponsors this expedition, then whatever this Professor Ollafson passed on to the president makes the British Empire somewhat nervous. Thus” — she looked into the mirror that was held in front of her — “if Mr. Lincoln sees advantage in this foray then we must show just as much enthusiasm and fortitude. Clear?”

“Not at all, Majesty.”

“Good, then I have not lost my ambiguous touch.”

As Prime Minister Palmerston left the palace he suspected that he might soon be witness to a confused race to find out what the real truth was in Eastern Turkey.