The Mountain

7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Thomas asked, annoyed.

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

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

“Why you little—”

“Sergeant Major, the doctor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Excused.”

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

“Bring that in.”

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

“Sit, Jessy. Eat something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My men, are they being fed?”

“As we speak.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Done.”

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

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

“We?” he said as he swallowed the bread.

“Yes, we. If I go down I am sure as hell blaming you for it.” John Henry smiled at his old friend for the first time.

“And what will stop me and my men from escaping at the first opportunity?”

“I will have more than a hundred federal personnel on board to stop you. I will have twenty marines on each ship who will be more than happy to shoot each and every one of you.” He smiled wider. “So, nothing is stopping you at the moment. After all, Jessy, you’ve done so well in the war thus far.”

Taylor returned the smile as his eyes went to Gray Dog, who was watching the exchange with interest. “I guess we both may have failed to achieve much, other than running into trouble.”

“As usual. From West Point to Indian territory, our luck remains unchanged.”

Taylor slid his empty coffee cup toward Thomas. Ignoring it, Thomas stood and retrieved the whiskey bottle and poured that into the cup instead. He poured himself a drink and then held it up to Jessy.

“To insanity at its best,” Thomas said in toast.

“May it ever be so humble.” Taylor hesitated and then said, “And always alive and prevalent.”

The two men drank, Taylor ate, and they made a plan that fit with the crazy mission to which they had been assigned.

Gray Dog watched the two friends as they argued over the parameters of the mission ahead of them. As he studied the two officers he knew what they were missing — a belief in the far-off mountain and the killing powers that dwelled there. But there was also something else the Comanche noticed — the two men had something between them that was unspoken. Gray Dog was sure that these two men were no longer the friends who had once thought of each other as brothers — there might even be hatred there. Underlying, but hate nonetheless. He was silent as the men planned the fate of so many.

The expedition to God’s forbidden mountain would begin in less than sixteen hours.

It was one A.M. when the eighteen covered army wagons from the ferry started to unload their unusual cargo. Most of the men had to be assisted from the transports by the U.S. Marine guard detail assigned to Thomas. They would escort the detail to Washington. As Thomas watched from the train platform he was joined by the naval engineer Ericsson, who was brought to John Henry by a subdued and very tired Sergeant Major Dugan. Without a word Dugan walked away to further assist the weakened Rebel soldiers. John Henry watched as Jessy Taylor spoke with each man before he was led to a railroad car. His eyes roamed to the perimeter of the out-of-the-way platform and saw his marine snipers stationed where he had left them. They were there to guarantee no prying eyes. It wouldn’t do to have the public learn that more than a hundred prisoners of war vanished overnight.

“I had not been told this part of the plan. I am shocked at their condition.” Ericsson, usually brash in thought as well as speech, was wringing his hands. Thomas knew him to be a man who tried not to think about what his marvelous inventions were capable of. The result, while not directly related to his work, was disturbing nonetheless to the engineer.

“We all knew this wasn’t going to be a pretty thing when it started.” He took his gaze away from the emaciated men below shown in flickering torch light and then fixed Ericsson with his blue eyes. “The president knew going in this was going to be personal. The worst fights are always between brothers, it seems. This is the end result of two hundred years of blind faith that this could never happen, not here. This is what we deserve.”

“I sense a bitterness in you far beyond what you are seeing, sir,” Ericsson said, almost as disturbed by the colonel’s sadness as the vision of the prisoners being loaded like cattle.

“My family were ranchers once, or so we had hoped, a few years ago. One by one they were taken by Indians, sickness, or just plain despair. But that made some sense; it was life. This” — he gestured toward the Confederate prisoners — “is blackness. Hate that has been boiling over for years, and I am so tired of it. Sometimes I think we don’t deserve to continue on as a nation.”

“Surely you believe in the cause in the North?” Ericsson asked in his heavily accented English.

“That” — he pointed at the last of the starved men were boarded — “is the end result of two causes. If it weren’t that or this, it would be him, or them. Yes, Professor Ericsson, I don’t give a good damn for causes anymore.”

Ericsson did not pursue another question. He could see the man before him now saw the end result of his craft and he hated himself for being a part of it. To his relief, the sergeant major reappeared with the Comanche Indian in tow. Ericsson was frightened of the red man, so he quickly tipped his hat toward the colonel and then left to board the more comfortable car farther up the line.

“Detail is all aboard, Colonel.”

Thomas looked at Dugan and nodded. The sergeant major, he knew, was feeling the same sense of horror he was at the sight of the prisoners. Dugan was having a hard time justifying his hatred toward the secessionists the way he had only two days before.

“Are there plenty of blankets and water in those cars?”

“Yes, Colonel. They have rations for the ride to Washington.” Dugan was about to turn and walk away when he stopped and, without turning back to face Thomas, said, “Colonel, I can’t bring myself to lock them in.”

Thomas saw the sergeant major’s shoulders slump as he waited for Thomas to blow up over prisoner security.

“Those men have to be protected from themselves for the time being, Sergeant Major. They won’t be thinking right until they have their strength back. So until that time comes, lock them in. They would only be committing suicide if they tried to escape like this.”

“I didn’t see it that way,” Dugan said and then slowly walked off. Gray Dog lingered, watching the small man lower his head as he started to place chains through the doors of the boxcars.

“Why keep other white men in cages?”

John Henry started down the platform steps and started to make his way toward the cars in the front of the train.

“Some things aren’t so easily explained, Gray Dog. Let’s just say the white men are angry and you can thank God they stay that way.” He looked at the Comanche as he spied Jessy Taylor waiting by the steps of the passenger car. His old gray coat had been replaced by a private’s blue blouse and he was wearing a Union cap. “Because when this madness is done, they only have one way to turn after that.”

Gray Dog did not need an explanation of the words of John Henry. He looked at the last of the locks and chains going on the doors and then followed the colonel. He didn’t board the train but climbed to its roof instead and then sat. Thomas shook his head as he confronted Taylor.

“Is this the treatment we can expect for the entire journey?” Taylor asked as he placed his arm across the car’s opening, stopping Thomas from entering.

“Until I can trust you, yes.” Thomas lowered Taylor’s arm and stepped up the stairs to the car’s interior.

“And when is that? When we’re at sea and can’t run?”

John Henry stopped and turned. He was backlit by the oil lamps inside the car and Taylor couldn’t make out his friend’s features. He looked like a Greek god looking down from on high with a heavenly glow.

“No, not even then, Jessy. When we get to Turkey, we’ll discuss your men at length and the ways to earn my trust. Now, let me buy you a drink and figure out how we can do what’s asked of us and get all of these boys back in one piece.” He stepped aside and gestured for Jessy to go ahead.

“Something tells me you won’t succeed.”

“That’s why I was chosen. It’s called being expendable.”

The locomotive sounded its whistle and the train started to move south.

8

The train with its human cargo was six miles outside of Baltimore. John Henry Thomas and Jessy Taylor paused while going over the map of the Ottoman Empire. Taylor leaned back on the bench and then toyed with the half-full whiskey bottle. He glanced out of the dingy, soot-covered window and then his heart caught in his chest. Was his bad eye giving him that much trouble?

“What is the story on that little fella?” he asked while still staring out the window.

John Henry folded the map and then saw what Taylor was looking at. A surreal vision was staring in at them from an upside-down position. Gray Dog adjusted his feet and then vanished from the window as if he had never been there.

“Long story. But where we’re going we may need that Comanche’s insight into certain things.”

“Well, I surely hope he doesn’t go popping his head in with my men until they get used to him,” Taylor said, staring at the spot where the Indian had been. “Now,” he said as he turned back to Thomas. “Tell me about this Sultan Abdülaziz.”

John Henry pulled out a sheaf of papers and rummaged through them until he came to the page he needed. “From all accounts he’s so interested in modernizing his empire that he pays little attention to his subjects. Secretary Seward believes he hasn’t but a few years in power left before the people oust him. Sultans do not have a good track record for keeping their subjects happy, and every twenty or thirty years they let the monarchy know in no uncertain terms just how angry they are. Seward’s assessment is that he’s so weak of mind that we should have very little trouble posing as railroad and army engineers.”

“Sounds about as foul a situation as we have here, huh, Yank?”

“Knock that crap off. Yank, Reb, it all amounts to being idiots.” John Henry put away the report on the sultan but held his eyes firmly on his old pal from the Point. “From the time we board ship until the time we return, we’re neither northerner nor southerner. If we go in separate, they will pick apart our little ruse very quickly.”

Taylor smiled with his swollen lips. “That’s what your Mr. Lincoln wants anyway, doesn’t he? What I mean to say is, he is not known to be overly zealous when it comes to religion. He doesn’t think that damn children’s tale is even there, does he?”

Thomas had to admit to a degree that Taylor was right. He had never known Lincoln to bend a knee to God or anything else. Lincoln believed in law. The Constitution was his Bible and that was why they were in the war they were in. So, no, he did not believe the president was in awe at Ollafson’s tale of wonder. But then, he also knew the president had absolutely nothing to lose but a military officer whose career was in the outhouse and a Reb colonel who had seen far better days. This was not counting the men under his command — at least on the southern side they were as expendable as both colonels leading them. He didn’t yet know what army dregs were going to be tossed into this bizarre equation.

Instead of commenting on Taylor’s observation on his commander-in-chief, he brought out the Confederate roster. “You’ll need an adjutant. Who do you suggest?” He slid the roster across the table and Taylor, after downing a small glass of whiskey, looked it over. It only took him a moment.

“Corporal Poteet. He served with me in New Mexico territory. He’s the only Texan I’ve ever known that could track those damnable Apaches. Yes, he’ll make a fine sergeant major, with your permission of course.”

“Permission granted,” Thomas said as he underlined the name. His eyes continued to survey the roster of starved men even though his brain had stopped taking in information.

“You don’t believe in this mission?” Taylor asked as he poured himself and Thomas another drink.

“Not at all.” He took the drink and downed it and then looked up and saw Gray Dog standing next to him in the aisle. He had come upon them without sound or flash of movement.

“Riders, John Henry. Twenty or more.”

At that moment the train started to slow. The whistle sounded as Thomas stood. “Gray Dog, alert Sergeant Major Dugan and the marines. This isn’t right.”

John Henry looked at Taylor and then stood from his chair. Jessy started to do the same but John Henry motioned him back down.

“With that drawl of yours, may I suggest you sit this one out, Colonel?”

“I’ll keep this bottle company. It’s a better conversationalist anyway,” he said as he downed another shot.

John Henry felt the train decelerate rapidly as Dugan entered from another car with two marines next to him.

“What have we got?” Dugan asked as he quickly lowered the window closest to him and looked out, first toward the front of the slowing train and then the rear. “Goddamn Injun is right. We have riders, Colonel Darlin’.”

The train came to a screeching stop and as John Henry stepped out of the car he saw why. Fire was blazing on the very rails on which they traveled. “Sergeant Major, take ten marines and filter into these woods. Wait until you see something untoward and then move on the element if you have to.”

“And what is untoward, Colonel?”

“Untoward means me being shot for any reason.”

“Yes, sir.”

John Henry saw the first of the riders approach at a gallop. He could see by the long gold stripe on his pant leg that he was a cavalry officer, and by the looks of his mount he had been riding hard for quite some time. The horse and rider were both lathered with the effort.

“I am looking for Colonel John Henry Thomas,” he said as the horse skidded to a stop.

Thomas stepped forward and addressed the young first lieutenant. “I’m Thomas.”

The rider removed his gauntlet, reached into his uniform tunic, and pulled out an envelope.

“From the war department, sir.”

Thomas took the message and stepped into the light streaming from the car. He opened the envelope and saw the words. As he read, John Henry realized he was dealing with something he had not been briefed on.

“Sergeant Major Dugan,” he called out.

The rider and his accompanying men heard the sound of several Spencer carbines as they were cocked and uncocked.

“Sir!” Dugan said as he stepped from the trees.

“Lieutenant, did anyone think to bring me some wagons?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Twenty army wagons are a mile back.”

“Sergeant Major, get the men off the train, quickly. Get them lined up and into the woods. Post the marine pickets. Nothing gets inside the perimeter, and especially nothing out, understand?”

“Not at all,” he said angrily as he quickly moved out.

“What have we got?” a voice said from behind.

Taylor’s question was a loaded one. As Thomas turned to face him he gestured.

“Some congressman has gotten wind of the shipment from Fort Lafayette and is throwing a fit about the illegal transport of prisoners without authorization from the war department.”

“I thought the war department was in on this,” Taylor said as he hopped from the train car and started to assist in unlocking his men. “They probably believe they were brought to the woods to be shot and buried.”

“They are aware, but they can’t get caught up in this because they could never explain it properly. They would rather do this thing covertly until it all blows up royally in their faces.”

“The congressman is aware of your destination.”

Thomas looked at the young lieutenant and then crumpled the message. “Get the wagons up here immediately. Is there a hospital near the harbor where they treat war wounded?”

The cavalryman looked confused. “We have three doctors standing by at the pier, sir,” he answered.

“Lieutenant, is there a hospital near the docks where the casualties from the front are being treated or buried?”

“Yes, sir. Camp Monroe serves as the main hospital.”

“Good,” he stepped up to the young officer and spoke to him in a whisper. Taylor saw the cavalryman looking shocked at his new orders, and then he suddenly turned his mount and bolted off to the south with the very confused look still on his face.

“What are you up to? I don’t believe you can disguise these men. A blind person would be able to tell who they are.”

“No, I can’t disguise them, so we have to actually turn them into something they are not.”

Taylor saw Thomas deep in thought and knew the colonel had a plan. His eyes would always light up when he had thought something through.

“Are you going to let me in on your plan, especially since it’s my men with everything to lose?”

“Well,” John Henry said as he faced Taylor, “it may well be we have to kill you anyway.” He winked and then stepped up to assist in unloading the weakened men.

Taylor was stunned at the wink and smile of Thomas, but he thought he was beginning to see how his men would be allowed into Baltimore.

“Sergeant Major Dugan, Lieutenant Parnell will be in command, but you take charge of the prisoners and get them into the woods and march them as quietly as possible to the docks.” He looked from Dugan to the young marine lieutenant. “Mr. Parnell, your job is to get this command into the dock area without being caught. Can the Marine Corps do that?”

“That and much more, Colonel,” Parnell said as he briskly saluted. He jumped on the large roan mount and started guiding the tired and worn men into the roadway alongside the railroad line. The rest of the marine detail was broken into two groups. One would accompany Thomas, the other Dugan and Parnell.

Claire Richelieu and Lars Ollafson stood by the entrance to the U.S. Navy dry-dock area where they had been instructed to wait. Claire nervously looked around, feeling vulnerable as she waited beside the professor and their silent entourage of equipment and luggage. Her eyes often roamed over to the leather case that held the petrified wood with the Angelic curse. She forced back a shiver as she looked up and saw the fog start to roll in off the Chesapeake. Ollafson looked at his watch when they heard the sound of horses coming their way.

“I was beginning to worry we were going to be left behind. It’s—”

“Hush, Professor,” Claire said as she stepped forward and placed a hand on Ollafson’s shoulder to quiet him. “Those are carriages, not a military unit coming,” she said as her eyes studied the gateway beyond the front of the dock area. The naval guards at the gate heard the same as they stepped expectantly from their small shack.

“Suddenly you are an expert—”

The professor stopped when he saw two carriages filled with men stop at the gate. An unseen man inside the first carriage spoke some harsh words to the two navy men. Then from behind the twin carriages there was the sound of many footsteps as ten men left the rolling fogbank and stood beside the carriages and the two guards. Claire could hear one of the naval personnel explain that the dock area was closed to all civilians. She heard the angry protest from within the carriage, and then she saw the footman hop from the top seat and quickly open the door for the robust man who stepped from its interior.

“Oh, my God, that’s Senator Harriman, I believe. Not a very nice man,” Ollafson said, worried that their plans had been leaked.

Claire was well aware who the Democratic leader from Indiana was. The man was a staunch advocate of hanging every southern leader and commander when the war was completed and the South totally destroyed. The man was Lincoln’s staunchest enemy when it came to the way the president conducted the running of the war. A complete and utter follower of one general in particular: George McClellan. Claire was beginning to smell a rat, and the smell was familiar to her.

“Inopportune timing, I would say,” came the voice from behind them.

Claire and Ollafson turned and saw the speaker. There was another man standing right behind him. Claire knew he had been there all the while and was forever undressing her with his eyes. Captain Paul Renaud of the French army stepped up and dipped his hat and head at them both. The man was expertly dressed in his new traveling clothes.

Claire closed her eyes when she realized who it was. She stepped up to the smaller man and leaned into him. She made sure Ollafson was not in hearing distance.

“This is too bold a move even for you. Are you insane?”

Renaud tossed his half-smoked cigar into the foul waters of the docks and then smiled. “Why? I am a history expert by trade, and my credentials, at least for the moment, are impeccable.” The arrogant man smiled and then whispered, “Madame, you did not really believe I would leave this in your hands, did you? My superiors in France were not very impressed with the way that old man kept certain things from you in his research. They thought a more experienced set of eyes should be on hand. So, here I am, ready to do my part as ordered by the U.S. War Department.” Renaud brought out a set of forged orders that were perfect in every detail, even countersigned by Stanton himself.

“Those had better be perfect. This Colonel Thomas is no man’s fool. The president picked him for this assignment for a reason.” She smiled halfheartedly even though the man before her terrified her. “He will smell a rat.”

“He would only smell a stupid rat, Madame. I, on the other hand, am a smart rat.”

“Excuse me, but who is this man, Claire?” Ollafson asked as he placed the pocketwatch back into his vest.

“Benton Cromwell, Professor Ollafson,” Renaud said. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Claire turned to Ollafson with a smile. He says he’s been assigned by the war department as their specialist on historic locations.”

“I think we should all wait for Colonel Thomas for the introductions. After all, it looks as though we may have a problem brewing here.”

Claire again turned to the Frenchman. “Why do I smell your work in this?”

“Not I, dearest Claire, but we did intercept a communiqué from London expressing the desire of Her Royal Majesty Victoria that the expedition be slowed somewhat. I suspect our British friends are behind this little commotion. Now I guess we’ll see if your Mr. Lincoln chose the right man for his adventure.”

The two naval guards had given up as the large round man burst past them and was joined by other men as he came through the gate. The men with him were the capital police force for this district.

“I’m Senator Marcus Harriman. I want to see the man in charge.”

Claire and Professor Ollafson were silent as the large man with the brown beard started wagging a rather large cigar in their faces. It was Renaud who intervened.

“Perhaps you should pester someone with a uniform on, sir. They would more than likely be the person in charge, not a woman and an old man,” he said as he confronted the much smaller senator.

“Then I pose my inquiry to you, sir. Who is in charge here?”

Renaud smiled arrogantly. “Why, I assure you I haven’t faintest idea, sir.”

“Has the entire army gone mad?” The senator bit down on his cigar and then turned and faced the woman and older man. “You I know,” he said, jabbing his cigar at Professor Ollafson, who flinched away from it. Claire took a protective step toward the blustery man in the hundred-dollar suit. “Now, tell me where I can find” — he pulled out a paper from his suit jacket and then adjusted it to read in the weak light of the dock area — “Colonel Thomas. The man absconded with over a hundred Confederate prisoners of war from New York this morning and I want to know who authorized this transfer, which took place in the middle of an escape attempt investigation that was being conducted by the camp’s commander.”

“I assure you, sir, we have no clue as to what it is you speak of,” Claire said, for Ollafson was looking quite intimidated. She was beginning to wonder just where Colonel Thomas was. She had a feeling this man was used to getting what he wanted.

“Goddamn army thinks they can do whatever they want!”

Renaud knew immediately that this Senator Harriman was in the well-lined pockets of the British government and that he had been sent to at least slow the start of this curious mission or to stop it completely. The British were always so proper in their methods, never using the head-on approach of men such as himself.

Suddenly the sound of horses and wagon wheels echoed through the fog. Claire bit her lower lip, knowing that it was Thomas and his new acquisitions coming into the dock area. The colonel was walking directly into a trap, and if he was caught with Rebel prisoners of war, and if the reason for it became public knowledge, Lincoln could never survive the scandal and he would most assuredly lose the upcoming election to that pompous little ass, McClellan. Yes, Harriman was going for broke in his attempt to embarrass the president.

“Hah, I knew he would be arrogant enough to come right through the front gate with his escapees. The man will hang for this.” Harriman tossed the cigar away and then turned to two of the capitol policemen. “Arrest these three,” he said as he started for the wagons that had stopped at the gate.

One of the two policemen moved his rifle to port arms and the other approached the man in the army uniform first. He started to reach for his arm, but Renaud just smiled.

“If you so much as touch me, I will kill you.” He glared down at the policeman who was looking at him with apprehension. “And your companion. I would suggest waiting to see how this plays out before you commit yourself to this course of action. It could be beneficial to know if you backed the wrong horse in this race.”

Harriman, with the other eight policemen in tow, approached the gate, making his bulk seem as imposing as possible. He puffed out his chest as he spied the big man in the saddle of the lead horse. The colonel stared down upon the senator and his bearing gave Harriman a momentary pause. His office had been tipped off to this unprecedented prisoner movement by an unknown source, but as soon as Colonel John Henry Thomas’s name was mentioned, Harriman knew Lincoln was behind whatever was happening. The senator remembered two years before when the president had most illegally saved Thomas from a general court-martial.

“You men spread out and make sure no one exits the rear of those wagons. You, sir. Are you Colonel Thomas?” he asked, hoping his booming voice was as intimidating as it was on the floor of the senate.

John Henry remained silent as he removed his hat and wiped his brow. It had been a harrowing ride for the past hour as he had made his way from the military hospital on the outskirts of Baltimore. His horse was lathered, as well as those of his small command of wagons.

“I believe I asked you a question, sir. Are you Thomas?”

John Henry observed the four people waiting at the entrance to dry-dock seventeen and saw the woman Claire Richelieu looking his way. She seemed worried. He only hoped she and the professor had kept their lips tight thus far so he could get this little ruse to pass muster. He finally stepped down from his horse.

“I’m Thomas,” he said simply as he tied the reins of his horse to the small pommel on the saddle. “What can I help you with?”

“I want the men in those wagons. You absconded with them with no legal order from the prisoner-of-war camp in New York. They are to be returned to that camp immediately and you, sir, are to be placed under arrest, as are these three people.” He gestured toward Claire, Ollafson, and a last man whom Thomas did not know.

“I have orders to deliver my cargo to the docks. I have done so. If you want what’s in those wagons, you are more than welcome to take them off of my hands, Mr… Mr. — ?”

“It’s Senator, Senator Harriman, and I have a warrant signed by a federal judge giving me the right to take what is in those wagons, and to arrest the man responsible for removing the prisoners from New York.”

John Henry slowly removed his gauntlets and then fixed Harriman with his blue-eyed glare. “You want what’s in those wagons? They’re yours, sir. I gladly turn them over.” He mockingly bowed in surrender as Harriman smiled in victory. He would finally hang Lincoln and the out-of-control military that loved him so much.

“Arrest the colonel,” he said as he turned to face the first wagon.

John Henry smiled as the senator left with five of the policemen right behind him. Thomas finally placed his gloves in his belt and watched the first policeman hesitantly approach him, holding a set of wrist restraints. John Henry’s smile widened.

“Oh, damn! We didn’t get too far, did we?” Ollafson said as the first wagon’s rear tarp was thrown aside.

Claire was as worried as Ollafson, but Renaud watched John Henry Thomas and smiled as he guessed at what was happening.

“I expect this Senator Harriman is going to get exactly what he came for.”

As the covering was thrown back, Harriman was assailed by the smell coming from the bed of the wagon. He stepped back and threw a hand over his mouth and nose. The smell hit the policemen next and the first of these doubled over and vomited.

“What is the meaning of this?” Harriman demanded to no one other than the dead men piled in the back of the wagon. He ran to the next in line and his senses were assaulted once again when he unveiled the contents of Colonel John Henry Thomas’s wagons. The senator ran to the next, and then the next. All the while Thomas kept his eyes on the senator and hoped he didn’t have the gumption to thoroughly check the dead men in the back. He suspected Harriman wouldn’t, as he too leaned over and expelled the expensive dinner he’d had that night at the Willard Hotel. After that dinner was lost, the senator’s voice echoed through the dock area.

“I have been tricked!”

John Henry smiled.

The progression of the men was slow. Lieutenant Parnell’s marines tried not to push the Reb prisoners too hard, but they were having a difficult time keeping the ragtag group together as some were much stronger than others. It was Parnell who rode up to confront the Confederate colonel about how he was allowing his men to be stretched out in too long a line.

“Colonel, we will have to call a halt. Your men are falling off and we can’t keep them together.”

“Lieutenant Parnell, while I commiserate with your predicament, I am hardly the man to make the protest to.” He looked over at Sergeant Major Dugan, who was walking beside him at Colonel Thomas’s request so he could keep a close eye on Taylor.

“Call a halt,” Dugan said.

“Now!” Taylor yelled at that very moment.

Before Dugan or Parnell could react, Taylor’s men started pulling marines from their saddles. The guard detail was immediately subdued by men who had pretended to be far worse for wear than they truly were. Before Dugan and the young marine knew what was happening, they had their own weapons trained on them.

Taylor shrugged as one of his men tossed him an Army Colt. He cocked it and then smiled at Dugan and Parnell.

“Endless apologies, gentlemen, but this is where my men and I will say good-bye. Our lines are right across the river.”

Dugan stepped forward angrily. He knew he had let down John Henry and he had decided he would rather die than face him. Taylor stopped the old sergeant major by shoving the barrel of the Colt into his rib cage.

“John Henry has thus far treated us with respect. Do not make me do anything other than that, now that the situation has reversed itself.” He shoved harder until Dugan backed up a step. Then his hands as well as those of Parnell were roughly pulled to their backs and tied. “Sergeant Major, a man very much similar to you in every regard was murdered just last night in New York for following my orders. He was a good man, as I am sure you are, but do not think I will hesitate in killing you and all of these men just as surely as my sergeant major was murdered. Now, gentlemen, we must be off.” The smile widened as a horse was brought to Taylor and he mounted.

“The colonel will find you,” Dugan said as he and a humiliated Parnell were shoved down to the base of a large tree and then tied to it along with the rest of their command.

“John Henry has been chasing me since West Point, Sergeant Major, and he hasn’t caught this old boy yet!” Taylor said loudly as he spurred the black horse he was riding. His mount reared and pawed the air, then shot off into the woods where Taylor’s not-so-sick men awaited their colonel.

“I thought he was going to kill us,” Parnell said as he took a deep breath.

“When John Henry finds out about this, you’ll wish that Reb had pulled the trigger, I can assure you.”

The two men heard the silence of the woods around them and then the sound of a Rebel yell came through the fog with a loud whoop.

“He’s going to hang us,” Dugan complained, shaking his head.

John Henry was still smiling when he arrogantly shoved aside the policeman and his manacles. He approached the senator, who was still wiping vomit from his mouth. The man would taste the oysters he’d had for dinner for more than a year afterward.

“Here is your roster, sir,” John Henry said as he held out a piece of paper. “All the casualties of the escape attempt have been documented in my report. They are all yours, Senator,” John Henry said with a smirk.

“They’re all dead,” Harriman said after he caught his breath.

“Yes, bullets to the backs of their heads usually do that.”

John Henry watched as the senator actually attempted once more to examine the backs of the first and second wagons. Thomas had emptied out the hospital of every Confederate body he could find and had tossed the poor bastards unceremoniously into the backs of the wagons. It was a close-run ruse, as he had to deal with the astonished looks of the military hospital personnel as he did so. He didn’t know how much flak the president would catch over this, but it was the only way he could have pulled this off. After all, he had not been forewarned that Harriman was on the trail of the prisoners. It seemed Major Freeman in New York might have had a little more pull than even the president thought.

The smell emanating from the ten wagons was starting to get to John Henry when the senator abruptly turned and left with the capital police in tow.

“I will get to the bottom of this, I assure you, sir!”

“Yes, I’m sure you will,” Thomas said as he removed his gloves and then turned toward the three people waiting inside the gate. He was about to approach when a marine came running through the gate out of breath.

At the same moment, Professor Ericsson stumbled out of the back of the last wagon, and he too was puking up his own dinner after being unceremoniously tossed into the wagon after the clandestine hospital run.

Thomas took the young marine private by the shoulders and shook him.

“The prisoners — they have escaped,” the boy finally managed to say.

“Sergeant Major Dugan?” asked Thomas, fearful his old friend had been killed by another old friend.

“They harmed no one, sir. Just tied us up and then skedaddled.”

John Henry released the boy. He turned toward the darkness beyond the gate and the thick fog forming through the trees. “Gray Dog!”

Suddenly the fog parted and there was the Comanche appearing like a spectral image. Thomas had not known where he was, but he always showed up when called. He gestured at Gray Dog and nodded his head. It was amazing that he had not had to explain what he wanted the Indian to do. It seemed that the Comanche always knew in advance. He pointed.

Gray Dog didn’t respond to the order. He simply took the first horse he found, stripped the saddle, and then deftly hopped onto the large animal’s back and vanished into the fog.

“Goddamn it, Jessy,” John Henry said, replacing his gauntlets as his horse was brought to him. Trust had never entered into the equation because he thought the men under Taylor’s command were too weak to pull anything off. This was the last time John Henry would underestimate his old friend. He took off through the gate hoping to catch Gray Dog and help return Colonel Jessy Taylor to the docks. They had less than two hours left to catch the morning tide.

The mission thus far had been a disaster and they had not even left Baltimore harbor.

Taylor was proud of his men. They had reacted as if they had not spent the past two years locked away in hell. He watched the men struggle through the thick woods, soaked by the bogs they constantly waded into because of the damnable fog. He dismounted and helped one of his older men into the saddle. The private, an old boy from Wheeling, was tired and far weaker than his younger brethren. The man fought against the silent order given by Taylor but finally relented when he realized his pride was keeping their small, desperate column from escaping. He nodded at the colonel and then slowly rode into the fog. Taylor’s eyes followed the old man and he hoped he had not led the men into another disaster. He felt better when he thought about John Henry.

Corporal Franklin Loudermilk, a skinny, mean man from Richmond, joined Taylor.

“Think it was right to leave them blue bellies just tied up, Colonel? I mean, the way me and some of the boys look at it, they’s still the enemy.”

Taylor didn’t answer right away. He knew the man beside him would be bucking for the sergeant major’s responsibility, but the truth of the matter was Loudermilk was a cad of the first order. The man was rumored to prey on the weak. In the prison camp, his own comrades would find food and other supplies missing, and Loudermilk and a few others were suspected. Taylor did not trust a soldier who was so zealous about killing four years into the war. Enough was enough, in his opinion.

“Is that what you think?” Taylor asked without looking at the corporal. He stopped and waited for a few of the stragglers to catch up. With a nod and half-smile he encouraged his boys to move faster. “Well, you go back and tell the boys” — he now looked directly at Loudermilk — “that my order stands. We kill, we get caught. How many weapons do you see, Corporal?” he asked as some of the passing men noticed the anger in his voice.

“Well, none but what we took from the Yanks,” was the meek and cautious answer.

“So unless you intend to chuck rocks at our pursuers who are armed, don’t go makin’ the Yanks murderous, because frankly our odds of escaping John Henry Thomas are about the same as the chance of my taking your opinion into account. Now get moving, Corporal.”

Taylor watched the man raise his brows and then smirk and move off. Taylor knew that man needed watching.

Jessy stopped, preparing to wait for a few other stragglers, when the night around him fell silent. Suddenly a whoosh flew past his right ear. He flinched when the arrow stuck in the tree next to his head. Before Taylor could react he heard a man yell something he couldn’t understand and then a gunshot sounded. Jessy cursed as he moved quickly forward. He knew it was John Henry’s boy. He hadn’t liked the looks of the Comanche. In his opinion, they were the sneakiest of all the tribes.

There were more shouts ahead. Another gunshot.

“Hold your fire,” he said as loudly as he dared.

As he pulled up beside a tree he saw the men around him hunkered down with as much cover as they could find. He only hoped the fog would be confusing to not only the Indian but the men he knew were out there. John Henry’s men.

As these thoughts crossed his mind, he knew it was over. Hoofbeats sounded through the trees as riders rode in on the group of escaping men at breakneck speed. Only cavalrymen rode as foolhardy as that, and John Henry Thomas was the best cavalryman Taylor had ever known. The man from Texas was a far better tactician than Jeb Stuart and also more keen to enemy responses. John Henry was known in the Indian days as the great liar because the Indians always found him where he wasn’t supposed to be. His nose for finding men was legend in the cavalry corps. Thomas eased his horse from the tree line.

“Tell those men to hold their fire, or so help me we’ll convince them the easy way,” John Henry yelled as his horse came to a sliding stop just in front of Taylor.

“All southern men, hold your fire, lay down your weapons,” Taylor said, his eyes never leaving Thomas, who was busy staring down at him with his Colt drawn and aimed right at his head.

In the woods he heard men curse, others shouting profanities as the marines on horseback herded them into a tight circle. The fog wasn’t helping much as the men were roughly handled this time in respect to their newly found strength.

John Henry released the hammer on the Colt and then holstered the weapon. “Bugler, sound recall,” he said as a young marine rode up next to him. The boy looked confused for a moment as he thought about the army bugle call that had been requested. “Blow something, boy,” Thomas said as he approached Taylor.

The bugler decided that maybe the marine recall was the same as the army’s. Regardless, it was marines out there anyway. He blew the brief signal to reform with the prisoners.

“If it weren’t for that Indian, you would never have found us,” Taylor said as John Henry reached out and removed the pistol from the belt of Taylor. The colonel unlocked the cylinder and then removed it, his eyes never leaving Jessy’s.

“The next time he won’t miss with that arrow. The rest will be shot on my orders. Are we understanding each other, Colonel?” Thomas asked as he glared at his onetime friend. “I have no time for this.”

“Well, John Henry, excuse me if I’m not a big enthusiast of chasing horse-crap fairy tales. Even if you find something, you think it will change a damn thing? You’re as much of a romantic as your boss, my friend. Telling my men to die for this is laughable.”

Thomas took Taylor by the shoulder and pushed him into a solid object. Gray Dog was there and he had no expression as he tied the colonel up with rope.

John Henry stepped up to face Taylor. “You’re as blind and stubborn as you ever were, Jessy.”

Thomas angrily walked away as Gray Dog easily moved Taylor forward toward his angry men. They were no longer treated as weak men. These were Confederate cavalry once again and they would be treated as such — dangerous.

Claire Richelieu had heard the distant reports of weapons fire, which was also heard by the navy and marine personnel at the dock area. Claire was no expert, but she knew that the random shots had come from the general direction in which Colonel Thomas’s Indian had disappeared. She fanned her hot face as Ollafson nervously waited.

“Professor Ollafson?” came a familiar voice from behind them. Claire closed her eyes, for she had been fearful of this moment from the time she had been informed they would have a second person as company on the voyage.

“Yes, I am Ollafson,” the professor answered, apprehensive though he was after the excitement of the evening.

The man was in a nice civilian suit with a small bowler hat on his head, which he removed as he held out a letter to the old professor.

“I am Steven McDonald. I am replacing your student Henderson as your personal secretary.”

Ollafson opened the letter and moved closer to an oil lamp on the side of the warehouse building. He read its contents. The letter was countersigned by his former chair at Harvard. Ollafson looked the signature over and decided it was authentic.

“I never requested a replacement. Young Henderson knew too much. I doubt you can be as helpful to me.”

The thin man with the perfectly curled blond moustache leaned over so the professor could hear him. His eyes locked with Claire’s and then came a small wink from the British Army captain.

“Professor, the department was worried after Henderson’s body was found. The university asked me to keep a close eye on you and your assistant. I am sorry about that young man in New York, but that should tell you that you need more than just Miss Richelieu to watch over you and this expedition. I am well armed and can be very helpful in deciphering the difference between Aramaic and the Angelic script you have discovered. That is my specialty, sir.”

Ollafson was taken aback by the man’s credentials, especially since the professor had never heard this man’s name mentioned during his entire time at Harvard Yard.

Even Claire was astonished by what McDonald claimed. If he did understand the historical subject matter he had just mentioned, she realized that she had sorely underestimated London’s interest in this mission. France might have been willing to kill to learn what was so interesting in Eastern Turkey, but now England was risking having a master spy turned over by the Americans. It seemed the two base powers in Europe were willing to risk what amounted to war with the most powerful military nation on the planet — the United States.

“Very well, Mr. McDonald. As you seem to already be aware, this is my assistant, Claire Richelieu. She will be your immediate superior. Do nothing unless Miss Claire says to do it. And please, stay out of the military’s way. Colonel Thomas seems to have his hands full at the moment,” Ollafson said as he placed the envelope with the letter into Claire’s hand. She looked at it and raised her lovely brow. Before she could place it in her bag McDonald reached out and took it from her, held his index finger to his lips, and said, “Shh.” He slipped the forged request into his own suit jacket just as the third member of their small academic team stepped up.

“Mr. McDonald, this is Benton Cromwell. He’s a specialist in Angelic Script,” Claire lied as she looked from the master spy of France to the British version of the same. The two men appraised each other and both immediately became suspicious.

“I don’t know if Colonel Thomas will like this,” Ollafson said as he scrutinized the two men he had never laid eyes on before. “But, we have little time to make a case for him.”

“Speaking of the colonel, I believe they are back. I pray there was not any bloodshed.”

McDonald turned his attention from Claire, who was angrily looking his way, to the front gate as the prisoners were slowly herded through. The men looked worse than they had before, but Claire noticed a radical difference in their demeanor. They looked far more rebellious than Thomas had described them in his telegram earlier that day. All had their wrists tied in front of them, and the mounted marines had weapons out and trained on the line of scraggly men. Thomas was riding in the front, looking angry and tired. He dismounted and gave Sergeant Major Dugan his instructions. He turned and removed his gauntlets and then faced Claire, Ollafson, and two men he had never met before.

“Colonel, this is Mr.—”

John Henry walked past the tall man extending his hand in greeting. He eyed Claire as he strode by and then, without acknowledging the professor or the two newcomers, John Henry walked through the warehouse doors and then vanished.

“Charming man,” McDonald said as he watched Thomas disappear.

“And he doesn’t grow on you either, so may I suggest, especially for you, stay clear of the man, as his ability to smell a rat may be far more advanced than even you know.”

McDonald turned and winked. “Until the time comes, dear Claire, I will be the epitome of proper manners.”

Claire could see the coldness in the captain’s eyes and felt the same chill she had when she’d spied the petrified samples. She then turned and watched as the prisoners, some bleeding from minor gunshot wounds, walked past them and into the warehouse. The last man through was the Rebel colonel, who looked at Claire and the others as if they were but children being led astray by a magical con man. His eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary on the face of Captain McDonald but they quickly moved off as Gray Dog, the last man in the sad progression, gently pushed Taylor through the door.

John Henry bounded up the steps of the warehouse and entered the semi-darkened office of the manager. The cigar smoke was thick and acrid. John Henry slapped his gantlets together and then slammed them onto the desk where a man was sitting with his feet propped up, his cigar ablaze and his face a mask of anger.

“Not a very auspicious start, would you say?”

John Henry held the beady eyes of Secretary of State Seward for a moment and then he reached out and took the bottle of whiskey from the desk. Before pouring he glanced into the far corner and saw Professor Ericsson sitting there. He nodded his head and then poured the drink.

“Did you expect an officer with West Point training to do something other than what he did?” John Henry didn’t wait for the secretary to answer his rhetorical question; he drank instead. “I’m surprised he waited so long. The man I knew before the war would have ended up with the entire train and ridden it all the way back to Richmond.”

“I am so pleased you found out your Rebel friend is still capable, but if he tries that in the Ottoman Empire it could get you all killed. The sultan wouldn’t be too friendly if he learned the truth about why we are the there. I’m not real sure on the sultan’s theological leanings, but I’m pretty much positive he would take offense if we waltzed in and stole a prized biblical artifact right out from under his bulbous nose. What do you think, Colonel?” Seward said as he examined the ash on his cigar and then angrily flicked the tip.

Thomas did not comment. He poured another drink as the door opened and Gray Dog led in Colonel Taylor, and then the Indian left without a word.

“Well, this must be the designer of this madness,” Taylor said as he looked at Seward and then over to the corner and the silent Ericsson.

John Henry placed his glass down on the desk and then roughly pulled Taylor to the side, and then to everyone’s shock, he pulled a bowie knife from his belt. He held it in front of his old friend for the longest time. Seward watched with interest while Ericsson was convinced he was about to see a man get eviscerated right in front of him. John Henry lowered the knife as Taylor smiled, and then simply cut the restraining rope from his wrists. He then poured Taylor some whiskey and gestured for him to have a chair in front of Secretary Seward. He sat, but not before draining the glass and then holding it out for a refill.

“The next attempt at escape, and the colonel has been instructed to line your men up and shoot them.” Seward held a hand up when Taylor started to comment. “You, sir, are under orders, and may I remind you that they are not my orders, nor Mr. Lincoln’s orders, nor even the colonel’s here. They are orders signed by the commander of all southern forces, Robert E. Lee. His orders, sir, and you will obey them or face the consequences. Your execution would not only be legal north of the Rappahannock, but south of it as well. Am I clear on this point?”

Instead of answering, Taylor turned the glass up once again and drained it. Again he held it up so Thomas could refill it as well as his own glass. Seward drained his own glass and placed his feet on the floor.

“One hundred eight sets of civilian clothes are onboard. Enough food to assist in fattening the prisoners up has been obtained from the stores of the U.S. Army.”

“Stop right there,” Taylor said as he sipped the glass of whiskey this time. “My men are not going to wear anything other than their own uniforms. After all, Mr. Secretary, we know what happens to soldiers who are caught out of uniform.” He downed the whiskey.

“Nonetheless, Colonel, you will wear civilian clothing. What you wear under that clothing is not a concern of mine.” Again he angrily flipped the ash from his cigar. “Now.” Seward stood and walked to the door and opened it. A young naval officer stepped in and stood at attention.

“Gentlemen, this is Captain Steven Jackson. He’ll be in command of your three-ship formation, including Mr. Ericsson’s barge. He will also command the marine element onboard the squadron. While on land you will still hold superiority, Colonel Thomas.”

The young man nodded as he took in the colonel and the shabbily dressed prisoner smiling at him. This irritated the naval commander to no end.

“We are ready to board the men now, sir. Weapons, foodstuffs, and other supplies have been loaded. We have confirmation that Argo is on station at Cape Hatteras and awaiting our tow.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Seward said, dismissing the exuberant naval officer.

“Sir!” Jackson replied as he turned, with one last curious look at Taylor and his irritating smile, and left the office.

“Eager boy,” Taylor said as he placed his glass on the desktop.

“Capable, from my understanding,” Seward said as he faced Thomas and Taylor.

“The point our Rebel friend was making, Mr. Secretary, is the fact that he is too young,” Thomas said as he stepped to the window and looked out on the line of men being issued their civilian clothing.

“I have worked with that young officer for three years, gentlemen,” Ericsson said, speaking for the first time. “He understands my designs and concepts better than your own admiralty. He knows how things work. Use his knowledge. As I said, he may be young, but that boy has the best grasp of naval tactics I have ever heard. Your own secretary of the navy has chosen this man special for what is to happen, and believe me, you will need him.”

Thomas shook his head and then ran a hand through his hair. “It seems I read in one of the eastern papers about this boy. Is he the officer that advocates the use of nothing but marines in a naval situation and not the army? That he wants the Marine Corps to expand to a fighting, offensive force?”

“Exactly,” Ericsson said. “Jackson by all accounts is as brilliant as yourself, Colonel Thomas, or so I have heard.” Ericsson bowed in deference to Thomas and Taylor.

“Brilliant?” Taylor laughed as he stood. “He accepts this assignment about chasing a myth, a mere legend, and you call this man brilliant?” Taylor stepped up to John Henry. “If he was that, Mr. Secretary, Mr. Ericsson, he wouldn’t have left his wife at home to be butchered by Indians, instead of taking them to Fort Bowie, would he?” he asked with a murderous look at Thomas, who took a menacing step forward.

“Sore point, I take it?” Seward tilted his head trying to get a read on the Confederate officer. “May I suggest you tread lightly on the subject of his wife, Colonel Taylor?”

“Would you?” Taylor said as he reached for the bottle of whiskey and without waiting for a glass took a long pull as he stood in the doorway. He hissed as the burning liquid made its way down his throat. “If his wife was also your sister?” He walked out after corking the bottle and tossing it to Ericsson.

Seward strode to the window and watched Taylor walking down the steps to join his men.

“That, I did not know.”

As John Henry stood beside Dugan and Gray Dog they heard a commotion behind them as men were led into the warehouse. There were more than a hundred of the most beautifully uniformed soldiers Dugan or Thomas had ever seen. Crisp and sharp creases were in their pants, and their shoes were shined to perfection. The soldiers looked a little intimidated as they saw the bearded and filthy men awaiting the issuing of civilian clothes.

A second lieutenant broke away from his men, who were now standing at parade rest, and he made his way over to John Henry.

“They have got to be the prettiest troopers I have ever laid my eyes on,” Dugan said as he removed a stub of cigar and watched the young officer move toward them.

“Colonel Thomas?” the boy asked as he stepped up and crisply saluted. John Henry returned the salute and then took the offered set of orders from the second lieutenant. “We have been issued orders to join your group, sir.” John Henry noticed the boy still had his hand up in salute. He stared at him until the hand finally came down. “We are ordered to complement the marines, sir.”

“Is that right?” Dugan said but quickly went silent when John Henry shot him a look.

“Yes, sir, one hundred men. We don’t know where we are going, but we are ready for anything.” He smiled and then looked at Dugan with pride, but the smile quickly vanished when his eyes fell on Gray Dog. He blinked and then turned to Thomas.

“Your equipment?” John Henry asked. “Lieutenant?”

“Parmentier, Lieutenant Chauncey Parmentier.” He was smiling as if he expected John Henry to fall over himself after the introduction. “You’ll be happy to know we have worked with the president on more than one occasion, sir.”

Thomas’s eyes widened as he heard this statement coming from the proud officer.

“Your equipment?” he asked again as he shot a look at Taylor, who had just joined them.

“The navy is already loading our equipment, sir,” he said with pride edging his answer.

“Who and what are you?” John Henry asked as he glanced at the lieutenant’s orders, looking desperately for an answer to his question to sort through the sick feeling he was starting to get.

“As I said, we have worked with the president many—”

“Lieutenant!”

“The Third Illinois Drum and Bugle detachment, just transferred from I Corps,” he said proudly as Thomas became physically ill.

The sounds inside the warehouse were suddenly no opposition to the new sound of laughter coming from Colonel Jessy Taylor as he slapped John Henry on the back before joining his men.

The lieutenant watched the strange officer leave and then turned to John Henry with a smile. “As I said, Colonel, we have worked with the president many times. Mostly at the White House, but I’m sure we can handle anything or play anywhere you want us to perform.” The smile was wide as the boy, who looked no more than eighteen, waited for the accolades on how lucky the expedition was to have such qualified men along.

The laughter of Taylor echoed in the emptiness of the warehouse.

“Well, I guess the guest list for this little shindig is now complete. I feel so much more confident that the Army has sent its absolute best to help us.” Dugan cursed, spit, and then walked off.

As the laughter of Taylor continued, John Henry was sorely tempted to pull out his revolver and shoot his old friend and brother-in-law in the back to shut him up.

The three warships sat at anchor as the early-morning fog rolled in. Crowded into a whaling boat, the passengers traveling with the expedition sat looking at the three older ships. The first, U.S.S. Carpenter, was already moving through the fog as she was off to rendezvous at Cape Hatteras with the U.S.S. Argo carrying the bulk of the railroading supplies and Ericsson’s gift to the expedition. She glided past and was soon swallowed up by fog. John Henry had met briefly with her young captain, Lieutenant Chauncey Abernathy. The lad had been no older than the young naval officer, Commander Jackson, who was in total command of the naval element of sailors and marines. He understood his orders. He would lay to the Argo, tie on, rig her sails, and hopefully by then the other two ships would have joined them.

The second ship was carrying horses, supplies, and cold-weather gear. This ship, the U.S.S. Chesapeake, would also carry the armaments intended for the expedition inside her large hull. Thomas had decided early on that only the marine guard would have access to sidearms during the voyage. Thomas knew Taylor, or should now that his old friend had tried to escape, and would never allow him the chance to do so again.

As they approached the third warship they saw her clean lines. It wasn’t like Stanton or Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles to give up a brand-new warship without what must have been immense pressure from Lincoln. So, with two older, thinner-hulled vessels they tossed in a sweetener, the U.S.S. Yorktown. She was so new that as the whaleboat tied up to her boarding ramp, her brass fittings sparkled in the weak oil lamps of the deck watch. The prisoners, with the exception of Colonel Taylor, were all aboard and already ensconced below.

First up the ramp to be greeted by the ship’s first officer was Claire Richelieu. The lieutenant held her gloved hand and assisted her down from the ramp. He saluted and half-bowed as he gestured for her to step behind him, where she was again greeted by the young man she had seen walking into the warehouse, Lieutenant Commander Jackson. He bowed with no real enthusiasm. Next was the man posing as Ollafson’s assistant, Steven McDonald. Claire watched the man vigorously jump the last three steps of the small ladder. He landed and then shook each of the two officers’ hands. He nudged up against Claire, who moved easily away from the Englishman. Assisting the professor down from the ladder was the Frenchman Renaud in his guise as student translator Benton Cromwell. To Claire, the man could not have chosen more ridiculous cover name for himself, as if the English name would lend credence to his tale of deceit. Pleasantries were exchanged as Sergeant Major Dugan gruffly made his way past the reception line and went to the railing and watched.

The last three were Gray Dog, Taylor, and finally John Henry Thomas. The two naval officers saluted John Henry and gestured for him to follow. The others all fell in line as they made their way belowdecks.

“Colonel, you will of course take my cabin,” Jackson said. “I expect you have ample business to cover during the voyage. The sergeant major and your … your” — he stumbled as he turned to look at Gray Dog — “your Indian can bunk next to him.”

“Gray Dog will sleep wherever he is comfortable, which may mean five or six places during the night,” Dugan said, cutting in abruptly as he and Gray Dog exchanged looks.

“We have a separate berth for Miss Richelieu. I hope she will find it accommodating. It’s an old tack room the boys made … well, they made it a bit more private,” Jackson said with an embarrassed smile. Taylor and John Henry exchanged looks that silently noted how very uncomfortable Jackson was around women, especially a woman onboard his ship. “Professor, we have a work area marked out for you and your assistants. You’ll be rather cramped, but it should do fine.” The naval officer stopped at the bottom of the stairs and waited for the others. “Now, I have the main cabin set up for you to brief my officers and those of the marine force commander, Lieutenant Parnell.”

Jackson waited for his second-in-command to open the door and they proceeded inside. A large table with three maps spread out on its surface greeted them. Each had a chair. Coffee was served by a black steward as they seated themselves. Introductions were made to all. John Henry eyed the two new assistants for the professor with nothing other than mild curiosity as he’d been told the students would be a bit younger. McDonald and Cromwell looked to be well into an academic life rather than mere students.

As the steward placed a china cup in front of Jessy Taylor, the two exchanged looks of curiosity. The large black steward had graying hair and had been in the navy most of his life. He knew a secessionist uniform when he saw one. Taylor winked at the shocked look on the black man’s face. He took the coffee without thanks. The steward continued to eye the Rebel colonel long after the others had been served.

John Henry stood over the three maps and looked them over. They showed the seas into which the three ships were headed, their separate dangers made apparent by markings Jackson had placed on them. The man at the middle of the table sipped his coffee and then looked over at Gray Dog, who sat on the deck in a darkened corner of the main cabin. Ollafson saw the Indian look his way and hold eye contact for the longest moment before he turned away. It was as though the colonel’s man could see right into Ollafson’s soul. To the old man it was quite unnerving to say the least.

Jackson went to the door and then gave the orders to his second-in-command to get the Yorktown under way.

“Gentlemen,” John Henry started and then stopped and dipped his black-haired head at Claire. “And lady. This is our route to Turkey. Commander Jackson’s latest naval intelligence briefing conducted this morning indicates that we should not encounter any interference from here to Spain. To get past Gibraltar without the British getting their hackles up will be a challenge, but our navy has done that a few times before.”

The no-nonsense Jackson bowed his head. “Yes, we run a regular game with the Brits. They look to harass us, we dodge them, and slip from one corner of the world to the next with them always a day late and a dollar short, as it were. The British have not given us any concern.”

Thomas was looking at the young and very arrogant Jackson. He understood the boy was steeped in naval history. Could recite Nelson’s entire battle plan from Trafalgar, even noting where his lordship made more than just one crucial mistake during the battle that could have finished off the French a full year earlier than they had. His entire family worshipped the sea, and this was why Jackson was so bitter being torn away from a war in which he had yet to contribute anything other than this mission to babysit a professor and his ridiculous theory.

“Good. I’ll hold you to that prediction. I don’t mind if we get caught going in, it’s the getting out that has me concerned. Gibraltar is one hell of a choke point.”

“Not only Gibraltar, Colonel,” Jackson said as he leaned over the map. “You have the Aegean and then the Bosphorus Strait to contend with. Now those are choke points that will cause us trouble.”

Thomas looked at the map as Colonel Taylor joined him. The Rebel’s finger went to the map’s depiction of the Bosphorus Strait. It was the natural choke point that led from the Dardanelles and into the Black Sea. He knew the plan called for the two warships with the equipment to transit the strait while the third, the Yorktown, would anchor at Constantinople to be greeted by the sultan himself.

On deck came the shouts of men as they lowered sails. The loud noise of the ship’s anchor sounded through the thick wood. Claire exchanged looks with the two spies she had managed to get onboard. Each seemed pleased with himself after the large deceit to get on the ship. She wanted to tell the others during the briefing that the fools didn’t have to dodge the British or the French. The two nations were well represented right here.

John Henry watched Taylor glide his finger along the map as the Yorktown slowly started to move toward the mouth of the Chesapeake. Finally the colonel looked up and into the blue eyes of Thomas. “Why, I’d just place a twenty-pounder on either side of the strait at its narrowest point and blast any ship trying to transit. That is, if I were the Turks.” The smile widened as Taylor took his seat.

“That is what the Argo is for,” Thomas said as he quickly moved on.

“All right John Henry, I’ll bite. Just what is the Argo?” Taylor asked as the other heads, with the exception of Ollafson and Claire, nodded in agreement.

John Henry smiled for the first time. “Since it probably won’t make the voyage without sinking straight to the bottom of the Atlantic or the Mediterranean, it really doesn’t matter. But if this crazy mission finds something on that little hill of a mountain, and we run into trouble on the high seas, without the Argo, we’ll be blown out of the water if our friends in Europe wish it so. But as I said, our secret weapon will more than likely sink long before she is needed.”

“Well thought out.” Taylor grinned facetiously and then slapped Ollafson on the knee. “Now that’s a Yankee plan if I ever heard one.”

“Gentlemen, we have gone over so much, but we have not touched on what it is we are after,” Ollafson said, rubbing his leg where Taylor had slapped it. He stood and located the map of Eastern Turkey.

“I thought we would cover that at another briefing, Professor,” Thomas said, eyeing the man, who refused to sit.

“In other words, Professor, old John Henry wants to go over it in private first, especially since he doesn’t believe in fairy tales, or your God any longer. Why cover something in a briefing the colonel refuses to believe is even there?”

John Henry looked at Taylor. The man was quickly learning the habit of pushing his former brother-in-law to the point of anger, where he knew John Henry became unreasonable. He wasn’t going to allow Taylor to get under his skin as he always had.

“Colonel Taylor, during the voyage you will drill your men. Get their weight and strength back. They are going to need it.” Thomas held eye contact with Taylor for the longest moment before the Reb nodded his head. The smile was still there.

“Mess Steward Grandee will be in charge of the prisoners’ supplementary meals. He has designed a heavy caloric intake for the duration of the voyage. The colonel’s men should be healthy for their little hike up a small mountain like Ararat.”

Taylor’s eyes went from Commander Jackson to the brown ones of the steward, who was in the process of winking at the Confederate colonel. Taylor suspected he should show the black man some respect since he could place anything into their meals. He would have to warn his men to keep social commentary to themselves while dining. He smiled again at the mess steward, who smiled back this time.

“Miss Richelieu, I expect you to keep belowdecks during any exercise time for the prisoners. I don’t know how much control Colonel Taylor has over his men after tonight, so we’ll just remove temptation from the equation.” He looked at Claire, who was not happy with the arrangement but understood the colonel’s chauvinistic ways. “And Commander, anytime our lady guest is out and about, she will require a two-man marine guard at all times.”

“May I ask when the shackles will be removed from my men?” Taylor asked, the smile no longer in place.

“As soon as we clear into deep water,” Thomas said as he looked over at Dugan, who stood beside the door at parade rest. “See to it, Sergeant Major.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Besides, if they cause trouble after that, they will be weighted down and thrown overboard.” He again looked at Taylor. “Is that perfectly clear?”

Jessy nodded. “I find it interesting that you named one of your ships the Argo,” Jessy said as the others rose to leave and to get some sleep.

“Yes? Why is that?” John Henry asked.

Taylor turned to others around the table as they stood. “John Henry wasn’t as astute in the classics as I was at the Point. I was always attentive to my studies while John was steeped in military affairs of studentship. But as you can see by my attire” — he gestured to his gray uniform — “I am a true romantic.”

“Your point, Colonel?” Ollafson said, wondering where the Rebel was going with this line of conversation. John Henry only waited with irritation as he retrieved his hat from the steward and walked toward the door. He stopped and turned.

“The point is, I’ve read Appollonius Rhodius. Have you?”

Ollafson shook his head.

“Well, Rhodius was a Greek poet. His Argonautica was required reading at the academy. I absorbed it.”

“Colonel, we are all tired,” Jackson said to hurry him along.

“What Colonel Taylor is trying to tell you is the fact that we will be traveling the very same route as the main character’s voyage in,” explained Thomas.

“Fascinating,” McDonald said, breaking his silence for the first time. “And who was this brave soul?”

“His name was Jason,” Thomas finished.

The others looked at each in turn as they recalled the tale from antiquity.

“Yes, and everyone here is what Rhodius called the Argonauts.”

“Imagine that!” said the Frenchman, who looked at Claire with a raised brow.

“Yes, the colonel is correct. We seek the Ark of Noah, although for Jason, it was a search for the Golden Fleece.”

They all looked at Claire, who surprised them with her classical knowledge.

Taylor laughed and then finally stood from his chair and made his way to the door where he awaited the sergeant major to open it. He turned.

“Each as fictitious as the next.” He smiled, bowed, and then left the cabin.

John Henry watched him leave as the others filed out behind him. Only Claire remained for a moment as she pulled off her gloves.

“Tell me you believe the professor,” she asked as John Henry held the door for her.

“I believe in very little, Miss Richelieu, very little.”

“A man who can’t believe in magic anymore,” she said as she moved past him into the companionway, “is really kind of sad.”

Thomas watched her go and wondered what she meant by magic. He shook his head and then saw Gray Dog rise from the shadows. He looked at the colonel and then after the lady.

“Not magic, John Henry, but bad medicine waits for you on the black mountain.”

With that, Thomas watched him leave and wondered if everyone he knew were living in the same world as himself.

In the world he knew, there was no magic. There was only struggle and death.

9

John Henry stood upon the quarterdeck of the Yorktown as she speedily made her way to the selected rendezvous point with the Argo. He was looking through the leather-bound journal he had been ordered to keep by the president. As he reviewed the pages he had written, he came to realize that absolutely no one other than Professor Ollafson, and possibly his assistants, believed in what they were attempting to do. He had yet to commit his opinion into the official record of the voyage. While he firmly believed they would find nothing on the slopes of Ararat, while his written words would undoubtedly confirm his nonbelief in the tales of the Bible, he still firmly believed in Lincoln.

He closed the journal after entering the morning’s events. Thus far the prisoners had behaved, although at several points since departure they’d had to separate several Rebels from their marine guards and the sailors of the huge warship. The animosity between North and South belligerents was readily apparent.

As he watched the men below, the sailors were going about their business and steering a wide berth around the Confederates, who were washing and mending their old and worn uniforms. John Henry had learned that Taylor and his men were adamant that they would wear their Rebel clothing anytime they thought they would have to fight anyone — that was including John Henry and his men. Until then they would reluctantly wear the civilian clothing given out to them by the war department.

“I have been meaning to ask you, sir, how in the world did the president convince you to go on this wild-goose chase?”

John Henry had not realized that Captain Jackson had strolled up behind him. The young naval officer was smartly uniformed even in the harsh heat of the afternoon sun. Even his two-cornered hat was perfectly adjusted to his head. Thomas looked the officer over and then decided it was time for he and the naval element to talk.

“I don’t think about the orders I am given, Captain Jackson.”

“I assure you, sir, neither do I, but I am rarely given orders this ambiguous. But then again, maybe the navy explains its orders far more clearly to its officers than the president to you. No offense, of course.”

John Henry turned away and continued watching Taylor and his men as they tended to their old uniforms after the backhanded comment by a studious Jackson.

“As I said, I carry out whatever orders I am given.”

“Is that what happened at Antietam?”

“So, you are a student of land engagements as well as sea tactics?” John Henry asked without facing the twenty-eight-year-old officer.

“Only in the sense of history. My expertise is in the development of naval tactics in coordination with land forces, as I believe that is the future of America’s military.”

“So I understand.” Thomas finally turned to face the commander of the small flotilla. “In that frame of context, I am sure that is why Secretary Welles selected you to join us. When and if the time comes, I hope the secretary’s confidence in your abilities is warranted.”

Jackson placed his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels, expecting the army officer to answer his inquiry about Antietam. He didn’t. Jackson was about to ask again, not understanding the colonel’s hesitancy to answer a question about which every military man in the country had a personal opinion. The hatred shown by General McClellan toward Thomas was legend. One man never showed up the other in front of witnesses. And most assuredly one did not call out his commanding officer on a charge of cowardice and dereliction of duty. He was about to broach the subject again when a call was heard from high above.

“Ship ahoy!” came the call from the lookout in the crow’s nest a hundred feet above. “Ten degrees off the starboard bow!”

John Henry and Jackson both looked. There she was. The U.S.S. Carpenter had Argo already in tow. Both vessels were rigged for sail and were under way.

“Captain Abernathy is right on schedule,” Jackson said as he looked through the telescope in his hands. “I calculate they are at a respectable eight knots. Not bad at all.” He lowered the spyglass and then turned to his first officer. “Mr. Harvey, set all sails and let’s get moving, shall we?”

The officer saluted and went out to give the order to deploy every sail the Yorktown had.

“Did Ericsson design the Argo to ride so low in the water?” John Henry asked as he lowered his own field glasses.

Jackson gave out a short laugh. “We learned from the battle of Hampton Roads, Colonel, that Mr. Ericsson is never totally sure about anything. And the Argo is one of those things.”

“Well, I hope she doesn’t founder before we may need her,” Thomas continued as he again raised his glasses and studied the two ships. The Argo was much wider of beam than her tow, the Carpenter. However, she rode in the water well below her high-water mark and it looked like any rough seas would sink their ace in the hole.

“As I see it, Colonel Thomas, she could go to the bottom right now and we would never miss her, simply because there is nothing on that mountain to find, thus, nothing to protect or defend,” Jackson said and then moved off to motivate his men to hurry.

John Henry heard the doubt in the captain’s statement and he wondered if his own attitude was festering so much that it was starting to spill over into the thoughts of the men under his command.

“All right, you Rebs gather up your washing and your knitting, time to go below. Its noontime and you know that our lady passenger has the deck at noon. Time for chow anyway,” Dugan said as he started herding the men down below. Dugan stopped in front of Taylor, who glanced up at John Henry. The sergeant major eventually did the same when he saw Taylor was ignoring his command. John Henry shook his head and then Dugan let out a frustrated but silent curse and then left the colonel on deck. Taylor turned and made his way to the quarterdeck and Thomas.

“You think my men don’t have a modicum of decorum, do you? I assure you the boys treat women in the south as well as yours do in the north. Miss Richelieu has no reason to fear them. Besides, John Henry, that woman looks capable of fending off any suitors that may crop up on this little trip.”

Thomas turned and faced Taylor. This was the first moment they’d had together since his betrayal the night before. The escape attempt was still fresh in the colonel’s mind.

“The order of exclusion stands, Colonel.”

“Colonel? Are you that put out at me that you forget we were once friends, and even related?”

“I guess there are too many years and far too many battles to return to old times, Colonel. After last night I realized that. The order stands.”

Taylor raised a brow and then turned and saw the object of their conversation step onto the main deck. She was followed by Ollafson and his two assistants, who seemed to irritate the old Swede to no end. Thomas’s eyes were on these two odd ducks and not Claire Richelieu.

“She is something, though, isn’t she, John Henry?” Taylor asked, thinking Thomas was studying Claire.

Thomas was taken by surprise by Taylor’s misinformed assumption. He shook his head and then went to the small set of steps that led to the main deck and offered Miss Richelieu an extended hand.

“Thank you,” she said, not allowing Thomas to assist. “If I’m expected to climb a mountain in the early onset of a Turkish winter, I think I can negotiate these ten steps, sir.”

Thomas smiled and then stepped out of the way with a fingertip to the brim of his western-style hat. He laughed when the freshening wind of the speeding ship blew the large purple feather garnishing her wide-brimmed hat into her face.

“Don’t let my man Gray Dog see that little item. He has a thing for fancy feathers.”

“Is that right?” she said as she went to the railing to enjoy the cool air sweeping the deck.

“Yes, he just can’t imagine the strange eagle it came from, being purple and all.”

Claire turned and for the first time John Henry saw the woman smile.

“So be careful. That coyote hat he wears used to belong to Mrs. Lincoln.”

Both Thomas and Claire turned to see Taylor, who had joined them at the railing.

Claire didn’t say anything. She only looked at Taylor and saw that there had at one time been something between these two men. She had heard the conversations below from the whispered voices of the crew and some prisoners. She studied the Confederate colonel, half-smiled, and then returned to face the calm seas.

“So, from what I understand, you’re the lady who speaks in the language of the angels?”

Claire smiled without turning. “Please, I only speak in the tongues of archangels, Colonel Taylor. Never, ever just an everyday, ordinary kind. That would be quite beneath me.”

Taylor laughed and then stepped up beside the woman with the flaming red hair. John Henry silently moved away to join Professor Ollafson, who had his hat off and was also taking in the coolness after so long below going over expedition planning.

“Having any trouble below with the men? I mean, the close quarters and all?”

Ollafson turned and faced the colonel. He smiled and then held out his hand to shake. Thomas hesitated, wondering if the professor even remembered who he was. He knew he was wearing his cavalry uniform and not his dress, but he didn’t think it was that much of a difference. He wondered if maybe the professor was on the short side of senility. He shook the old man’s hand anyway.

“No, no trouble at all. The crew has been very helpful.”

Thomas released his hand and nodded at the two men who had joined them. Neither Cromwell nor McDonald offered a hand in greeting and Thomas was at least thankful for that.

“My meaning was the prisoners, Professor.”

“Oh, them.” Ollafson looked uncomfortable as he glanced around. He then leaned into John Henry. “Those men scare me, I’m afraid. I have never seen Rebel soldiers up close before. The last two days have been eye-opening, to say the least.”

“Well, in the end you will discover that they are only men like you and I, Professor.” John Henry looked at the two men next to him. “Gentlemen, will you excuse us for a brief moment so I can have a word with Professor Ollafson?”

Both men dipped their heads and then silently moved away. Only Cromwell turned back momentarily, catching himself before anyone could notice his curiosity. The man next to him, McDonald, had not noticed anything.

“Professor, how well do you know your two new assistants?”

Ollafson removed a handkerchief and then wiped his sweating brow as the sea and wind assisted in cooling him down.

“Not at all, I’m afraid. They seem to be knowledgeable enough on the subject matter at hand, but in answer to your question, Colonel, I have never seen either of them before. But my assistant Claire has, and I trust her implicitly.”

“Implicitly enough not to trust her with your interpretation of the petrified wood and its warning before our meeting in the capital?”

Ollafson didn’t answer the second inquiry as he stopped wiping his brow and fixed Thomas with his eyes. “That has nothing to do with trust, Colonel, I assure you. It has to do with keeping my friends and my colleagues alive and breathing. In case you weren’t informed, my young assistant was murdered in New York just a few days ago. So forgive me for keeping certain facts close to the vest, as they say.”

Thomas was now about to explode. He faced the professor and the old man could see Thomas was not a man who liked surprises.

“Why in the hell wasn’t I notified about this murder of your student?”

Ollafson was hesitant to answer. He looked out to sea toward home and then decided it was too late for Thomas to turn the ships back to port.

“I … I … well, Colonel, I was afraid the expedition would have been delayed or that I would not be allowed to participate.”

“For God’s sake, Professor, you lost a kid to a murder and you’re worried that you would not get to go?” Thomas faced the opposite direction and saw that his loud exclamation had grabbed the attention of not only Captain Jackson, but Claire, Taylor, and the others. They watched from afar. John Henry forcibly calmed himself before turning.

“You will never keep anything from me again. If I’m to get everyone home from this I need help. Do not get my men killed because you are afraid to say something. Is that clear, Professor?”

Turning even whiter than he had been, Ollafson nodded his head in silence as he witnessed the wrath of John Henry for the first time. Thomas turned and left.

“Well, I never heard the professor so cowed before. Your Colonel Thomas must be a man of deep thought.”

“Well, maybe not deep thought, but he can scare the hell out of people when he wants.”

Before Taylor could comment on Thomas’s demeanor further, a brown hand reached down seemingly from nowhere and plucked the purple feather from Claire’s hat. The hat actually lifted from her head for a brief instant and then settled as the feather was freed. She looked up just in time to see Gray Dog disappear into the ship’s rigging above their heads.

“You thieving bastard!” Dugan called as he returned from the lower decks. “You give that back!”

Claire readjusted her hat and then looked from Sergeant Major Dugan to Taylor. “I must say one thing — this little odyssey is going to be interesting.”

“I suspect so, even with the warnings on those maps belowdecks.”

“What warnings?” Claire asked as she removed the hat for good, exposing her curled and coiffed red hair.

“The ones that describe the legend about the place we are going.”

“I don’t follow you,” she said as she stabbed her hatpin into the hat.

“The warnings that say, here there be dragons.”

She watched as Taylor removed his gray hat and then bowed as he left. She tried not to take Colonel Taylor seriously, but then realized she didn’t know exactly what to expect out there even with his bad joke. She looked to the east and shuddered.

“Here there be dragons.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe not dragons, but something far worse.”

The three ships, with the Argo in her disguise as a barge in tow, slowly made their way toward the one place on Earth God had placed off limits to mankind — Mount Ararat.

It was one thirty A.M. and the Yorktown was battened down for the night. The shipboard watch kept their eyes mostly on the horizon, looking for lights of another vessel in their vicinity, but every now and again they would cast wary eyes on the deck below. Thus far the Confederate prisoners had been well behaved, but a warning from the army colonel persuaded the naval crew to be aware. He suspected their strength gain from a steady diet would tend to make Colonel Taylor’s men more apt to attempt a takeover of the Yorktown, and for that reason the topside watch was armed with pistols. Thomas was noting this in his journal for the president when a light knock sounded on the door to the commander’s cabin.

“It’s open,” came the curt response as he closed his journal and then quickly rolled up the map of Eastern Turkey he had been studying. The door opened cautiously.

“Excuse me. I saw your lamps were still burning. May I have a word?” Claire Richelieu said as she poked her head into the opening.

John Henry didn’t respond other than to nod his head. He started to stand but Madame Richelieu waved him down. “We don’t need that while in transit, or no man would ever get any work done,” she said seriously as she entered and closed the door.

John Henry remained standing. “Please leave the door ajar, Miss.”

“Oh, yes, I guess we should show some propriety.”

“Tongues wag even more on naval vessels, Madame.”

“Yes, I suppose they would. May I have a word?” she said as she stepped farther into the large cabin. John Henry noticed she was absent the large hat she tended toward and her collar was unbuttoned above the tight bodice of her dress. For the first time in a trick of lighting Thomas could now see why Claire wore the large hats. Running along her cheek to her jawline was a thin scar that was usually hidden by a veil on her hat. In the light of the cabin she didn’t seem to care if Thomas noticed the scar or not. She stood before him silently as he started to ease himself back into the chair. He quickly ran a hand through his dark hair and then studied Claire for the longest thirty seconds of the woman’s life.

“Madame, I believe I gave explicit orders for you to be accompanied at all times by either a uniformed Union officer or any of the naval personnel. Never are you to roam belowdecks at any time. Is that now clear?” His blue eyes bore into her hazel ones and she didn’t flinch.

“Colonel, I assure you I need no babysitter on this voyage.”

“Nonetheless.”

She half-bowed her head in compliance. “I acquiesce to the man’s world we live in.”

“Bow to whatever you would like, Madame. Stay clear of the prisoners.” John Henry started to place the maps back into their proper order and then stood to unbutton his coat as he turned to Claire. “Now, what can I help you with?” He hung up the coat and then undid his loosened bow tie.

“Well, I’m afraid I came to see you about, well, you.”

John Henry stopped all motion and then looked at the small woman with the blazing red hair, which now hung loose around her shoulders. She didn’t look cowed at all and stood straight while keeping her eyes on him waiting for a reaction.

“Now you’ve seen me. What can I help with?”

She watched as he returned to the desk, frustrated at delaying his sleep.

“I believe you are going to get most of these men killed, Colonel.”

“I suspect I may, Miss. But in the interest of clarity, in which context do you place your meaning?” He took the closed journal and placed it in the uppermost drawer of the desk and then he looked at her. His expression revealed he really wasn’t pleased with the statement she had made.

“You, sir, are not taking this expedition seriously. Your behavior will spread to the members of this voyage and corrupt it. That will be very dangerous for you and for all of us.”

John Henry did not respond in the least. His eyes remained on Claire.

Claire stepped farther into the room and the lamp from the desk clearly defined the woman’s features. Thomas could see that she was quite beautiful in an academic way. She was a confident person and he immediately knew her to be a woman like his deceased wife. Headstrong and opinionated.

“While you may not believe in the tale, you must take this curse seriously. The professor is not exaggerating the losses to previous attempts at Ararat. Many men have paid for not giving history credit. While you may think this is a Bible tale, I assure you, Colonel Thomas, it is much more than that.”

“Madame, I take everything seriously when it comes to protecting my men under any circumstance. However, that being said, the only dangers I believe we face are human in nature. This little excursion into Turkey could cause problems that no one foresaw other than the president, and for the first time I cannot agree with his method of reaching out to the South after the war. It will take more than a biblical legend to heal this country. So you see, my attention in this matter is solely dedicated to getting all men home from this, North or South.”

“I just need to ask, Colonel, if you hate this mission so badly, why did you ever accept it? From my understanding of the meetings held between Mr. Lincoln and Professor Ollafson, this was strictly voluntary. So why?”

“You are not militarily trained, Madame. You never ask an officer why he does something. I invoke that unwritten rule now, except to tell you that I would go to the ends of the earth for the president, and leave it at that.”

“I was speaking with Colonel Taylor. He seems to be a very astute and intelligent man.”

“Yes, he is. Very much so. And I may add he is one of the most dangerous men in the country. There was more than one reason why we brought the colonel along.”

“And what was that?” she asked, watching John Henry’s jaw clench, relax, and then clench again.

“He thinks faster in a saddle than any man I have ever known. He would be a detriment to the Northern cause if he were ever to escape and rejoin the fight. You may not have been briefed on this, but I will inform you anyway. Colonel Taylor was pegged early on by Robert E. Lee to become a commander in the western fight, which would have spelled disaster for General Grant in Tennessee. So I brought him along to stop that scenario from ever taking place. President Lincoln thought so too, since he was picked for the mission not long after I was selected.”

“I understand you two attended West Point together.”

John Henry just looked at the woman from Harvard and didn’t say anything.

“And that he is, or was, your brother-in-law.”

“May I help you with some other … problem?”

Claire knew she would get no more from John Henry that night.

“Yes, you have answered everything, whether you wanted to or not. Just do not underestimate the dangers we face to the men, Colonel, because any carelessness on their part could turn this little fairy tale, as you call it, into a very real nightmare.” Claire turned and left the cabin.

John Henry watched her go and then slumped down in his chair. He knew the scholar was right about one thing. He could not show his doubts in the presence of anyone ever again. That would make men sloppy in their duties. He just wanted to get there and convince the president there was absolutely nothing on that damned mountain other than the glacier they would have to climb. He shook his head and closed his eyes, and before he knew it he was fast asleep.

Claire stopped by amidships and saw the black mess steward was up early, or up late, she didn’t know which. He was making coffee for the midnight watch when she tapped lightly on the small galley kitchen’s door.

“Oh, goodness, Missy, you shouldn’t be up roaming around at this time of the morning,” he said as he moved quickly to the door, wiping his hands on a white apron.

“Couldn’t sleep. I smelled that wonderful coffee of yours.”

He immediately went to the enclosed stove and quickly poured her a tin cup full of the rich coffee. She took it with a smile and then sipped.

“Really, Missy, belowdecks on a warship is no place for a lady like yourself.” The steward moved off to tend to a batch of biscuit dough and started kneading it.

“Yes, our intrepid Colonel Thomas has told me as much, time and time again.”

The black man smiled as he worked. “His reputation is one that even we boys in the navy have heard about, yes, ma’am. He’s a tough hickory nut to crack, almost as tough as Captain Jackson. Those two together can make for an explosive mix.”

“I’m sure they are mixing up famously.” Claire took one more sip of coffee and then reached out and handed the steward the cup. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“Now, now, you hold up and I’ll make sure you get back to your cabin.”

“No, you have work to do. I assure you, I’ll be fine,” she said, smiling as she turned and made her way down the darkened passage. She could hear the prisoners one deck below snoring and coughing, but tried to pay the sounds no mind.

She eased around a barrel of flour and was almost to the door when a rough and smelly hand closed around her mouth. She was pulled into the darkness next to the hull and then forced down. Her eyes widened when she saw three men in civilian clothing. One was pawing at her bodice and ripping at her blouse while two others held her down to the damp deck. The man straddling her was bearded and his eyes were wild. She had seen him numerous times when the prisoners’ exercise period had ended and they passed on the lower decks. She had noticed the way he had looked at her. That should have been warning enough to heed the colonel’s words about putting desperately lonely men in a position where they reacted and didn’t think before doing something stupid. The man was ripping her blouse and painfully grabbing her. The two other men holding her down looked to be frightened. She thought she could take advantage of that. Her eyes were pleading with the two men, who looked as if they would rather be somewhere else at that very moment.

Suddenly there was a roar from the darkness behind the three men. The next thing she knew, one of the men jerked wildly and then she saw his body being lifted straight up from where he had been, while the other two soldiers’ eyes went wide. It was the black mess steward who had come to help. He brought a ham-sized fist down upon the top of the first man’s head. He fell limp as a caught squirrel. Now the black man looked frightened at what he had done. The attacker, who was still squeezing and battering her upper chest, failed to help his companions because he was so intent on what he was doing.

The second man disappeared suddenly as a war whoop sounded against the hull. Gray Dog was there. He had a knife to the third man’s throat, holding him in place by the sheer look of bloodlust in the Indian’s eyes.

A gun was deliberately cocked right behind the ear of the man who straddling Claire, and his groping motions quickly stopped. Claire’s eyes were wide as the man slowly turned his head and saw the cocked Colt pistol aimed right at him. John Henry Thomas was increasing the pressure on the trigger as his temper was close to boiling over. The mess steward and Gray Dog had the other two men well in hand. Claire felt the pressure leave her mouth and that was when she tasted the blood flowing from her cheeks where the man’s fingers had dug in hard. She spit and then slapped the man across the face. He was attempting to smile at John Henry and knew immediately that the colonel was going to kill him right then and there. He felt the pistol waver minutely as the pressure on the trigger grew.

“John Henry!” came a voice from behind him, and then that was quickly followed by another.

“Colonel Thomas, stop!”

Claire saw the blue eyes of the colonel slowly start return to normal as he eased the hammer down on the Colt. He grimaced when he realized how close he had come to killing the man without a word being spoken.

Thomas finally stood and slapped the man out of his way with the barrel of the Colt. He helped Claire to her feet as she wiped blood from her mouth.

Soon Captain Jackson, resplendent in a dressing gown, had his pistol trained on the three men as Gray Dog pushed the second man forward roughly and the mess steward pulled the groggy third to his feet. Jessy Taylor was there also, having heard the commotion from where he had curled up for the night. The three assailants had passed him in the dark and had awakened him. He was furiously glaring at his three men. Jackson reassured the steward, who was afraid he would be in trouble for nearly killing one of the prisoners.

“Captain, take these men to the brig. They’ll stand charges of assault,” John Henry said as he looked from Claire to Taylor, expecting one or the other to protest.

Jackson, with the aid of five other sailors who had come belowdecks after hearing the commotion, moved the three men out. Before they could leave Taylor took the one man by the collar and stopped him. It was Corporal Loudermilk. Taylor should have known it would be him.

“You’re lucky if they don’t hang you tomorrow,” he said, slamming his fist into the man’s collarbone as he pushed him away. Loudermilk cursed as four navy crewmen led him roughly to the brig.

Jackson eased the hammer of his Colt down and then attended to Claire, who was leaning against the wet hull.

“Please, Captain, I’m fine.” She looked up into the steward’s eyes. “Thank you.” She looked at Thomas, who seemed as if he were about to say something kind, but then his demeanor turned hard once more.

The steward didn’t respond; he only looked at Jackson, who nodded that he could return to the kitchen. He nodded at Claire once and then sadly moved away.

“Colonel, I … I…,” she started, but was soon cut off by John Henry.

“I assume there will be no more timely points being made about you being unescorted belowdecks?”

Claire only nodded and then burst past the men in the companionway. She had expected a little more concern from the colonel. Instead she got nothing but a blast of iciness.

John Henry watched her go and then turned on Taylor.

“They will hang in the morning. I suggest you learn to control those men left in your command, Colonel.”

“You are not hanging anyone. Those men will be brought back to the States for trial. There will be no summary executions of any of my men. We will handle their discipline ourselves, the southern way.”

John Henry smirked. He then looked at Jackson, who was watching the confrontation with trepidation. He didn’t need this volatile mix of emotions on the high seas.

“Twelve hundred hours, Captain. I believe you navy men call it captain’s mast?”

“Well, there is more to it than that, Colonel,” Jackson said as he stared into John Henry’s hard features.

“You are not hanging those men,” Taylor repeated as he took a menacing step forward.

John Henry matched the move with his own forward step. Jackson saw what was coming and then he stepped between the two army officers, looking ridiculous in his nightcap and gown.

“Gentlemen, if I may remind you, we are on a warship full of angry men. May I suggest we take this up in the morning to allow heated tempers to cool?”

John Henry, with one last look at Taylor, moved away toward his cabin. “Twelve hundred hours, Captain. Every man aboard ship is to be present for the execution.”

Taylor turned on Captain Jackson. “You know what will happen after that, don’t you?” Taylor moved off past the stunned naval officer, who saw disaster approaching his ship’s horizon.

The Yorktown’s company would not sleep well the rest of that long night.

At eleven thirty the next morning the marines were the first to gather. Lieutenant Parnell had placed four sharpshooters into the high rigging of the Yorktown as she made her way over the calm sea. The Chesapeake had been signaled from a mile off to come alongside to witness the punishment. The crews of both ships had never seen anything like what was happening on a United States ship of war. The Carpenter and her tow, the Argo, were too far back to participate in the execution of the Rebel accused. The crew of the Chesapeake had lined her railings and were high in the ship’s rigging to witness the army colonel’s stern mandate.

Captain Jackson had issued to John Henry his official protest in writing over the hastily tried prisoners. The trial had taken place early that morning with a panel consisting of Thomas, Jackson, Dugan, Parnell, and Taylor. Colonel Jessy Taylor was the only abstention on the panel. He had angrily stormed out after the trial’s only witness was silenced when she tried to describe the assault as less than what it was, only for the sake of holding this motley crew together for as long as possible. They all knew it had been attempted rape, and one man had already paid for the indiscretion by having the top of his head crushed in by the mess steward’s blow. When Claire Richelieu said that she was never actually frightened of the three men and that she was of the opinion the attempted rape could have been avoided, Colonel Thomas silenced her, and then excused her.

Taylor knew John Henry had already made up his mind to use his three men as a harsh example to the other men. After Taylor had stormed out of the proceedings and after Claire was excused, it was Jackson, this stiff-nosed naval commander who brooked no breach of regulations from anyone, who spoke in defense of the accused.

“As the naval representative in charge of seagoing operations, I must disapprove of your actions, Colonel. This event can only further separate the men even more than they are now. My crew has already been in several fights with the Confederate prisoners since this happened. The marines are walking around as if it had been their own mothers or wives that had been attacked. I implore you to keep these men in the brig until they can stand courts-martial when we return home.”

Thomas was silent as he wrote the official verdict in his journal. He finally looked up when Jackson had completed his tirade.

“Sergeant Major Dugan, please be sure to enter the captain’s statement into the record.” He looked at Jackson and his eyes were cold. “Duly noted for the record, Captain.”

Jackson grimaced but remained silent as he stood and left the cabin.

“Lieutenant Parnell, you haven’t said much,” Thomas said as he eyed the young marine officer.

The well-dressed marine stood and looked at Dugan and then Thomas. “I, sir, am a United States Marine. What those men did deserved summary execution. However, with that being said, sir, my opinion is in line with Captain Jackson’s. Now is not the time, Colonel. I have the overall picture to look at, and frankly, sir, we are going into a semi-hostile empire with men that cannot be trusted as of now. Just think how loyal to our cause they will be after we hang three of their compatriots.”

“These men are not compatriots, they are not even Confederates any longer, young lieutenant. They are members of a small regimental combat team that is extremely short handed. They are all under my command.”

“I understand that, Colonel, but—”

“That is all, Lieutenant. You may return to your duties.”

The marine was caught off guard as he’d been fully expecting this man to hear him out. His reputation as an even-keeled officer and one who always took care of his men was a distant memory now that he had seen the coldness of Thomas up close. He didn’t salute as he left the cabin. John Henry watched him leave and then tossed his pencil down on the closed journal.

“Why didn’t you tell them what you’re up to, Colonel Darlin’? It would make for a lot less tension in the next few minutes.”

“If I had to stop and explain to my officers every object lesson it would be no less than my explaining everything to you over and over again. These officers have to realize that I need them to pay attention to what we are about to do.”

“Just sayin’, Colonel, you’re taking a risk. That Colonel Taylor, your friend, he’s gonna bear watching. He won’t take this lying down.” Dugan gathered up the minutes of the panel and then saluted as he moved out of the cabin.

John Henry heard the naval drummer calling all hands to stations to witness punishment. He closed his eyes and hoped he could keep the Reb prisoners in line until his harsh point was made. He lightly whistled and then he heard the noise behind him.

Gray Dog appeared from the shadows and John Henry spoke without turning.

“You know what to do,” was all he said as the Comanche vanished without speaking.

The crewmen of the Yorktown were all lined up in a square surrounding the prisoners. The Rebs were all in an angry mood. Their words to the navy men and marines were filled with hatred. Thomas, in his short time standing on the quarterdeck, had seen several instances of marines pushing the men a little too hard to stay in place. He hoped the situation would be calmed after the festivities of the afternoon were complete. The drums continued their sorrowful beat as the three prisoners were led onto the main deck and then up a makeshift platform to face their executioners.

Thomas’s attention was drawn toward the back of the gathered Rebel formation as men started pushing and shouting. Thomas saw the mess steward as the big black man made his way up from the kitchens. The man who had gained the respect of the Confederates by supplying them with the best meals they had had in more than two years had instantly become the face of their imprisonment. Most of the southerners had never seen a black man raise a hand to a white man in their lifetimes.

The last people to take to the upper deck were Claire, McDonald, Ollafson, and the ever-silent Benton Cromwell. Taylor was the very last to take his place at the head of his formed men. His eyes bored into John Henry’s. Thomas didn’t flinch as he saw Taylor looking at him as the accused were led up the four steps to the wooden platform. Loudermilk’s eyes pleaded with Taylor to stop this from happening, but he knew the colonel would never stop the hanging. He had seen that in Taylor’s demeanor last night when Thomas had threatened to shoot him before the hanging could even take place. No, there would be no sympathy for him.

The drums stopped as Sergeant Major Dugan placed hoods over the three soldiers’ bearded faces. This caused a stir inside the prisoner ranks. Taylor ordered them to calm down and to stand at attention.

“All hands present to witness punishment, Captain,” the first officer said to Jackson, saluted, and then moved away, but not before eyeing John Henry and his stern visage.

Dugan took a step forward and faced the gathered prisoners and crew. He withdrew the verdict from his breast pocket.

“For the offense of assault on an unarmed civilian and for attempted rape of same, Harold J. Loudermilk, corporal; Parsons Whitney, private; and Philip S. Siegfried, corporal, Army of Northern Virginia, have been found guilty by United States courts-martial to be hung by the neck until they are dead. Execution to be carried out this day, the third day of October, in the year of our Lord, 1864.” Dugan replaced the guilty verdict and then without hesitation, as if the act itself would be forgiven if done quickly, he placed the ropes around the necks of the three men.

“This has to stop, now!”

All eyes went to Jessy Taylor, who had taken a few steps toward the raised quarterdeck. Several marines headed him off with their bayonetted weapons at the ready.

“If Colonel Taylor takes one more step, he is to be shot,” Thomas said as his eyes made contact with Taylor. Again John Henry nodded his head toward Dugan. Then he quickly looked above him and into the rigging. He wasn’t looking at the marine sharpshooters there, but was hoping beyond hope that Gray Dog had made it into position in time.

Dugan was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way, like in the days back at County Cork in Ireland. He would have to push the three men off the front of the hastily built hanging scaffold. This he did quickly before Colonel Taylor got himself killed. The men dropped off the edge and the moan from the prisoners was audible and angry as the men started strangling to death, as the fall was not of adequate length to snap their necks. The men were kicking wildly.

The mass of prisoners tried to move forward through the pointed marine bayonets. They were prodded back into position. Suddenly the three men dropped free and hit the deck with a thud. The three ropes had been cut at the last possible moment. Taylor was the first to see the three men, who had been only moments from death, struggling to gain their feet, the ropes still knotted around their necks.

John Henry and Captain Jackson looked up in time to see Gray Dog maneuver through the thick sail lines of the rigging until he easily slid down onto the upper quarterdeck. He nodded at John Henry. The prisoners slowly realized the three accused had been spared. They watched Taylor for their lead on what to do. As for the colonel, he only stared up at Thomas. He then moved to his fallen men and removed the ropes. He pulled them to a standing position and then snatched their hoods off. He angrily made them face the colonel, who was staring down at them. Jackson was there also with a look of amazement on his face.

“Sergeant Major Dugan, not for the record.”

“Sir!” Dugan said loudly, turning and looking at the prisoners, who stood in stunned silence behind him.

“The sentence of the three prisoners is hereby suspended. The matter will be taken up again when we return home. Their cooperation and performance during this mission will determine if this matter will continue to its natural conclusion.”

“I have to admit, your methods are a bit strange, Colonel, but effective,” Jackson said as he took in a still-silent Thomas. Jessy was still fuming at not being let in on John Henry’s ploy.

“I need every man I have under my command, Captain Jackson. Killing them piecemeal will only weaken us at a time when we need the strength of all. No, executions can wait. Let’s see how the prisoners react.”

“Yes, I—”

“Ship ahoy!”

Jackson froze. He looked up into the high rigging and shouted, “Where away?”

“Ten degrees off the starboard bow, closing fast!” came the loud call.

Jackson went to the railing and then raised his glass to the east.

“Who?” Thomas asked.

“Can’t be good, coming from the wrong direction. The Carpenter and Argo are three miles astern. Whoever this is, is sailing at us from the east.” Jackson looked at John Henry. “Europe.” He again raised the glass to his eye. “Any identification?” he called up into the rigging.

Silence greeted his shouted call. He lowered the glass from his eye in frustration.

“French flag!” came the shouted return. “Man-o’-war.”

“Damn, I had hoped we would have made it to Gibraltar before we picked up a tail,” he hissed. He again lowered the glass and looked at Thomas.

“Orders, Colonel,” he said.

“Do what you would normally do, Commander. We’re only sailing to Constantinople.”

“Normally, for a ship coming after us that fast, I would place a twenty-pounder into her main mast.” Again Jackson raised his glass.

Thomas smiled and nodded that Gray Dog should come with him. It was now time to face Jessy Taylor and explain why he did what he did.

The French thirty-five-gun warship came to within a mile and then fell in line behind the Americans.

The supporting cast for this tragic comedy was almost complete.

10

Belowdecks of Yorktown the prisoners gathered for the evening meal five days later. The days since the Yank colonel had pulled off the fake executions had been filled with hate for the other side. The men felt they had been played with at the very least. Thomas had failed in bringing the men closer together. Still, the Rebel prisoners as a whole had nothing but loathing toward Loudermilk and his two accomplices in the rape attempt. They had been segregated from the rest of the Rebels and kept under lock and key. But the surprising thing was, it wasn’t at the order of the blue-belly colonel, as the prisoners called Thomas, it was at the command of their own colonel, Jessy Taylor. The man had not spoken in the five days since the mock hangings. To either the Yankees or the Rebels.

The days and nights had been hectic, with most daylight hours being occupied by speculation as to why the French warship would be tailing them. It was rumored that their mission had been marked by the French as a mission to stop, or at the very least take advantage of. There was even a soldier’s rumor that the French could possibly be tailing them to set the prisoners of war free from their bondage. Most experienced soldiers knew this to be flawed by the simple fact that the French had no true love for either side in the American conflict. Now, if it had been a British ship of war, the prisoners might have had hope of being freed.

The confines of the third deck were stifling. Most of the hundred men had their civilian clothing askew to attempt to allow cooler air to reach their sweaty skin. Keeping them belowdecks after the Loudermilk incident had been Thomas’s idea to make sure the space between the navy, marines, and the prisoners was kept wide, curtailing their animosity toward each other. Jackson had ordered the gun ports opened so the men could breathe the air from one deck above them.

The men were talking when the mess steward, Grandee, came into the space with a cook pot filled with oxtail and potatoes. The looks he received were hostile at best, murderous at worst. Word had spread that one of the attackers had had his head caved in by the giant cook. Grandee kept silent as he set up his serving line. His two assistants, black men also, kept their faces neutral and their eyes down as they served the prisoners. This was the first time they had seen the steward since Colonel Thomas had ordered his exclusion from serving the Reb prisoners for the past five days.

As the men were served, they sat in various positions along the much-cooler hull and watched Grandee pack up his food and plates. Suddenly he was told to stop. He looked up to see the Rebel colonel enter the space with the marine lieutenant, Mr. Parnell, accompanied by the army sergeant major. Each had a tin plate in his hand as they waited for the steward to serve them. The men were silent as they watched the two officers fill their plates. The sergeant major only removed his blue cap and went to a far corner and sat facing the men. For the first time in the voyage they noticed the sergeant major was armed. Thomas had forbidden firearms belowdecks for obvious reasons, so to see the Colt holstered on Dugan’s belt surprised them.

It was Corporal Jenks who had the first words of the evening. He sat with several other noncoms as they ate their evening meal.

“I always said marines are needed as much as ten teats for a five-piglet sow,” Jenks said as laughter filled the darkened space.

Lieutenant Parnell hesitated before taking a seat next to Taylor. Dugan snickered in the far corner, but for the most part kept his silence. Parnell looked over at the ten noncoms as they each eyed him in turn. He adjusted the large spoon in his plate and then eased himself down next to the Confederate colonel.

“You have known a lot of marines, I take it?” Parnell asked as he raised a spoon to his lips and blew on a chunk of oxtail. He chewed as he looked up at Corporal Jenks.

“Well, maybe,” Jenks said with a smile on his face as he stood, handed over his plate to a mate, and then confronted Parnell. His eyes went to Taylor, who was eating quietly and seemed not to be paying attention to the conversation. “Do ya mind standing up, Lieutenant?” Jenks asked as he watched the marine closely.

With a look toward Taylor, Parnell pursed his lips and then stood, plate in hand. His eyes roamed to the sergeant major, who was watching intently. Dugan kept his eyes neutral but his hand was ever closer to his Colt pistol. The holster flap was untied.

“Now, if you don’t mind, sir, turn around.”

Jenks and the others were watching the tall marine as he looked at Taylor, who only ate his meal. Parnell raised his brows but did as he was asked, expecting a large oxtail bone to slam into the back of his head. Instead he heard Jenks say, “Yep.”

“Yep, what?” Parnell said as he turned back around and stood before the prisoners like a man on display.

“As soon as you showed your backside I knew you were a marine. Hell, I didn’t recognize you as such until I saw your back,” he said and then laughed along with the others.

Parnell stiffened. His eyes remained locked on the corporal as Taylor tried his best not to laugh with a mouth full of food. Dugan for the most part stopped trying not to laugh and soon joined the Rebel prisoners.

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant, I seem to remember a regiment of marines running away as fast as they could at the first battle of Manassas. Yeah, you boys hightailed it out of there that day as if old Patch himself was chasing, as I recall.”

More laughter sounded at the young marine officer’s expense. Even Taylor lowered his plate, stifling his laughter long enough to watch Parnell and his reaction.

“I take it you are referencing the battle of Bull Run?”

“If a battle is what you Yanks call it, so be it. We called it a rout,” he added, to even more howling laughter.

“To correct your statement, we were under army command that day,” was Parnell’s only excuse. He had been a part of that disastrous opening battle of the war. They had expected the Rebel forces would scatter to the winds when the Army of the Potomac came at them. But that didn’t happen. With most of the Washington elite watching from hillsides while picnicking, the Union forces had been routed by these very same men under the command of Stonewall Jackson.

“I would call that the blind leading the blind,” Jenks said, and then joined in the laughter again. This time Dugan lost his smile as he remembered the battle as clearly as if it happened yesterday. The embarrassment would never end and would cause his and Thomas’s eventual exile from the war. No, Dugan had no humor in his soul for remembering Bull Run. The marines were not the only soldiers to cut and run that day; the entire Union force would never be able to live those hours down. That day Stonewall Jackson announced in no uncertain terms that the war would be long and costly.

Parnell looked down at Taylor, who said nothing. The lieutenant sat back down and tried to eat, not understanding why Taylor had brought him down there to begin with.

“Hell, marines are about as helpful as this darkie here,” Jenks said as the laughter quickly died down.

The large black mess steward stopped what he was doing and looked up at Jenks, who was waiting for him to respond. He had been pulled aside earlier and told by Taylor, with Colonel Thomas standing nearby, that he was needed to serve dinner to the prisoners that night. He didn’t understand the Rebel colonel’s orders but did what he was told after Colonel Thomas had nodded his approval. Now he was even more confused when Taylor did nothing to stem the foul words coming from the corporal’s mouth.

“If he had been there, he would have knocked your ass right out of the saddle,” Dugan said as he finally stood, took a tin plate, and allowed the confused mess steward to serve him. Dugan winked as he hoped the large man was ready for what was about to come his way. “Hell, I can’t wait to get a million of these men of color to fight. That’s when we’ll see all of you Johnny Rebs start shitting yourselves.” Dugan turned with his full plate and smiled. “And that time’s a’ comin’, boyo.”

Jenks was no longer laughing as he eyed the sergeant major.

“There’s not a scrapper among you who can take this fella. He would pull you apart piece by piece.” Dugan again smiled as he placed a bite of oxtail in his mouth and chewed.

“I don’t know. Corporal Jenks was the wrasslin’ champ of the regiment back in the day. He’s mighty tough for a boy from Tennessee,” Taylor said as he finally laid his plate down and stared at Dugan and his dark defendant.

“Why, that sounds an awful lot like a wagerin’ proposition to me,” Dugan said as he challenged the colonel. “Your big-mouth corporal here couldn’t stand up to one blow from this man.”

“It sure does,” Lieutenant Parnell mumbled as he also placed his still-full plate down, feeling the sting of embarrassment.

“Boy’s too damn big, too slow,” one of the prisoners chimed in.

“Not your typical slave you can bully, huh?” Dugan said as he eyed the corporal and those men encouraging him to take the wager.

“I never owned no slave in my life. Me and my pa did all the work where I come from.”

The same call was taken up by almost a hundred percent of the prisoners. Dugan quickly saw the irony in their defense. Not one slave owner in the group of Reb prisoners. Yet here they were.

“What is the wager, gentlemen?” Taylor asked as he finally stood. Parnell watched and waited. He knew this was another attempt by either Dugan or Thomas to show the Reb prisoners that a man was a man no matter the color of his skin.

“Easy. You give the colonel every man’s full cooperation until we enter American waters once again. Then and only then will you again become Confederate soldiers. Until that time, you fulfill the mission General Lee sent you on. Bet?” Dugan said as his eyes goaded Jenks from where he stood.

Jenks looked at Taylor for guidance. Taylor only shrugged.

“And if that big feller gets his ass whooped?” one of the men asked.

Parnell’s head went up as he just realized what was happening. It was Colonel Thomas again and his very unorthodox way of making a point. He decided to play along.

“I imagine I could convince the colonel to allow you men free access to the weather decks and free you from this hell for the duration of the voyage,” Parnell said as he saw Taylor smirk.

“It’s a bet,” Jenks said as he looked at his compatriots, who were nodding their heads in agreement.

“How about it, Grandee? Think you can take this Reb braggart?” Dugan asked as he turned and faced the large mess steward.

“I would rather not, sir,” Grandee said as he lowered his head, hoping to blot out the hatred being thrown his way by the prisoners.

“As I say, the darkies don’t have any idea what you Yanks are all riled up about. They’s happy just to cook and tend fields. They’re not fighters.” The man who said the words slapped Jenks on the back. The corporal was seeing the size of the cook for the first time and was having serious second thoughts about what was going to happen. He looked at his fellow prisoners for encouragement and there was plenty of that.

Grandee slowly removed the filthy apron he was wearing and then stood rigid.

“Well, I think we have us a bet,” Dugan said as he placed his plate of food down.

“Gentlemen, there will be no fighting belowdecks.”

All eyes went to Taylor, who started for the stairs that led upward. Jenks grimaced and then closed his eyes only briefly as his heart sank at the lack of reprieve offered by the colonel.

“This will be done on the main deck,” Taylor called back.

Jenks felt his heart sink to its lowest level as the men cheered, confident the black cook was about to receive his just punishment for denting the head of a white man.

Thirty minutes later Colonel Thomas walked out on deck with Captain Jackson as lamps were lit and lined the railing of the Yorktown. His eyes went to Dugan, who would referee the match that Thomas himself had orchestrated. Taylor had a good job convincing the colonel to allow this to happen, and had made a big show of it having been his idea. This was the payment Taylor owed John Henry for not executing Loudermilk and his two cohorts in crime.

“You are surely not going to allow this?” Professor Ollafson asked as he and Claire, with McDonald and Cromwell in tow, joined the officers on the quarterdeck. Ollafson was seeing whatever cooperation the two sides may have been showing go down the proverbial drain when he heard there would be an exhibition of fighting prowess among the northern and southern aspects of the mission. He saw his dream coming apart.

John Henry looked down at the professor and said nothing. Claire was just as surprised as Ollafson that Thomas was allowing this to happen. She suspected that John Henry was trying to make a point but she didn’t yet know what.

“Foolishness! This is why we have little respect for the Americans,” Cromwell whispered to Claire, out of hearing distance of the others. “This colonel is not an officer to be respected.”

“Perhaps.”

Below, the entire prisoner group was in a tight circle around wide-eyed Jenks, full of false bravado as he watched the large black man slowly remove his shirt. He swallowed when he saw the scars on the man’s back. Claire winced when she saw how this man had been treated in the past.

“Mr. Grandee was a slave?” she asked Thomas, turning away. She did not want to see the horrible reminder of the pain this man and people like him had suffered over the years.

“Born into and escaped from, Madame,” Captain Jackson said as he watched the proceedings below with disdain. He glanced at the older army officer and wondered what he planned to accomplish with this fiasco on his deck.

Colonel Taylor stepped into the center of the main deck. “Gentlemen, the wager has been accepted by the entire ship’s company. The agreement will be respected. If my man loses, which he assuredly will not, we will cooperate fully in Mr. Lincoln’s folly. However, if he wins, we will be accorded the open spaces of the ship and an opportunity to return to our army and our people when we return, and without the loss of honor. That’s the agreement.”

John Henry Thomas made eye contact with Jessy. The two men knew one another better than any two men in the military. Thomas knew Jessy would never wait until their return home. Thomas figured he would get his men out of this mission at any opportunity. That was the reasoning for him to sacrifice his man for a possible beating — to get his men above decks. Finally Taylor smiled and then caught the attention of Claire, who raised a brow underneath the dark veil of her sun hat before turning away from the Confederate officer.

“If you gentlemen will excuse us, the professor wants to meet with his team belowdecks,” Claire said as she turned away from the barbaric spectacle readying itself on the deck below.

Thomas watched her, Ollafson, and the other two strange birds leave the quarterdeck. He had understood the emphasis she had placed on the word “gentlemen” as she departed. He smirked, as he had the same mocking opinion of not only Taylor, but of himself. Perhaps he had been away from society too long and had forgotten how to do things the civilized way. Perhaps.

A loud cheer went up from the divergent group of men as the navy crew, marines, and prisoners started to gather around in a circle.

On the quarterdeck the men failed to see Captain Jackson nod his head. The marines on the main deck were all off duty and were in a light circle around the hundred Confederate soldiers. What everyone failed to notice was the fact that thirty marines were missing.

All voices went silent as the heavy sound of boot thumps sounded on the wood decking around the men. As the prisoners looked up, they saw the remaining marines file out on both the starboard and then port sides of the Yorktown. They came to a stop and then went to rigid attention. Each man was armed with a Henry repeating rifle.

Taylor angrily looked at Thomas once more. John Henry had sent his message and it was now being received loud and clear. The marines would not hesitate to shoot anyone who got out of hand. The Rebel prisoners gave the marines who had joined them on deck foul looks of distaste at the insult. There were more than a few choice words offered to the off-duty marines.

The mess crew was tending to Grandee and offering words of encouragement. The large man looked reluctant to take part in John Henry’s little idea, and the colonel felt badly for having to pick the one man onboard who didn’t deserve what was happening.

“I honestly hope you know what you are doing, Colonel Thomas.”

John Henry smiled. “So do I, Captain Jackson.” His eyes met those of his former friend below as he made his way to his man to offer encouragement. Taylor didn’t look back at John Henry. “So do I.”

“Insanity,” Ollafson said as he spread out a large map on the table inside the captain’s cabin. The sound of the men on deck gave the interior spaces of the Yorktown a vibrant feel. Ollafson was not impressed with the military’s foolishness.

“Yes, this Colonel Thomas seems to work in mysterious ways. I believe he will have those prisoners at our throats before this voyage is at an end.”

The old professor looked into the eyes of McDonald. He didn’t know the man but he came off as far more than an amateur historian. However, if Claire vouched for him he had to tolerate his abruptness and arrogance. His eyes went to Cromwell, who seemed to be off in another world. He cleared his throat and then smiled.

“Gentlemen, and lady, I feel a closeness down here that is making me feel quite nauseated. If you’ll excuse me, I think I am better suited to the air topside.”

“Taking in the brutality above decks?” McDonald inquired with a wry smile.

“Not at all, old man. I have seen quite enough barbarity in my lifetime. Just air for me, thank you.” Cromwell nodded and then left the overheated and stuffy cabin.

“Now,” Ollafson said as he placed the oilskin-wrapped parcel on the tabletop over the displayed maps. The heat seemed to rise in the room as McDonald’s and Claire’s eyes fell on the mysterious artifacts ensconced in the oilskin wrapping. As soon as Ollafson started to untie the wrapping they all felt the change in temperature. Claire felt the cold air strike her neck and she shivered. Even McDonald looked around for the source of the sudden cold draft. He shook his head and then he too visibly shivered.

As the professor finally exposed the petrified wood to the cabin’s weak lighting, they all saw the oil lamp flicker, sputter, and then dim. For a reason Claire would later try to dissect in her thoughts, she glanced into the far corner of the cabin where the captain’s sea chest was sitting and she flinched when she saw the shadow between the trunk and the hull expand as if breathing. She closed and opened her eyes quickly only to see bright sunshine where there had been shadow a second before. The bobbing and swaying warship must be playing tricks on her eyes. She looked down at the Angelic script on the ancient wood. For a reason that seemed impossible, the specialist in ancient and dead languages had to turn away. The symbols made her increasingly uncomfortable, and for a woman in her profession, that was not good. She forced her eyes back to the artifact.

“For now, let us concentrate our efforts on these lesser symbols on the second piece.” Ollafson removed the uppermost petrified artifact and set a smaller, less significant piece over the first.

Even McDonald felt far better having the Angelic curse out of view. He took a deep breath and was surprised at himself for acting like such a schoolboy with deep and hidden fears. He too glanced into the darker recesses of the cabin and noticed the black shadows had seemed to take on more defined shapes. He made eye contact with Claire as Ollafson’s story came slipping into his thoughts. It was as if something were just awakening and taking its first few breaths of the day.

For reasons they could never explain, all three of them inside the cabin that day suddenly felt that death was near — very near.

Gray Dog slowly slid down the rope and landed lightly beside the form of Sergeant Major Dugan. The Irishman turned and looked over at the Comanche.

“Where have you been?”

“Why does John Henry allow this?” Gray Dog asked as he watched the foolishness happening in front of him.

“He has reasoning we barbarians don’t see, I guess,” Dugan said as he turned toward the smaller man and then winked. “The colonel thinks a little different than most. Differences I can’t explain, Coyote Head.”

“White men,” Gray Dog mumbled, and then turned to face the sergeant major, “are touched by the crazed eye of the sick dog. They have the foaming sickness in their heads.”

Gray Dog turned and left the scene. Sergeant Major Dugan spit a stream of tobacco juice over the side as he shook his head. “Damn Indian. ’Spose we do have a few cogs missing off the main assembly. But at least we don’t go wearin’ dogs as hats.”

“Huh?” Jenks said, his eyes riveted on the sheer size of the black mess steward. He swallowed and then realized he had gulped his wad of tobacco and sent it burning its way down into his stomach where it coalesced with the stomach acid churning inside.

“Honor, son. This is for the honor of the regiment,” Taylor said, smiling and then looking embarrassingly up at the quarterdeck where Thomas had his eyes glued on the events below.

“To tell you the truth, Colonel, I don’t know how honorable it’s going to be when I shit my pants in front of all these boys. That is by far the largest nigg —, hell, that boy is the largest anything I ever saw.”

Taylor grimaced as he agreed and then gave Jenks a little shove forward. “Damn he is big,” Taylor mumbled to himself as he watched the corporal enter the valley of death.

Grandee stood rooted to the spot as his ears heard the curses of the prisoners and the stunted encouragement of the marines who stood around them with hatred spewing from their mouths. Grandee’s eyes were actually as wide as his opponent’s but for the obvious differences.

Colonel Thomas nodded his head as he looked down at the man he had chosen for this most difficult of tasks: to make the Rebels learn the simple fact that there were no slaves, no South and no North. There was the company of men on the three ships. And he wanted these ships not to be flying any particular flag over the next few weeks and possibly months. He needed one unit of Americans and one only. He had chosen the object of all hatred and frustration to make his point. The large man stepped to the center of the deck to prove men were indeed equal — if not in size, then in honor and bravery.

Taylor stepped up and stood between the two men. He saw the young marine lieutenant step through the crowd so he could see through the men. Jessy watched as the tall kid from Annapolis patted the mess steward on the back.

“Okay, gentlemen — and I use that term in loosest sense” — the men around him laughed — “let’s get to it,” Taylor finished as he snapped his hand at the deck and waved the two reluctant antagonists forward.

The war between North and South commenced once more as the three American warships approached Gibraltar.

Ollafson’s eyes kept returning to the artifact. As he explained how the naval ordnance men would lay explosives to assist in digging out the Ark if they found it, he kept losing his train of thought. As he looked up at the others in embarrasment, he apologized. However, Ollafson could see that the piece of petrified wood was occupying their minds as well. The professor intentionally covered the piece with another map and immediately felt better for doing so. Claire noticed this.

“The artifact never had this effect on us while we were ensconced inside of a laboratory,” she said as she stood from the table. A distant but loud cheer erupted from the main deck as Colonel Thomas continued to commit to the fiasco’s possible disastrous ending.

“Yes, for some reason it feels as though the artifact is slowly awakening the closer to our destination we get.”

“Come now, we’re being a bit overly dramatic here, are we not? It sounds as though you are quoting a god-awful penny dreadful,” McDonald said as his eyes were also on the map covering the ancient wood. “I think we had better concentrate on the possibility that if we do find what it is you are looking for, Professor, we may not have the ability to capitalize upon it. For instance, how in the world would we begin to get an artifact that size out of the Ottoman Empire without raising quite the fuss?”

“That particular job, my dear sir, has been delegated to our naval genius, Captain Jackson.”

“By the high-handed way in which you speak of him you would think that this man has magical powers of engineering.”

“Maybe not a magician, but a man who is known as a certified genius thinks he is something very special indeed. Mr. Ericsson believes in him, so therefore, we must have faith the man knows what he is talking about. According to Mr. Lincoln, we are being led by three very bright and distinctive men. Yes, they are having a hard time believing in what it is we seek, but they will seek it nonetheless because that was the order given them. Colonel Thomas, although not a believer in our cause, will do exactly as the president has asked, because that is what he does. Now, we have to discuss the route we must take to the glacier.”

The three settled in to examine the route leading to the summit of Ararat. As they did a sea breeze came unbidden through the open hatchway and blew off the map covering the artifact. They felt the ship beneath their feet shake momentarily as if the keel had dragged along the bottom. They exchanged glances as the sun vanished behind a rain-laden cloud. As the shadows dimmed, something in the far corner moved. Three sets of eyes looked in that direction as the wind ceased. The artifact jumped underneath the partially covered wood. The map lifted and then settled, still covering a corner of the petrified wood. None of the Angelic writing was exposed. Then the map started smoldering. The written words seemed to be heating up, but before the three scholars turned back, the smoke had drifted away and the map had settled. The sun broke through the rain cloud once more and the shadows returned, only this time they seemed deeper and darker than before.

Corporal Jenks heard the cheers of the Confederate prisoners as they encouraged him forward. Grandee meekly took a tentative step toward the center of the main deck and waited. His eyes roamed toward the colonel, who was looking down upon them. He again nodded his head. Grandee took the final two steps toward the frightened fighter from the south.

“That is one big son of a bitch,” Taylor said to the marine officer, Parnell.

“Yes, I would most assuredly say your man is quite overmatched,” Parnell said, hoping beyond hope that the navy mess steward could do the job he was tasked to do. Grandee was not a marine, so Parnell had his doubts. He had volunteered his marines for this stunt, but Thomas had insisted it be Grandee.

Grandee faced down Jenks. The bearded Confederate was wide-eyed as he watched the giant black man raise his equally giant hand. He was shocked when he realized the black man was offering his hand in sportsmanship. With the whites of his eyes showing Jenks turned toward Taylor, who nodded that yes, he should shake the man’s hand. When he nodded he raised his brows with a wry smile. Jenks knew his next step.

He took the offered hand and then suddenly pulled the large man forward. The steward’s massive bulk leaned in at the same time Jenks hit the giant in the mouth with his left hand. The blow actually staggered Grandee momentarily as the surprise attack caught him unawares. He was shocked. Another blow came in and landed on his right cheek, stunning the mess steward. A loud cheer went up from the circling Confederate prisoners.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the quarterdeck John Henry Thomas smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your point, Jessy?”

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

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

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

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

“I try to be, boyo, I try.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The two younger boys were sitting on two rolled-up blankets in the corner. One of them was rocking back and forth silently. Loudermilk was cursing at the boy to stop what he was doing, saying that if he had chosen better partners in crime they wouldn’t be sitting there.

Gray Dog watched the three men and still saw nothing unusual. He was starting to think the ocean was beginning to affect his mind, so he shook his head and slowly started to back away from the brig and its very unhappy occupants.

Suddenly and without warning the shadow that was cast through the single, open porthole jumped and then spread until it entered the cell, where it seemed to blend in with the dark silhouette of the silently rocking private. Gray Dog watched as the boy stopped rocking back and forth and his head slowly rose from where it had lain on his knees. His eyes went to Loudermilk, who was occupying the only bunk in the brig. The man was still cursing his luck at his companionship in crime when the private slowly stood. The air became cold as the darkness enclosed the small space as if the shadows were sucking away the sunlight and its heat from the small porthole. Gray Dog took an involuntary step backward and was stopped by the flour barrels. He saw the strange way the boy was standing and just staring at the criminal Loudermilk. The second private saw this and stood and tried to get the boy to sit once more.

Gray Dog was confused as to what he was seeing, but he knew that a change had suddenly come over the boy as he stood with chin on chest as he stared at the man still cursing him. Suddenly Gray Dog was sure he saw a darker outline as if a shadow had attached itself to the boy. It was almost like a shimmering river at night with moonlight reflecting off its surface. The boy threw off the hands of the second private and then moved like a wild cat after its prey.

Gray Dog stumbled backward but the noise of him falling over the barrels and onto the deck went unnoticed. The boy flew through the small space between the two men and landed full force onto the reclining Loudermilk, who could only lose his breath at the impact. The Comanche was frightened for the first time since his family had been slaughtered by the Naches River many years before. He saw the boy’s face descend onto the bearded Loudermilk’s and the man’s screams were suddenly muffled as the boy began to use his teeth. The pain the attempted rapist was suffering must have been unbelievable as the private dug his teeth deep into the man’s face, lips, and mouth. His screams produced a fine spray of blood as the boy continued to chew at every exposed piece of skin his teeth could find. Loudermilk was kicking out with his stocking feet but the boy could not be shaken off. The third prisoner stood by in shock as blood started to splatter his face.

Gray Dog tried to stand and do something, but every time he moved it seemed his legs weakened and he slipped back down to the deck. Still the corporal screamed as he moved his head from side to side trying desperately to dislodge his attacker.

Then the screams stopped as the private finally found the throat. The teeth sunk deep and Loudermilk’s legs went straight out from the cot as his carotid artery was severed by the private’s canines. The boy tore at the corporal like a crazed dog that had finally gotten the upper hand on its prey. He shook the lifeless body of Corporal Loudermilk like a rag doll. Without notice the boy stopped. Gray Dog saw the deep breathing of the private as he spit out most of the Adam’s apple of the Rebel rapist. Still heaving for breath, the boy’s head slowly turned toward Gray Dog. The smile was terrifying and something that would haunt the Comanche for the rest of his days. The eyes were illuminated with an internal light as the grin widened and more of Loudermilk’s skin fell free of the kid’s mouth.

Gray Dog started to backpedal until he could back away no farther as the boy slowly rose from the cot and then made a lunge at the strap-metal bars of his cage. As he passed the third man he simply reached out and twisted the poor man’s neck until the spine snapped. It all took place in less than three seconds. Gray Dog leaned as far back as he could as the boy finished by smashing his face and head into the eight-inch space between the bars. Blood flew from the severe gashes on the prisoner’s face as his head actually broke through.

Gray Dog knew he was witnessing something that originated inside the captain’s cabin. He had tracked it to this spot and now he was seeing what he was meant to see.

The boy backed away again with his forehead skin hanging free of his scalp. He smiled wider, exposing his teeth, which still held the remnants of Corporal Loudermilk’s throat. He suddenly charged again, and this time the head went completely through the impossibly small space between the bars. The crazed boy screamed and then started twisting his head and neck. As the Comanche watched in horror he knew he wasn’t trying to free his head; he was twisting it in an attempt to snap his own neck. The next sound Gray Dog heard was the boy’s bones snapping like dry twigs. The severely injured private went rigid momentarily and then limp as the body started to sag, and then the neck completely separated from the rest of the boy’s body. The skin seemed to separate like cloth being pulled apart. The head tore free and the body fell to the deck. The private’s head remained wedged in the bars.

Gray Dog felt the warm blood on his face and then as he stared wide-eyed at the scene he felt the warmth come back into the confined space as the sun once more made an appearance in the porthole.

The only thing Gray Dog could do was run.

The men sat around the main deck tending to broken noses, missing teeth, and bruised egos when all eyes went to Corporal Jenks as he sat near the starboard railing. The man had acquitted himself admirably against the giant mess steward, but every man could see he was in no shape to feel superior about anything. He actually looked angry. Then all went silent as Jenks stood and walked over to the opposite railing where Grandee was tending to another cook’s wounds. The black man stopped what he was doing as he saw the Rebel prisoner approach. He tensed for a continuation of the brawl. His eyes went to where the colonel had been but the space was empty. He was on his own.

Jenks stopped in front of the big man and the marine guard tensed. They slowly raised their rifles and watched. Jenks spit out a stream of blood and then glanced up and into the mess steward’s face.

“I want you to know, boy, you broke my doze.”

“What?” Grandee asked.

“You … broke … my … d … d … d’nose.”

The hand came up so fast the men standing nearby actually flinched, thinking the two men were going to start a second round of fisticuffs. But the hand remained motionless in front of Grandee. The large black mess steward slowly raised his ham-sized fist and took the corporal’s peace offering. The cheer was sudden and immediate from the prisoners and naval personnel watching.

Then a man yelled and then another. A path cleared through the men as Gray Dog shot up the companionway and without any word quickly scrambled up the rigging and vanished among billowing sails. All eyes went to the bloody footprints that Gray Dog had left behind.

“Murder! There’s been murder done here!” came a shout.

The men on deck were stunned as one of the Confederate prisoners came on deck and shouted out the words that froze the hearts of every man.

“Loudermilk, Kindelay, and Segue have been butchered in their cell by Thomas’s pet redskin!”

Suddenly the men on deck faced each other once more as blood started running just as high and hot as it had been before John Henry Thomas’s wonderful unification plan.

Confederate, marine, and naval personnel faced each other and the hate that had vanished only moments before was back at full strength. Even Grandee and Jenks separated and angrily broke the friendly handshake.

The war was still present, but the real enemy was hidden in the shadows. As the angry men started shouting and cursing, the man posing as Cromwell stepped to the stern of the Yorktown and removed a small pocket mirror from his jacket. He looked up and found the sun and started flashing his message into the clear afternoon sky toward distant eyes.

11

John Henry had to physically push his way through the angry prisoners to get to the small brig. He made eye contact with the sergeant major and the unsaid words were unmistakable — clear this area.

“All right, lads, let’s clear the area for the officers. Come on, we’ve all seen dead men before this,” he said as he started to guide the shocked men out of the confined space.

“Yeah, we’ve seen dead men a’ plenty, but not murder, and killin’ this way ain’t normal,” a man said as Dugan shoved him from the crowded space.

Thomas walked up and looked at the torn face of the boy and then his eyes went to Corporal Loudermilk on his cot. The man looked as if he had been chewed to death. As for the boy, his injuries were almost as horrid. His ears were gone, having been scraped free of the scalp when the kid had shoved his head through the iron bars. His body hung limp as the bars kept the thin body from collapsing to the deck. The third lay with his back to the deck above, but his head was also looking in the same direction.

“It was that damn savage, we all seen it,” a man said as he finally pushed through the opening and into the next compartment. “Get that redskin and you’ll have those boys’ killers.”

Dugan turned and looked at the colonel as Jessy Taylor finally entered the brig area. His eyes widened when he saw what had been done to his men. He angrily turned to Thomas.

“You saved them for this? Is this the example you wanted to make?”

John Henry didn’t answer. He was looking at the way in which these three men had met their brutal fate.

“I’m afraid if you want answers as to who did this, you won’t get them from the responsible party.”

“What in the hell does that mean?” Taylor said turning on the colonel.

Thomas walked up and lightly raised the tow-headed hair of the boy and then he gently let it back down. “The meaning is, Colonel, your man Loudermilk was killed by this boy. You can see the corporal’s blood around his mouth. It’s clear to me that after he tore the corporal’s throat out, he snapped the neck of this one and then he struck the bars until he killed himself.”

“My God.”

John Henry turned and saw they had been joined by Captain Jackson. He was visibly shaken at the gruesome scene before him. He removed a kerchief and covered his nose and mouth. The smell was atrocious as the dead men had voided themselves when they had died.

“The men say it was your Indian. They say he was covered in blood when he came from below. Where is he?”

John Henry turned on Taylor. “If you think Gray Dog is responsible for this, you are not as smart as I thought you were, Jessy. Comanche warriors don’t kill like this. Blood obviously sprayed him from inside the cell. We won’t know until I speak with the boy.”

“I’ve seen what the Comanche or any other Indians are capable of firsthand. I saw what they did to my sister, so don’t stand there and tell me they’re not capable of it.”

Thomas felt his blood start to rise. “You’re missing one major point here.”

Taylor didn’t respond, his eyes on the seventeen-year-old boy he had barely known.

“The Comanche, hell, even the Kiowa need a reason for something like this, and Gray Dog has no reason to kill anyone — yet. And as far as the death of my wife is concerned, Colonel, I have told you a hundred times, it was Kiowa, not Comanche, and the same Kiowa responsible for Mary’s death were responsible for Gray Dog’s family being wiped out. The boy didn’t do this.”

“Well, if he didn’t, he may know who did,” Jackson said as he finally lowered the kerchief and managed a breath. “May I suggest we bring your man inside before he finds the same justice these men have found?” He nodded at the three dead men in the cell.

Thomas turned to Dugan. “Get Gray Dog. If anyone interferes before you find him, shoot them.”

“Is he under arrest, Colonel?” Dugan asked. He was expecting to feel no sorrow for the Comanche, but like Thomas, he knew Gray Dog was not capable of killing this way. The Comanche were efficient killers, no doubt, but they needed reasons for being the barbaric savages the eastern press made them out to be. He knew they killed like this to make a point, but Gray Dog didn’t have any points to make. Dugan headed out as he pulled the army Colt from its holster.

Dugan vanished just as Claire and Professor Ollafson half-stumbled into the room.

“Oh, my God,” Claire said as she immediately turned away from the scene before her. It was Captain Jackson who took hold of the woman and started to guide her from the brig area.

“Get the hell out of here,” Thomas said, his voice harsh. He angrily looked at Ollafson. “You too, out.”

“My God, this is exactly the way my friends were killed on our last expedition,” Ollafson said as he too was corralled by Jackson and pointed toward the exit.

“What’s that?” Taylor asked, shelving his anger for the moment. Before Ollafson could answer they heard the men above shouting murderous epithets as Dugan must have been leading Gray Dog down from the rigging.

“My friends — they were torn apart in just this manner,” Ollafson said as Jackson released him and he and Claire turned back to the murder scene.

John Henry was silent as he absorbed in the professor’s words. He had heard them before, but had taken the story with the proverbial grain of salt. Ollafson had explained to him and the president that his team had been hunted down and killed over the four hundred miles of their return trek from Ararat. Thomas had seen how frightened witnesses were capable of misinterpreting the way in which men had died. Death in a situation such as that can be the most confusing thing in the world, so he figured that the professor’s frightened mind missed the clues that would have told him just who their true killers were — he would miss no such sign.

As they turned and examined the cell once more, Claire shook her head as she realized these men had died only two hundred and fifty feet from where they had been examining the artifacts inside the captain’s cabin. Her thoughts went to Cromwell.

“You may want to speak with our Mr. Cromwell, Colonel. He wasn’t present at our meeting and could have seen something when he left. The time he left the cabin and the time these men died cannot be ignored,” Claire said, not really knowing why. She despised the Frenchman so much for the callous way he did his job that she could not let him get away with this if he was responsible.

“Then we’ll just have to have a little talk with Mr. Cromwell.”

“You can talk now, gentlemen,” said a voice from the stairs above. “As you can see, my clothing is rather pristine, with the exception of sweat, but I’m sure I can be forgiven for that. On the other hand” — he stepped aside as Sergeant Major Dugan led Gray Dog through the opening — “this man seems to be covered in what would be known as evidence.”

Thomas eyed the man calling himself Cromwell and took his points to heart. “Thank you. We’ll talk later.” He turned to Gray Dog and Dugan. The Comanche was splattered with the blood of the murdered men.

“What happened?” John Henry asked as Gray Dog’s eyes were on the three bodies illuminated in several oil lamps. They didn’t waver even when John Henry stepped into his line of vision. “Gray Dog, report!”

The tone brought the eyes of the Comanche up. Thomas could see that the boy’s facial features were nearly void of blood splatter. This meant that the Indian had not been the killer. John Henry could plainly see that Gray Dog had been hit by flying blood and not a soaking that would have occured if he had been inside the brig. Taylor was examining the boy as well as Thomas and was fast coming to the same conclusion. John Henry took Gray Dog’s hands and looked them over. Other than calluses and dirt, they were clean.

Gray Dog finally moved his eyes to those of Thomas.

“Did you see who did this?” John Henry asked as Dugan placed the pistol back in its holster.

Gray Dog didn’t answer, his eyes glancing from the colonel’s to the staring faces of Claire and Ollafson. They both became uneasy when his dark eyes fell on them.

“They know,” Gray Dog said as he shook off the hand of Dugan and then, with a look at Taylor and Thomas, Gray Dog moved away and into the shadows of the ship.

“What in the hell does that mean?” Taylor asked but not before the Indian had vanished. “Is that it? That is all the questioning you’re going to do?” Taylor was so angry his eyes were wide and his face red.

“As I said, Gray Dog didn’t do this,” Thomas said as he turned to face Ollafson. “Now, what do you suppose he meant by that?”

“I have no idea, Colonel. We did nothing but discuss our route to the mountain. That is all, I swear,” Claire said.

“We examined the artifacts, I’m afraid.” Ollafson was staring at the hull and his eyes didn’t move. Claire got a cold chill when she realized Ollafson was right, they had been examining the Angelic Script on the petrified wood.

“Not the curse again?” Thomas said, getting angry that these people could still advance outlandish speculation about what they were facing. In John Henry’s experience they didn’t need a curse to help with killing their fellow man; they could handle that aspect rather well. No, they didn’t have a curse on their hands, but they did have someone who was pretty well motivated to throw a crimp in their mission plans.

Before Ollafson could once more try to defend his position, a signalman walked in and handed Jackson a message. “Gentlemen,” he turned to face Claire, “and lady, we’ll have to postpone this debate about murder and curses. I’m afraid our rendezvous point is upon us. The Carpenter, the Chesapeake, and the Argo are here.”

“Does that mean—” Ollafson started to ask excitedly.

“Yes, Professor, we are five miles off Gibraltar. When the U.S. Navy says it will get you there, we get you there.” Jackson turned to face Thomas. “Captain Abernathy has signaled that they have had quite a time keeping Argo afloat,” he said in a low tone as the others made their way out of the blood-splattered brig area. “The crewmen have been working every hour to keep the damn thing from foundering. What we have hidden inside that barge is just too damn heavy.”

“We may have to make other plans if Argo sinks before we need her,” Thomas said worriedly.

“The plan is, we don’t have a chance of escaping the European powers if they wanted to stop us, and they will when they find out why we are really here. Without the Argo we’ll be blown clear out of the water, and not one witness will be alive to say what happened. We are far from home waters, Colonel.”

“Where did all of that United States Navy bravado vanish to?” Taylor asked, breaking into the conversation.

“The confidence I have shown thus far only stems from my meticulous planning. If Argo is lost I am realist enough to know we don’t stand a chance of getting out of these waters, much less a confined area like the Aegean or the Bosphorus Strait. I know my business, sir, and we need Argo.”

“How is the crew of the Chesapeake taking the workload?”

“Well, I suspect that Captain Abernathy will request more men. He says the band is near exhaustion. It seems the boys with the drums and trumpets aren’t used to physical labor all that much.” Thomas saw Jackson smile for the first time since he had met the arrogant naval officer. “I will accede to his wishes when we meet in an hour. After all, now may be a good time to start separating the prisoners and dispersing them to the other ships.”

“No. Transfer marine or naval personnel, but I want the prisoners kept together for the time being.”

“All the rotten eggs in one basket?” Taylor asked without the wry smile this time.

John Henry paused as he reached the steps.

“Something like that. And keep this in mind — from this moment forward and until this mission is either complete or we are stopped, the captain here has orders to scuttle this ship with everyone on it if you don’t keep your word.”

Taylor watched the room empty and then he turned to the dead men inside the brig. His eyes wandered to the deck and then the lock on the door of the cell. It was still secured.

“Maybe it would be a good idea to sink this death ship right now.”

Jessy Taylor looked one last time at his butchered men and in his mind he kept hearing the words of Ollafson about what had killed his friends. He wondered if John Henry Thomas knew exactly what they were in for.

Above decks and in the clear afternoon air, the three American warships and one tow barge were meeting for the last time on the high seas before entering the Mediterranean.

It took three hours for Captain Abernathy and the Chesapeake’s Captain Mize to be transferred over to the Yorktown. The commander of the Argo had begged off the meeting because they were still bailing water from the bilges of the supply barge. Any instruction from John Henry would be passed on to Captain Faraday, the commander of Argo, by the Chesapeake’s crew.

The captain’s quarters filled to capacity as the team sat down for their first face-to-face meeting with all parties involved. Colonel Thomas was about to unveil his plans, with the exception of the exact role to played out by the Argo, the details of which would remain with Thomas and Captain Jackson.

The late lunch provided by the mess crew had been an exceptional meal. Captains Abernathy and Faraday had eaten with abandon as the cooks onboard their ships were nowhere near as good as the mess crew on the Yorktown. The large steward Grandee was complimented no less than four times by the visiting captains during the meal, with a wary eye toward the swelling on the large man’s features. No questions were asked and no explanations were offered. The two captains had noticed that no one, with the exception of the army sergeant major, touched their food. As a matter of fact, most looked like they had just come off a bad bout of seasickness before the lunch had commenced. They also noticed the strange sight of the Indian as he sat in the far corner. Gray Dog had been cleaned up, and John Henry wanted to keep him close to either himself or Dugan for the duration of the voyage.

The plates were cleared and then John Henry nodded in the direction of Professor Ollafson. He rose and brought up his satchel and instead of bringing out the petrified artifacts, he removed three large drawings. He looked up at Commander Jackson.

“I had the engineering department at Harvard Yard make these up. They are drawn from memory, so please forgive any shortcomings.” He spread the three large diagrams on the table as John Henry leaned over and used the candle on the table to light a cigar. His eyes met those of Claire Richelieu as she listened to Ollafson. For some reason the look from the ancient-languages woman made Thomas feel uncomfortable.

“Gentlemen, I give you the Ark.”

Everyone at the table with the exception of Colonel Taylor leaned forward to see the drawing. Taylor, on the other hand, rose and moved to the credenza, removed a cigar from the humidor, struck a match, and puffed the cigar to life. He looked at the glowing end momentarily and then walked to the large windows at the stern and looked out upon the sea.

John Henry watched Taylor and then his eyes returned to the table. The drawing depicted what looked like the bow of a ship protruding from ice. From what he could see, the Ark had just about fifty or sixty feet of exposed timbers showing as the great vessel angled sharply from the frozen glazier it had rested in for what the Bible said was at least five thousand years. Ollafson claimed the ship to be very much older than even the Bible’s estimate.

“The problem, as I see it — not that just climbing to the summit will be an easy feat — is freeing the Ark from the ice without destroying it.” Ollafson looked up at Jackson. “I gave the captain estimates of size and weight before we left Baltimore. Captain?”

Jackson cleared his throat and then stood. He pointed to the glacier in which the Ark was buried. “If these are the correct dimensions of the … the … ship” — he looked embarrassed to call the object what Ollafson had — “the danger will be in placing the explosives in the right position to free the … boat without breaking its back. The forces involved have never been tested in freeing petrified wood. In this case we’ll just call it stone, because stone, of course, is very fragile when subjected to explosives.”

“Can you free it?” Thomas asked as he leaned forward and jabbed at the diagram.

“My naval engineer says yes, but he cannot guarantee that a salvage operation will be one hundred percent viable.”

“Which means he believes the Ark will break if moved at all.”

The young Jackson looked up at Thomas, who had already leaned back and was puffing on his cigar.

“To make the meeting as brief as possible, yes, Colonel, the Ark will break. There is no way we can stop that unless you have a way of melting an entire glacier to get at it.”

“Understood. We simply bring back what we can; the rest we leave.”

“Gentlemen, please, we have to return as much of the find back to American shores as we can. There is too much we can learn from this to leave anything behind.”

Thomas ignored Ollafson’s concern and then turned back to Jackson.

“Are Captains Faraday and Mize clear on the rendezvous plan after we have what we came for?”

“Yes, they have their orders. I must say I would prefer to have the barge and the Argo in the Mediterranean rather than the Black Sea; we will need her there. That is my opinion.”

Thomas held the cigar and then slowly stood and paced to the same window where Taylor was looking out.

Jessy looked from the calm sea and faced Thomas, and then he turned with a sour look on his face and returned to the table.

“My fears do not lie in the Mediterranean, nor even the Bosphorus Strait, Captain. I believe any action by any power will be taken outside the line of vision of prying eyes. No, they’ll ambush us before we reach the strait in the Black Sea. There are no witnesses there.”

“As you wish,” Jackson said with a resigned shake of his head.

“Now,” John Henry turned back to the table and leaned on its surface. “Colonel Taylor will be issued a Union officer’s uniform for our meeting with the sultan. Miss Richelieu will accompany us, along with Captain Jackson. Once the official greeting is concluded we will continue east from Constantinople to the final stop on the line. Is that clear?”

Most nodded.

“Captains, you will take the Chesapeake and the Carpenter through the Bosphorus Strait and then into the Black Sea with Argo. Then you will discharge your land element and railroad equipment at the coastal town of Trabzon. They will take the seacoast railroad line as far as it goes, where Lieutenant Parnell will be waiting to take overall command of land forces. From there my team will be less than fifty-six miles to the slopes of Ararat. Once we meet up we will begin the ascent to the summit with Parnell left behind to make ready for when we may need him and the … other elements.”

“May I ask why I am to be included in this meeting with the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire?” Taylor asked as he smoked his cigar.

“It is for the simple reason that I can’t trust you, Colonel Taylor. Any attempt to get word to the sultan or any other entity will result in the mission failing and your men trading one prison cell for another. Only this one is inside a country that is a little less forgiving than your own.”

“You mean your country.”

“Correct, mine. So I suggest you be on your best behavior, because from what I understand from the president, we will be dealing with a loose cannon in the sultan. I understand he is quite insane.”

John Henry didn’t respond. He turned and walked to the large windows at the bow, opened one, and then tossed the cigar out. He turned and faced the men and one woman in front of him.

“When do you plan to enter the Mediterranean, Captain?”

“We are expecting heavy fog tonight. They know we’re here, but they don’t have to know when we enter the Med. We should be in Constantinople before they can muster their trailing vessels, whether that be British or French. I suspect we have both hiding in our wakes.”

“Very good. The more time you can give us, the more this little ruse is apt to work.”

“Before we adjourn the meeting, Captain Faraday has something he wishes to share.”

All eyes went to Faraday. The officer was even more youthful than his commander. The boy stood and faced Thomas.

“At 1310 hours this afternoon, our lookouts aboard the Chesapeake observed a signal light, most likely a mirror communication, emanating from the decks of Yorktown. The message sent was simple: ‘Proceeding through Pillars, destination — Constantinople.’ Of course, this message was not flashed to us, or the Carpenter. It was flashed to the French warship a mile astern of us.”

“What does this mean?” Ollafson asked as he realized they might have a person or persons onboard who meant to stop them from getting to their destination.

“It means that the security your great leader was hoping for has been compromised.” Every face turned to Taylor, who was smirking and smoking his cigar.

“The message clearly stated that we would be moving through the Pillars of Hercules tonight. The Strait of Gibraltar is tight. If they want, all they have to do is string a line of ships across the strait and we won’t be able to transit. Illegal, but at this point, who would care? We would have to wait and return home to even file an official protest,” Jackson said as he looked worriedly at Thomas. “Unless, of course, you order us to open the strait by force, which would end the mission as assuredly as if we sank on the way here.”

“No, but we can and will take care of the situation with our signalman. Sergeant Major Dugan, if you would, please.”

They saw Dugan remove the Colt revolver from its holster once more and then he moved quickly to the side of the historian, Cromwell. He smiled as he reached into the man’s inside coat pocket and removed a small mirror.

“You really should have chucked this into the sea after you used it,” Dugan said as he threw the mirror onto the tabletop, where it broke into four pieces.

Cromwell looked ashen. When he spoke, the first traces of his true language shone through for the briefest of moments.

“I am to be condemned for carrying a mirror?”

Thomas smiled for the first time in hours. “Not at all, Mr. Renaud. You’ll be convicted of being the French spy you are, not because of your small mirror.”

Everyone at the table was flabbergasted. The man calling himself Cromwell stood suddenly and started to turn for the stairwell but was stopped by the pointed pistol of Dugan.

“You think very little of our own military intelligence, Mr. Renaud, or if you prefer, Mr. Cromwell. We knew who you were an hour after you reported to Professor Ollafson. The president’s man, Mr. Allan Pinkerton, is quite aware of those men and women in Washington who intend us harm. Since you started to run from this cabin you must have had an escape plan. I will assist you in that. Sergeant Major, is the boat ready?”

“It is indeed, Colonel Darlin’.”

“Escort our French friend here to the deck, please. Assist in his boarding.”

“You barbarians cannot do this,” Renaud said as Dugan took him by the arm.

Claire swallowed as she watched the French master spy being led by Dugan to the deck above. She then looked at Thomas who was staring straight at her. He finally broke eye contact and faced Jackson.

“Are you sure the French warship will pick him up?”

“Not at all sure,” Jackson said with a wry smile.

“Good.”

“Oh, that is precious. Can we all expect the same when and if we fail?” Taylor said as he smashed out the cigar in an ashtray.

“You bet, Colonel, because if we fail there will be no lifeboat to be placed into.” Jackson thought a moment and then faced Taylor. “We can’t execute him, sir. We are not at war. Although I admit that it would have been much simpler, it also would have spared my vessel a precious lifeboat.”

The cabin fell silent as they heard the Frenchman scream a mighty stream of epithets from the main deck as Dugan rushed him over the side, to the astonishment of every sailor manning his station. As the sailors, marines, and Reb prisoners saw Dugan smiling at the spy’s splashing as he swam toward the lone lifeboat awaiting him, they started doing their duties with a little more enthusiasm. If that was the way they were going to treat shirkers, they wanted no part in the disciplinary measures put forth by the crazed army colonel.

As the French spy pulled himself aboard the well-supplied whaleboat, he cursed the men watching him from the deck of the Yorktown. If he had his say, every one of them would be lying at the bottom of the sea very soon.

As he fumed, the three American warships, with the Argo in tow, made their way to the Strait of Gibraltar and the waiting Royal Navy of Her Royal Majesty, Victoria.

12

The fog had indeed closed in just as Captain Jackson had predicted. Thus far John Henry had to admit that the Swede John Ericsson’s choice of wunderkind had been a good one. The man was just too silent and contemplative for Thomas’s taste. Of course he also knew that his way of command was a far cry from the army’s more tempered version of how to lead men. Yes, he was positive that Jackson and the others thought him particularly strange also.

“Three bells sounding from astern,” came the call from the crow’s nest high above the main deck.

“Damn,” Jackson said as he turned to face the stern of the Yorktown. John Henry remained silent as he listened to the suddenly quiet night around them. The fog had deafened the night, and after the noise of the day it seemed eerily like a cemetery. “The frigates behind our formation weren’t fooled. They’re hot on our rudder. Three bells was the Chesapeake’s signal.”

“I suspect either the British or the French have recovered Mr. Renaud.”

Jackson spared John Henry a look that the colonel knew indicated his disapproval of John Henry’s methods.

“Well, I admit we would not have delayed them long. It was worth a try. If you’ll excuse me, I must keep a close eye out as we near the center of the strait.” Jackson bowed and then left.

“I am to assume that the blame for the French spy falls upon Professor Ollafson and myself?”

John Henry turned away from the stern. The fog was not allowing any inspection of the tail they had at any rate.

“Your assumption is correct, Miss.”

“Every time you call me Miss I turn in circles looking for my very much older sister. Would it be presumptuous of me to ask you to call me Claire? Why be so formal? After all, you are accusing us of planting a French spy onboard the Yorktown, are you not?”

“Well, he was in your company upon boarding.” He halfheartedly smiled as he took in the striking redheaded historian. “I may be just an old and broken-down horse soldier in the United States Army, Miss Richelieu, but you don’t have to kick me in the head like a stubborn mule to allow me to smell a rat hiding somewhere onboard this ship.”

“Eloquently put, Colonel,” she said as she suddenly turned away but stopped short of leaving the quarterdeck. “I don’t know what has happened in your past to sour your way with people, Colonel Thomas, but I must say this: you are a horse’s ass of the first order.”

John Henry raised his brows and removed his hat as he watched Claire disappear into the fog-shrouded deck.

A dark form emerged from the fog near the very stern. It was Dugan, or his blurred image. He walked quickly past as if he were merely strolling in a park.

“Still have away with the women, I see,” he said as he placed his hands behind his back and continued toward his destination.

John Henry scowled as he lost sight of Dugan.

“You’ll have to excuse the colonel. He’s lost around women.” Dugan removed his cap and looked at the woman before him. “The loss of his wife has played with his mind some.” Dugan nodded as if Claire had spoken and then replaced his cap and started to move off.

“The trouble between Colonel Thomas and Colonel Taylor?”

Dugan stopped cold and then hesitated before turning to face her. He finally did and once more removed his cap.

“I don’t go talkin’ out of school, ma’am.”

“I know the two are brothers-in-law, so tell me what happened to make them despise each other so.”

“It’s not Colonel Thomas who does the despising, ma’am, it’s the Reb. He blames the colonel for the death of his sister, the colonel’s wife.”

“Tell me what happened,” Claire asked. Despite the fact that the president placed all his confidence in his friend, she knew absolutely nothing about the man outside of his army file.

Dugan looked around and only saw crewmen going about their above-deck duties. He leaned in close to Claire.

“The one and only time the colonel was ever fooled by Indians was the day his wife was killed at their small ranch near the Brazos River. He was off chasing Kiowa. Her brother, Colonel Taylor — this was before I knew him — was also in the regiment. You see, back then we were spread so thin in Indian Territory that the regiment was broken up into troops.” Dugan shook his head sadly as he remembered. “There just wasn’t enough men. They were both off chasing Kiowa in differing directions. They had both been bamboozled and led away from the small settlements that were their responsibility. It was a cold-blooded murder raid. They got six ranches. Butchered families, killed all the livestock. They even raided into several Comanche villages. Gray Dog’s family was lost on the same day. Yes indeed, ma’am, the Kiowa did a job that day.”

“And each man is blaming the other?”

“While both men made the same mistake and were lured out chasing nothing, the Kiowa took what was the best of both men, and Colonel Taylor cannot begin to forgive John Henry for the loss of his sister.” Dugan replaced his hat and took one step away and stopped. “The thing is, John Henry thinks the same way. He also cannot forgive himself.”

Claire watched as the sergeant major moved away and knew he felt the colonel’s pain. She just wished she could break through his hardened shell long enough to make him understand that they were facing far more than just legends on this voyage. They were facing what men and women used to believe the world over — that mankind was not calling the shots. This was God’s domain and she believed as Ollafson did, that God would brook no interference in protecting what was his. She had most assuredly lost her scientific way of looking at the quest.

The Yorktown, Chesapeake, and Carpenter with the Argo in tow made their way past the British stronghold of Gibraltar.

The fog was still present as the sun rose over the Mediterranean. Gibraltar was now miles distant off their stern. An hour before, the gentle sound of the three signal bells of Chesapeake had chimed, so Captain Jackson knew that thus far they had transited the strait without landlocked eyes falling upon them. Now it was full sail toward the Aegean and then, for the Yorktown, Constantinople. It would be up to the Chesapeake to make landfall through the Bosphorus Strait and then the Black Sea. The land expedition would not fully form until Colonel Thomas’s team made it to the slopes of Ararat.

Colonel Thomas soon joined Jackson on the quarterdeck and both watched as the Confederate prisoners slowly moved around the main deck. The mood was solemn, to say the least. Although they felt no love for the men that had been butchered in their cell, they still felt the loss of another three of their own. The mystery of their deaths had been placed on hold only because of the speculation and shipboard rumor that the French spy may have had something to do with it. Thus far neither Jackson, Thomas, nor even Colonel Taylor had denied the rumor. Murderous feelings had therefore been curtailed for the time being.

Fifteen minutes before, Sergeant Major Dugan had knocked on John Henry’s door to inform him of the makeshift burial at sea. He had been heavy into his journal that he kept for the president’s eyes only and had not noticed the stillness of the ship. He was usually tuned into the happenings around him, but since the horrible murders his mind had been racing as to the real culprit in the savage attack. Thomas was more concerned at the moment for Gray Dog. The boy was refusing to sit with others. Avoided men of all affiliation, either north or south, with the same degree of mistrust. John Henry particularly noted Gray Dog’s sudden fear of dark spaces. Both he and Jackson believed that Gray Dog had indeed seen who the killer was, and John Henry assured Jackson that his young Indian ward would come to him when he was ready to explain what he had seen in the brig.

John Henry watched as the three shrouded bodies were hoisted through the cargo hold at mid-deck. The bearers struggled as the marines and navy personnel watched. Thomas noticed that some men removed their hats while others watched with disinterest. Jessy was in the center and as John Henry watched, the Rebel colonel slowly removed something from his coat. It was a small Confederate flag. The stars and bars. It was only two feet by one and was hand-colored — with what, Thomas didn’t know. Jackson cleared his throat when the small flag was placed on the sailcloth-covered bodies. The two officers strained to hear what was being said in prayer, but John Henry knew the faith of Jessy had been tested to the limits and he had walked away with the firm belief that God could not exist. After the loss of his sister, his only living family, Jessy had turned away from religion. John Henry knew he had helped his brother-in-law with that fateful decision by failing to protect Mary.

Soon Taylor lifted the small flag and then the platform was tilted and the bodies slowly slid into the sea. Jackson’s brow furrowed as humming came to his ears through the thick fog. Then the tune was picked up by others and soon enough they were listening to “Dixie.” Soft, mournful, and not at all directed toward the three men just committed to the deep. To Jackson and John Henry it was the sad refrain of lost men. When the sound softly faded away he heard Taylor dismissing the men. The colonel walked to the quarterdeck and offered John Henry the refolded flag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, my name is Gray Dog.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe, maybe not,” said another voice.

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

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

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

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

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

“No man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, Colonel?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this, a prize fight?”

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

“Soldiers fight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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

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.

Thomas had finally confided in both Taylor and Jackson his suspicions about McDonald and Claire as far as the subject of trust was concerned. He explained that while he had his suspicions, McDonald could be who he said he was. Plus, Thomas would be a fool to leave the man onboard the Yorktown if he was indeed in the service of Queen Victoria.

Claire was looking at him and he relaxed. Her eyes watched him underneath the dark veil that covered her face. Her gown was as gorgeous as John Henry had ever seen, and her smell was like roses after a cool summer rain. Her eyes remained on him and didn’t turn away as they approached the new palace of the sultan. To Thomas it looked as if she were getting ready to decide on something — a course of action, maybe?

Colonel John Henry Thomas closed his eyes and when he opened them again saw that they were entering the gates of a large palace that gleamed in the late afternoon light.

Dolmabahçe Palace was surrounded by the most magnificent gardens any of them outside of McDonald had ever seen. Secretary Seward had briefed them as much as he could on the palace and its principal occupant. The structure sat upon eleven acres of reclaimed naval land and boasted two hundred and eighty-five rooms. As the garishly dressed guards allowed them through the gate, Taylor commented on the new Martini-Henry rifles that had been sold to the empire to replace the old breechloaders they’d had but eight months before. Yes, the European powers were having a field day selling arms to the sultan.

As their drivers approached the large and ornate portico of the palace, they saw a carriage ahead of them as several brightly uniformed men were escorted inside. John Henry pursed his lips when he recognized the two differing designs of uniforms.

“Our friends, the Germans and English, have also been invited.”

Claire closed her eyes and wondered if they would fail before they even started.

The two carriages pulled up and the Americans were led into a magnificent parlor. It was a parlor in the loosest sense of the word, since it was larger than what the Americans knew as the Hippodrome in New York City. The large arena was small compared to this structure, which was massive and filled with men and women.

Every ambassador to the empire was present, and the Americans soon learned that the sultan had bragged openly to the other powers what a magnificent gift the people of the United States had given his empire. A play on their hatred of the Americans, John Henry felt, probably to garner more gifts from his European neighbors. The five were stopped before entering. The American contingent was wondering what the protocol was when they heard an announcer.

“May I present to the Caliph of Islam, his Majestic Deliverer of the Ottoman Empire, Son of Mahmud II, Sultan Abdülaziz I, these delegates from the United States of America, Colonel John Henry Thomas.”

Thomas stepped forward and with one leg almost in front of the other, bowed to the heavy man sitting on the large throne surrounded by fifty guards.

“Colonel Jessop E. Taylor.”

Jessy repeated the bow and then stepped aside.

“Mr. Steven McDonald, of Harvard University, and Captain Steven Jackson, United States Navy.”

Jackson stepped forward, clicked his heels, and bowed. His two-cornered hat came off his head with a flourish before he straightened.

“And Madame Claire Richelieu, Harvard University, special assistant to the president of the United States.”

John Henry was surprised that Seward and Lincoln had wanted Claire announced like that. He didn’t know what her pretense was, but he kept silent.

The men and women in all their finery started to applaud the Americans as they were led to the ornate throne. They were soon standing before the sultan of the Ottoman Empire.

The man was heavy, so heavy that the pillows on which he sat squished out from his behind like too much cream filling stuffed into a morning roll. His beard was impeccably curled and oiled. His clothes were a rich mix of shiny material, obviously silk, and his jewelry was on display. The fingernails were polished and his facial makeup evident. The man’s eyes never left Claire’s cleavage and she was feeling as much on display as the heavy man’s jewelry. She shot a sideways glance at John Henry after her short but courteous bow to the sultan.

Thomas stepped up, took the hilt of his sword, and then with one foot in front of the other, bowed and flourished his tasseled helmet just as Jackson had with his two-corner hat. The navy didn’t have all the etiquette — the army also shone sometimes. When he straightened Jackson was at his side and in a very briefly rehearsed bit of theater, he handed John Henry a small and ornate wooden box. Thomas took a step forward and saw that his movement caused the six bodyguards to tense momentarily until the sultan smiled and held up a hand.

Thomas noted that the sultan wasn’t interested in the box as much as Claire’s cleavage. John Henry didn’t exactly know how he felt about that. Maybe it was just a foreigner ogling an American that made him a touch angered, but then again maybe the woman had affected him in a different way since their voyage began. Thomas shook off the thought and held the box out to the sultan, who finally noticed he was being offered something.

“On behalf of the president of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, we ask our most gracious host to accept this small token of the American people’s desire for good relations between your great empire and the United States of America.” John Henry waited but the sultan made no move to take the gift. Finally one of the red velveteen — clad bodyguards stepped forward and relieved the American of the gift. He turned and opened the lid and only then did he show the contents to the sultan. The robust leader of the largest empire in the world smiled and then reached out and lifted a small golden locomotive from the polished wooden box. He laughed heartily and then nodded his round, turbaned head at Thomas.

“We would have expected your gift of a railroad line a far larger matter than what your beautiful box could contain.” He laughed again and then everyone joined in, foreign diplomats and military attachés included — only their laughter was more on the spiteful side.

John Henry turned and saw that even Claire had smiled. He felt lost and uncomfortable. Jackson saw this and, with his hat still tucked neatly under his arm, stepped forward and bowed his impeccable greeting once more.

“Great Sultan, as we speak and talk of good relations, the gift of the American people is even now entering your Bosphorus Strait and should be sailing the Black Sea within the next few hours. Everything from railroad ties cut from the magnificent forests of the state of Maine, to steel rails manufactured in Pennsylvania, and even to the locomotive and six cars manufactured in Illinois, the home of the president, is ready to serve the great sultan of the Ottoman Empire. The gift of this and the labor force to construct the most modern railroad for your most barren provinces, are all for your great empire on the anniversary of your birth.”

The sultan handed the golden locomotive to the bodyguard and then stepped down from his marble pedestal and embraced John Henry. His head was first turned right and then left and in the wake of both actions a wet kiss was planted on his cheeks. He raised his brow as the process was completed, with Captain Jackson taking the assault far better than his army counterpart. Then the sultan came to McDonald, who stiffly accepted the greeting. Claire was actually looking to John Henry for help, but there was nothing he could do as the sultan took Claire by the shoulders and kissed both cheeks. Then he moved his hands toward her chest which made her react. Instead of screaming and running, as she surely wanted to do, she curtsied and bowed her head, effectively cutting off the sultan’s advance.

This time the applause was started by the Turks in the crowded room, and soon, out of necessity, the European contingent slowly joined in. To John Henry’s relief the sultan bowed and then returned to his overly large and very ornate throne. A small string band started playing and the mood shifted as the guests started milling about as they were served with all manner of delicacies.

“That was a brilliant tactical maneuver, Miss Claire,” Jackson said with true admiration. She smiled and curtsied again. She turned to face Thomas, who was intentionally looking in another direction.

“And what did you think of my miraculous escape, Colonel?”

Thomas turned and acted as if he had not heard what she said.

“I asked what you thought about—”

“Yes, your performance, I heard.” He smiled only halfheartedly and then looked at her veiled eyes. “I wish I would have thought of it, but I would have butted heads bowing instead of curtsying. I’m afraid you think far faster than I, Madame. I’m just an old soldier, not a woman of the world such as yourself.”

“Valid point, Colonel Thomas, I’m sure,” she said and then suddenly took McDonald by the arm and moved off toward the magnificent buffet table that stretched a hundred feet.

“What did I say?” John Henry asked as he watched Claire leave in her recently purchased turquoise dress.

“Perhaps it was not what you said, Colonel. Maybe it was how you said it.”

“You make as much sense as she does,” Thomas said as he watched Jackson smile and then head in the same direction as the other two.

“Still have that touch of class, huh, John Henry?” Jessy said as he strolled by in his new Union dress blues.

A baffled Thomas watched as Jessy nodded at a fair-looking British woman with a rather large rear guard and then smile again and move once more to the next lady he saw. John Henry mumbled and then smiled and bowed his head as the sultan started making his way toward him with his bodyguard and the English ambassador in tow.

“This is not a good time.” He looked around and saw the others had no intention of rejoining him, so he smiled his best disarming grin and then greeted the sultan once more.

Claire turned from McDonald as he removed delicacies from a tray and filled two plates. She saw John Henry talking with the sultan and then a strange thing happened. They both looked up at the same time and they locked eyes. At least she thought they did, and it gave her the queerest feeling in the pit of her stomach. She quickly turned away when McDonald joined her.

She failed to see not only that she had John Henry’s attention, but also the contingent from the French Embassy. And they both failed to notice that the German and Spanish representatives were also paying close attention to the Americans.

The most powerful nations of the world wondered how they could blow this ruse of the backward Americans out of the water without causing damage to their own nations’ relationships with the empire.

They all had a plan.

The stringed instruments lent an air of unreal quality to the proceedings due to the fact that almost every set of eyes was on the Americans. It was Claire who noticed that Steven McDonald had wandered over to the side of the banquet table where the military attaché of Great Britain was eating and was in quiet discussion with his counterpart from the German Embassy. She saw the British colonel nod his head and then excuse himself from his company and make his way down the line of rotund eaters. She saw the simple way he stopped and greeted McDonald as if they had never met before. McDonald, unlike Renaud, was an unskilled spy. Why Colonel Thomas had caught the Frenchman first and not this bumbling fool was well beyond her comprehension. McDonald was a soldier and was good for little else. The two men smiled and nodded, uttering the quiet musings of two men who had just met. Claire’s attention went to John Henry, who was speaking to the sultan, his interpreter, and none other than the British and French ambassadors to the Ottoman Empire.

“Careful, Colonel,” she said under her breath.

“The only thing he should be careful of is eating this food,” Jessy said, stepping up next to her as he stared at the offering the sultan’s cooks had plopped on his plate. That item was a red-shelled bug. His look was one of horror.

“You’ve never seen lobster before?” Claire asked as she smiled for the first time in days at the naiveté of Taylor.

“If lobster means the biggest damn bug I’ve ever seen, no, I have not.” Jessy was still staring at the steaming shell and the massive claws of the lobster. “Kind of reminds me of the bedbugs in the hotel rooms just south of Wichita. They were about this big.”

Claire actually laughed as her daintily gloved hand slowly removed the china plate from his hand. She set it down on the buffet line and handed the colonel a replacement plate with roasted chicken on it.

“I think I’ll steer my little ship away from the lobster also,” she said after hearing Jessy’s description of bedbugs in the west.

“Well, before you do, maybe you’d better ask if this is roasted chicken … or … something else,” Taylor said as he leaned over his plate and sniffed.

“The sultan was informed by Mr. Wigand here that you not only had a Frenchman thrown from your vessel, but that you also incurred murder onboard. The sultan asks if American sea crossings are always so eventful,” the Turkish interpreter said as the four men strolled along the magnificent full-length wall portraits of Ottoman sultans long dead.

“I must say, Your Highness, that the French ambassador is very well informed, but wrongly so, I’m afraid.” John Henry nodded his head once at the fat ambassador from Paris and then looked at Britain’s representative as though he were looking at the real danger.

“The ambassador has also informed our naval arm that you have only brought one of your four vessels into the empire’s home harbor. The sultan would like to know the reason for this.” The interpreter looked uneasy as John Henry realized that the French ambassador was indeed intriguing the sultan about his real mission to the empire.

“That aspect of the ambassador’s briefing to members of your court is true.” Again he nodded toward the Frenchman, who did not return the gesture this time. He just walked beside the sultan silently as the British ambassador listened closely. “Since the shorter route for the railroad supplied is from north to south, the heavy equipment will be off-loaded in your coastal port of Trabzon. The men and equipment will be transported from there to the termination point where my engineers will join them.”

“Of course you will allow for inspection as soon as your vessels dock?” The sultan did not need his interpreter for the question.

“Of course. We fully expect the sultan himself to take possession of the locomotive and bless its commissioning on behalf of his people.”

This time it was the Frenchman who bowed in John Henry’s direction for his successful deflection of the questions.

“Gentlemen, if you will excuse the sultan, he has a wonderful surprise for his guests.” The sultan and interpreter abruptly returned to the throne. The Frenchman turned and faced Thomas and the warm smile vanished. The representative of Victoria listened in with curiosity.

“I have been informed of your true intentions in the East, Colonel Thomas, and so has my colleague from London. I must say it is a marvelous double ruse put on by your President Lincoln. To use the lie of presenting the brutish sultan with a new railroad line was brilliant. But to have the double-edged falsehood of covering up an attempt at bringing back a legend from a desolate mountaintop is magnifique,” he said as he kissed the fingers of his right hand as if he had just tasted a fine wine. “It makes me think your president has at least a small amount of French blood flowing through those veins of his. Now, what are you Americans really after, Colonel Thomas? It cannot be the Ark. No one would be as foolish as that.”

“Addressing your first concern, Mr. Ambassador, I’m afraid Mr. Lincoln has no blood in his veins other than American, which is why he is fighting so hard to keep it whole. To address the second concern, I don’t believe in most legends, and as to your third, what in the world could possibly lie on a mountaintop in Eastern Turkey that would concern Americans in the least?”

A perplexed look crossed the representative’s features and he became angry. He looked at his British colleague and then again faced the American.

“Your American wit notwithstanding, Colonel Thomas, we will discover what it is you have really come for. If it be gold, minerals, or just the start of an invasion of the Ottoman Empire, sir, we will learn the truth, and then you will see how responsible nations react to piracy. It’s about time the United States is brought under control and restrained before the stain of your backward war spreads.” The ambassador clicked his polished heels together and then moved off. The British ambassador smiled, bowed, and then followed suit.

“Don’t be shy, Froggy. Tell me your true thoughts,” John Henry mumbled.

“I see you are playing well with others,” Claire said as she, Jessy, and Jackson all stepped up to him.

“For the moment,” he said as he watched the Frenchman turn to his British counterpart and, to his surprise, Steven McDonald, who graciously excused himself from the conversation he had been having and then made his way toward the group of Americans.

“I see your Mr. McDonald is also playing well with others,” Thomas said as he watched the man approach.

“If he is, why should that concern me, Colonel? After all, you know the man about as well as I,” she said with a tinge of anger in her voice. She didn’t wait for John Henry to answer, she simply curtsied and then moved away.

“Yes, sir, you still have a way with the opposite species,” Taylor said as he slipped a piece of chicken into his mouth and then followed Claire.

The pounding drums startled most with the exception of the military personnel on hand. The Americans watched as the main floor was cleared and the guests were asked to step aside. Then as the drums continued, ten men came in line abreast, wielding the largest swords Jessy, Jackson, or John Henry had ever seen. The ten men wore flowing balloon pants made of pure white satin. They were all bare-chested and had bright red sashes around their midsections. Each had a large ponytail of dark hair bundled at his scalp. Each swordsman had to weigh in excess of three hundred pounds and was no less than six and a half feet tall. They lined up five to a side. As they did, an eleventh man walked out with a Saracen sword almost double the size of any of the weapons the others had. This man stood at the head of the two lines.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and special guests, His Royal Majesty would like to present to you the entertainment for this evening. Almost three thousand years ago, the Persian Empire ruled most of the known world. To achieve this feat the great kings of the past had a special unit of soldiers who would die upon command, the fiercest, most loyal soldiers of the empire. Ladies, gentlemen, special guests — the sultan gives to you a demonstration of the most elite unit of soldiers in history, the Immortals!”

The drums began blasting and the two sides came together with a clanging of Saracen swords. The demonstration was magnificent as each choreographed move was met with oohs and ahhs from the gathered luminaries. Their leader stood with sword crossed over his bare chest. He watched each pair as they demonstrated their prowess with blade and maneuver. Finally, with a last exchange of clanging swords the two sides separated with one last flourished backward spin and each man was in his original position with sword at the ready.

The guests applauded. Even the Americans were impressed. Jessy was chewing on his chicken as he saw the conspiracy long before John Henry. The man always thought officers in any military would act accordingly, but Jessy knew the ulterior motives of men with a plan. And he knew the Europeans were getting a plan together. He didn’t know what or how, but he knew they would make one, maybe more, attempt at either embarrassing the American contingent or stopping it completely. He glanced at Thomas, who was also watching not the swordsmen, but the Europeans, who watched with quiet intent.

“The sultan would like to ask if there are any volunteers to challenge the mighty Immortal commander to see if their name holds true.”

“Surely he can’t mean a fight to the death?” Claire asked nervously.

“Even here I think that would be a bit barbaric,” Jackson said. All could see in his eyes that he was very interested in the Immortals and the possibility of one-on-one combat.

“I may be wrong, Colonel Thomas, and I often am, but I believe this challenge is directed solely at you,” McDonald said, looking pleased that he had been the first one to point this obvious conclusion out to the others.

Suddenly the leader of the Immortals stepped to the center of the two lines and started twirling his sword to a slow but powerful drumbeat. The man was a giant. He swung the large curved sword in a circle and all present could hear the sharp blade slicing through the air. Finally the man slowly started to approach their side of the hall. He continued to twirl the Saracen sword in a wide arc that made most of the women in the room come close to swooning as his sweat-soaked body moved past them. Still the drums beat.

John Henry turned slightly and saw the French, the German, and English delegates all very interested in what was happening. Thomas figured they had made a suggestion to the sultan to put on this little show of his. As he looked, the French ambassador smiled, and not only due to the situation that was fast developing. The ambassador pointed out the man who had just joined him. It was the French spy he had put overboard, the man they had known as Cromwell — Renaud actually smiled at the American. He turned and saw that Claire was also staring at the group of men, Renaud in particular. To his astonishment Claire turned and angrily strolled toward the men in black tie and sashes. John Henry and the others all raised their eyebrows at the same moment when Claire walked straight up to Renaud and the French ambassador.

“This needs to stop now.”

Renaud only stared at her. Then without warning he stepped up to her and grabbed her shoulders, and this caused all to tense up. Jessy almost dropped his plate of pomegranate-roasted chicken when he instinctively reached for his absent Colt in its holster. John Henry grabbed his arm and then slowly shook his head no.

“You return to your duties, or I will make you my next special project. Is that clear, Madame? We need more information than you are sending to us. You have not signaled any progress reports from the Yorktown. I am beginning to think you may have another, or maybe two more employers, other than us. You send me regular reports or the Americans may learn the identity of your real employers.”

Claire angrily shook off the Frenchman’s hand and then turned and went back to the others.

“I would ask what that was about, but it looked a little personal, so I’ll let it go until we get back to the ship. Then I think you’d better start coming to the side of the Lord, Miss Richelieu.” Thomas turned his attention back to the swordsman, who was getting ever closer to the group of Americans.

The giant of a man finally stopped in front of John Henry and Jessy. Both men watched as the Immortal bowed all the way to the polished tile of the great hall as the drumbeat came to a halt. The man lowered his head and splayed out the arms that were the size of tree trunks. Soon a smaller Immortal emerged from the crowd and approached Thomas and Taylor. He held a Saracen sword and offered it to John Henry. Thomas looked from the shiny blade to the beast of a man bowing before him.

“The great Sula-Man-Khan of the sultan’s famous Immortals offers you this sword of honor. He wishes to show the American honored guests the battle prowess of the great leader and his men.”

Thomas looked from the smaller Immortal, who still held the large sword out with both hands with head bowed, to the sultan sitting on his throne. He saw the French and British ambassadors were both near but not actually speaking with the leader of the Ottoman Empire. The smile on the sultan’s face was a clear indication of the challenge. John Henry knew they were setting up the Americans as fools, and this led the colonel to believe that the French or the English had passed on to the sultan the real meaning of their fabulous gift to the empire. John Henry half-bowed toward the throne and the fat man sitting upon it. He straightened and started to reach for the sword.

“You’re not thinking of really accepting this challenge, are you?” Jessy asked as he blindly handed Claire his plate.

Thomas looked at Jessy and then tilted his head. “If you have an alternative plan, now would be a good time to voice it.”

Taylor took a step closer to John Henry. “Look, if I recall, you were the third from the bottom in fencing and swordsmanship at the Point.”

“Your point?” John Henry asked, smiling at the sultan as he spoke through the side of his mouth.

“That is my point.” Jessy looked from Thomas to the enormous sword in the Immortal’s hands. “I was first in both disciplines.” He stepped in front of John Henry. “Maybe you should sit this one out, Colonel, or you may receive a point you can’t outthink.” He nodded toward the very lethal-looking Saracen sword.

The giant of a man slowly stood as Taylor stepped forward in front of Thomas and then moved the smaller man aside, disdaining the large sword. He immediately drew his saber from its shiny sheath. It was a bad time to think about it, but Jessy was just hoping that Thomas hadn’t supplied him with a ceremonial sword instead of the honored Wilkinson he was used to. Taylor smiled again and then brought the saber up to his face and saluted the large Immortal, who was now facing the American with admiration. The giant looked back at the sultan, who leaned over and conferred with his interpreter. He then nodded his head at the ceremonial guard. The huge beast of a man turned back and the smile was now a smirk.

“Look, you’re not defending the honor of the Confederacy here, but the country you have forsaken. This isn’t your style, Jessy.”

Taylor turned and the smile was still there. “Honor is honor, and this fella here, he looks like the type that likes to pick on smaller people.”

“Jessy, you can’t kill him,” John Henry said as he noticed the guests and the sultan were growing impatient.

“Perhaps our American friends would prefer a smaller opponent?” came a voice that emanated from the area around the French and British contingents, which elicited another laugh from onlookers, albeit an uneasy one.

“No, sir, we like ’em big in the States,” Jessy said as he swished his saber through the air and then stepped forward just as the first beat of the drum sounded. The giant twirled his blade and grinned as he stepped forward.

“This is insane!” Claire said as she squeezed past Jackson to get to John Henry.

“This is coming from our French and British friends, not the sultan. If we don’t do this then we lose face — we lose face and the mission is over.”

“How do you know all of this?” she asked, astonished.

“That’s the way the world works, Madame. This part of the world anyway.”

The drums pounded as the two men, one a giant, the other a tall, thin American, circled each other. Suddenly the Immortal lunged while spinning his curved blade as he came on. Jessy held his ground. Just as the beast’s sword started down Jessy stepped to the left and the blade whistled through empty air. John Henry tensed when he noticed that the Immortal had swung through and had not intentionally missed. The Saracen steel slammed into the stone tile, sending shrapnel into the air. As he flew past, Taylor slapped his sword into the man’s behind with the flat edge. The giant was goosed and he immediately jumped and spun on the American to the laughter of more than just a few of the guests. The British and the French were not among them. Jessy smiled and then dropped into a stance with sword at the ready. He figured old Professor Courtney at the Point would have been proud of his stance. He flourished the sword and then lowered it, inviting the giant in.

He didn’t have to wait long as the Immortal swung his sword with a mighty bellow and once more Jessy easily sidestepped the blow. The large man overcompensated and went flying past Taylor, who once more swiped his blade around and slapped the man’s ass once more. This time Jessy drew the smallest amount of blood.

The Immortal was now beyond furious as he turned and swung the sword and missed Jessy by mere inches. The blade cut through the air and all who saw the blow coming cringed as they waited for the head of the American to roll free of his shoulders. Claire came close to screaming as she took a hold of John Henry’s coat sleeve.

“Colonel, I must say that this may have been a bad decision on your part,” Jackson said as he too saw that this was not going to end well.

“Now, now, we do not want any bloodshed,” the sultan said, but all could see his smiling, excited eyes as Jessy came within inches of being decapitated.

Taylor felt the wind rush past his face and he figured this had gone on for far too long. He waited for the giant to recover and then stepped to the middle of the hall once more. Again the drums started beating and everyone knew this was no demonstration — the Europeans were making a point. This time there was no smile or polite nod of the head. Jessy opened up with sword at his side, inviting the bear-sized man to attack. He did. With sword raised high he came on. Women screamed, men readied themselves, and John Henry smiled.

The giant felt the American’s much smaller sword glance off his large Saracen blade. The ting was loud as Jessy countered once again. The noise was tremendous, and most wondered why the American’s blade didn’t break. But Jessy countered again and again. He stepped lightly around the large man, slapping him again and again on his backside. The Immortal was becoming furious at his embarrassment and that was just what Jessy wanted. Again a lunge, again another quick move to the right, and then the sword slap. Once more the lunge, once more the dodge and slap. The crowd was now beginning to laugh as if this had all been choreographed. Taylor was like a matador from Spain dodging a furiously charging bull in the ring. Finally the giant of a man lost it and charged with sword held high again. One final time Jessy let him come on. He was now tired of the game and as the blade started down once more, Taylor fell to the floor, kicked out, and caught the Turk in the left shin. The man tripped and went flying into the large buffet table, knocking more than a few British and French delegates over.

The crowd went wild with laughter. That was until Jessy approached the struggling man. He turned, bowed to the sultan, who was still smiling, and then quickly raised his sword before anyone could say anything.

“Jessy, no!” John Henry yelled as the others gasped just as the sword came down.

The guests saw the blade descend and the legs of the Immortal go stiff. Several of the gentler women swooned and fell into the arms of their escorts while the rest just stared wide-eyed. Thomas felt his shoulders slump as he did not have to picture what the Wilkinson sword had just done to the Immortal. He had seen Confederate handiwork with a blade before and he knew it not to be a pretty sight.

Then he heard the gathered guests laughing and applauding as Jessy slowly brought the sword up. On the very tip was a melon that Taylor tossed high into the air, and then before it completed its arc he sliced it in two before both halves landed on either side of the head of the prone and embarrassed, but alive, Immortal.

John Henry took a deep breath as the crowd continued to applaud Taylor for his chivalry in the face of an out-of-control opponent. Taylor turned and faced the throne and a cowed sultan. Finally the monarch looked around and saw all eyes were on him. He half-smiled and then stood and also started to add his congratulations to the American. Jessy bowed, leaned over, and wiped off the blade of his sword on the Immortal’s backside, and then slammed the sword into its sheath. He turned and made his way back to the group of pleased Americans. Jackson was smiling and nodding his head. Claire was aghast and McDonald shocked at what had just transpired. John Henry only raised his brows at a smiling Jessy.

“A truly gifted swordsman,” the sultan said loudly as he waved men and women to silence. “You have my deepest apologies for the overzealous nature of my guard. Immortals are taught to control their attacks. He will be punished, I assure you.”

Taylor watched as the giant was led away by two of his compatriots. Taylor looked at the sultan with as much distaste as he could muster. He nodded and then stepped away before he said something that would make the giant’s attack seem feeble by comparison.

“I think that’s just about enough entertainment for this evening,” John Henry said.

“You know that wasn’t the sultan’s little idea,” Jessy said as he removed a half-full glass of wine from an undamaged table and drank deeply.

“No, but it was his way of letting us know that he is watching our little group.” John Henry looked up and smiled at the sultan, who seemed to have regained most of his color after the humiliation of his Immortal.

“Surely you cannot still insist this mission go forward?” McDonald asked, as he had been shocked beyond measure at how easily the American had disposed of the Turk.

“What has changed?” John Henry asked, watching the French contingent as they made their way toward the front of the hall. The French spy Renaud was with them, and every few seconds he would look behind him at the Americans with hatred etching his features.

Thomas nodded at the retreating contingent of Europe’s finest. “They’re who we have to worry about for the time being. The sultan may eventually catch on, but by then hopefully we will have accomplished what it is we came here to do. It will take a while for our European friends to convince him to expose himself to embarrassment again. But yes, Mr. McDonald, they will eventually come to stop us.” John Henry turned to the false instructor of antiquity. “So I hope you are good at what you do, sir, because we have far less time than I had anticipated.”

“Perhaps we can make our apologies and get the hell out of here. I doubt if the rest of those Immortals are too much pleased at having Colonel Taylor make their man look like an amateur,” Jackson said.

“I made up that little bit right at the end there. Did you like it?” Taylor asked as a way of teasing both Claire and John Henry.

“Just as much as those angry Immortals who can’t seem to look away from you,” Claire retorted as Taylor noticed for the first time the number of enemies he had just made.

“I agree. Maybe now is a good time to catch that ferry to the eastern shores.”

As the Americans started to move off to offer their thanks and good-byes, Thomas shook his head as he looked over at Jessy.

“Why do you look so pleased?” Taylor asked.

“Nothing in particular, Colonel. It was just nice to see a Reb humiliate someone not in a blue uniform for a change.”

Taylor couldn’t help it. He smiled for the first time in days.

14

Lieutenant Parnell looked at the small pocketwatch once more. He saw the time was ten minutes after eleven before closing the cover and replacing it in his uniform jacket. He turned to face the Yorktown’s first officer.

“What time was the last departure of the ferry from the capital?”

“If they are not on the next boat, they won’t be here tonight,” the first officer said as he turned back to continue the off-loading of the expedition’s supplies.

“Great,” the marine officer mumbled under his breath.

“Any word yet?”

Parnell turned and saw Professor Ollafson as he too was looking at a pocketwatch.

“Professor, why don’t you go and wait inside the station? It may be a while until the supplies are off-loaded to the train.”

“Sitting drives me insane,” the old man said as he again looked at his watch. He glanced up at the spit-polished Parnell and knew he would get no sympathy from a boy like him. “I wish I had the patience of that Indian boy. Look at him,” he said as he brought Parnell’s attention to the last railcar in line before the caboose. Perched on the roof of the car was none other than Gray Dog, who had been there since they had off-loaded from the Yorktown, which was quickly preparing to head back to open water where she would wait to transit the Bosphorus Strait into the Black Sea to join the Chesapeake.

“Well, can’t say as I blame him much,” Parnell answered before yelling an order at a sailor for mishandling a box of concealed weapons disguised at surveying equipment. “After all, all the Rebel prisoners and not just a few of the naval and marine personnel think he’s responsible for the three murders. I think he feels comfortable by himself until the colonel returns.”

“What do you think?” Ollafson asked as he continued to look up at Gray Dog, who sat silently and watched the night.

Parnell looked down at the much-smaller professor. “Well, for me it’s simple power of deduction, the same deduction and conclusions that both Colonel Thomas and Captain Jackson came up with.”

“And that deduction is?” the small man born in Scandia asked as he once more removed his eyes from the strange Comanche only to pull his pocketwatch out of his vest once more to check the time.

“I find it a little difficult to believe that anyone, much less a savage, even one as resourceful as Mr. Dog up there, could enter a locked cell without the key and slaughter three men who outweighed him by two hundred and fifty pounds combined.”

“Then it’s someone with a key to the ship’s brig, then?”

“The obvious answer, yes.” Parnell smiled and then before returning to his duties of cargo master looked down to take in the bearded professor’s face in the lamplight of the train station. “However, the only man onboard the Yorktown with a key to the brig is Captain Jackson.”

“I see the conundrum.”

“That’s the problem, Professor. Anyone with a brain can see that particular conundrum and that’s what has everyone on edge.” Parnell walked away with his hands placed behind his back.

With one last look at Gray Dog, Ollafson shook his head as he wondered if the Comanche had seen belowdecks what he himself had witnessed on the slopes of Ararat.

Twenty minutes later, a signalman approached Lieutenant Parnell.

“Sir, Privates Cochran and Peavey report that a French warship from Constantinople has just tied up.”

“No ferry?” Parnell asked.

“No, sir, not yet.”

“Very well. Thank you, Corporal. Is the off-loading complete?” he asked as his eyes started to watch a thick blanket of fog roll in from the Bosphorus Strait. Fog always made the marine officer uneasy, something he could never get used to not only because of its blinding effects but because sound was mixed up inside the veil of white, which he found very disorienting.

He failed to see four men as they watched the Yorktown from their vantage point on the long, narrow dock.

“I suspect it would be inside the captain’s cabin. That’s all I can tell you. When you enter, be mindful of the marines onboard. Since the three murders let’s just say they will have a heightened sense of awareness and will not be too tolerant of more French invading their territory. So my advice is, don’t get caught. You may find the mood onboard quite unfriendly.”

The three men looked at the master spy who had transited the strait ahead of the Constantinople ferry. Renaud disarmed each man in turn and they looked none too happy about it.

“You send us in with nothing?”

“You are Frenchmen and out of uniform. If you get caught on a United States ship of war you could legally be shot. It may go easier on you if you are unarmed. That may sway that bunch of pirates into not hanging you on the spot. Now, you may take your weapons if you wish, or you can just try not to get caught.”

The men had to agree with the French spy. After all, he had suffered the humiliation of getting caught and they had not hung him. They just threw him overboard. One man nodded his head but knew if he drew the comparison Renaud would simply reach out and slice his throat before the man knew he had a blade. The rumor was Renaud was hated among even his own colleagues.

“And one other thing: Watch out for that American colonel’s pet Indian. He can be a pest.”

“Indians now?” one man said, glancing at the others.

“Yes, a savage one also.”

The three men felt helpless as they started off into the fog.

It seemed too simple for the three men to board the Yorktown without being noticed. The marines and deck personnel were busy finishing the off-loading of supplies, most of them mumbling that it would have been better to sail with the Chesapeake and the marching band already sailing on the Black Sea. They would rather pretend to be laying track than hauling freight across the Ottoman Empire.

The three French spies easily slipped in belowdecks. They immediately saw that most personnel were above deck and some had already transferred to the train. The leader placed one of the men at the companionway as he and his partner slowly slipped down the dark passage toward the captain’s cabin at the fantail of the ship.

They all froze when the door suddenly opened and an old man stepped out into the dimly lit companionway. The man looked at his watch and then turned the lock with a key and went above deck. The two men waiting in the shadows took a deep breath after almost having their mission end in such a short time had the old man looked up. He hadn’t, and the men thought they stood a good chance of getting what they had come for. The first left the shadows along the hull and approached the door and then removed a small pick from his coat. He had the government-issued lock off in seconds and then he simply stepped over the threshold of the cabin. The second man joined him.

The cabin was illuminated by a small candle. The oil lamps were doused, and thus the men had to feel with their hands to find what it was they sought. The first spied the small bundle of tightly wrapped cloth. It sat upon the large table alongside rolled-up maps.

“This is it. He said it would be inside waterproofed sailcloth.” The thin Frenchman picked up the bundle and then he immediately dropped it with a loud thud. The sound frightened the other man, who looked at the first as if he had lost his mind.

“What in the hell is in there, rocks?”

“It felt, felt—”

“Hot?” the second man asked when the first stammered as he took in the wrapped cloth on the table.

“No, it was freezing cold,” the man said as he touched a finger to the package. He withdrew the touch quickly, but then he extended his finger once more and then placed his palm on its top near the string that tied the bundle together. It was cool, but not freezing. He must have imagined it. He snatched up the bundle, feeling embarrassed. “Take the maps also.”

The second man reached out and snatched up four rolled maps and started for the door. It slammed shut for no apparent reason.

“What in the hell are you doing?” the first asked as he stood in the center of the room with the heavy bundle in his hands as the second stared at the closed door to his front.

“I didn’t do it,” the man said as he placed the maps underneath his arm and tried the door. It seemed to be either locked or had closed so hard that it had jammed in its frame, which cabin doors often did on sailing ships due to warping. “Damn, Philippe, open this door!” the man hissed through clenched teeth.

“Damn,” the first said as he placed the bundle of artifacts on the table. He struck a match and lifted the chimney on an oil lamp. He placed the flame to the wick and it caught. He held the light up and looked around the cabin. They were alone and none of the portholes or large windows was open, so there could not have been an inadvertent breeze that closed the door. The man pulled out a small six-inch blade from his coat and continued to examine the interior.

“Look,” the second man said as he backed into the same door he had being trying to open.

The tall, fresh candle that had been left alight on the credenza started to lose its brightness. The flame was still there and glowing brightly, but the light cast by the beeswax candle dimmed. Then the lamp being held by the first man started to die. He brought the lamp up and watched as the flame remained the same but the light in the room was slowly drained of color first, and then brightness. The cabin went dark with the exception of two pinpoint dots of light that had been the candle and the lamp.

“What is this?” the second man asked as the maps slid out from under his arm. They fell to the floor with a hollow thump, and then they both heard the decking creak as something moved around them.

Before either man could react, the door suddenly opened and the third man stepped through and then quickly closed it.

“What are you doing and how did you get that door opened?” the first man asked as he tried desperately to see the faces of his two men.

“It’s too dark out there. Something ate the light, even from the open hatchways.”

“We could not get that door opened,” the second man said as he reached around the frightened man and tried the latch. It moved but the door failed to open. He pulled, and then pulled again.

The first man placed the dead lamp on the table and as he did he noticed that the wrapping covering the artifacts had mysteriously opened. He leaned in closer and saw that he could discern some form of lettering. The carved images looked as if they had an inner glow to the etching. He started to reach out and touch the symbols but remembered the intense cold when he had picked up the bundle. He quickly moved his hand back.

“Listen,” the second man said as he abruptly ceased trying to open the cabin’s door. “Do you hear that?”

The other two men cocked their heads. Yes, there was something coming from the darkness. It sounded like several people chanting in a language they had never heard before. The sounds came and went, intensified and then calmed. Deep and childlike. Booming and then almost-silent sobbing. The cabin became intensely cold. Condensation came from the three Frenchmen’s noses and mouths.

“That’s enough. Get that door opened.”

The two men nearest the cabin door started pounding and then slamming their shoulders against the wood. The door held firm and didn’t budge. It was as if the two men were battering a stone wall. The fog outside of the large windows on the stern started to vanish as if even the internal light of fog was being extinguished. Still the two men pounded and charged the door to no avail.

“Damn it, get the attention of the Americans! We have to leave this place and I don’t care if they hang us or not, I don’t wish to die in here!”

All three men started screaming and pounding on anything they could.

Still, the cabin became even blacker than before as the shadows along the hull started to grow and then move in.

Then it was there. The dark shape was silhouetted in front of the large stern windows of the captain’s cabin. It was large and the way it was highlighted against the swirling, white fog beyond the leaded glass made it that much more terrifying to the three French invaders.

The leader of the three tried to move away from the center of the cabin with all thought of scooping up the canvas-covered parcel now gone from his mind. As he slowly tried to slip closer to the door and the two men fighting to get out, he saw the entity that had sprung from the darkest areas of the cabin move toward him. Suddenly some unseen force thrust him down to his knees. The man felt the pressure of a hand, but he knew in his heart there was no hand actually on his shoulder pushing him to the cabin’s floor.

One of the two men fighting at the closed and unmovable door turned and saw their compatriot as his arms splayed out behind him while upon his knees. It was if the man was being tortured by an unseen taskmaster. That was when the man’s eyes took in what was doing it. The shape was that of a man that stood well over eight feet tall. The facial features were a swirl of dark colors ranging from green to dark purple. The features were a jumble of movement like the swirling fog beyond the windows. The face slowly turned toward the two men at the door as the shape held the first man in place. The man screamed as he watched the first man’s head twist in his direction. The two men could see the first pleading with them to help him. Then suddenly the head had turned too far and snapped. The men screamed as the head kept turning even as the spine was severed. The entity allowed the first man to fall to the deck. His chest hit the floor first followed by his head. The face was still staring up at the dark ceiling in its twisted shape.

“God help us,” one of the men said as he continued trying to twist the door latch open. The entity seemed to stand until the topmost portion vanished into the wooden beams that made up the ceiling of the cabin. Both men froze as a large black hand stretched out. The long fingers were like a trail of India ink released inside a water bucket. The fingers caressed the first man as his eyes bulged out. Then the ethereal digits tightened around the Frenchman’s face. The first man turned in time to see the fingers of the entity scrape downward. The second man started to relieve his stomach of its evening meal when he saw the skin first stretch, and then tear. It was like the sound of a piece of paper ripping in two. The face came off as the man screamed. As the skin was lifted free of the skull the head turned toward the frightened man at the door. The look was horrifying as the blood spurted from the man’s open blood vessels. The jaw worked and the tongue moved but no scream could come from the shocked man as he slid to the floor.

The man at the door had lost his mind. It was if a string had been pulled too hard and the twine snapped with a twang. The mind of the third departed this world just as his body joined it. The apparition twisted the head of the crying man until the neck separated from the shoulders. The body didn’t fall to the floor, it slowly slid into a sitting position.

The sudden absence of screaming allowed the faint echo of a chant to reverberate throughout the cabin’s interior. The sounds were foreign and the words ancient. The cloth wrapping the artifacts started to smolder and then as smoke started to rise from the burning wrapping, the chant finally ceased and the bundle of artifacts stopped sizzling in its cloth. The entity came forward and stood over the table for the longest time. The image of the intruder widened, expanded, and then started swirling like an inner tornado.

The entity started to disperse as soon as the beating heart of the last man stopped thumping.

The screams of pain and fear had reverberated off the thick wooden hull for more than ten full minutes and not one sound had been heard outside the cabin.

The Angel of Death had come and gone and not one person had seen or heard anything.

The mess steward, Grandee, and several other crewmen had been organizing carefully packed canned goods and dried meats for the expedition and had wandered quite close to the captain’s cabin. The men went about their work silently and efficiently and not one of them heard a sound coming from the darkened cabin. Six hundred feet away on the train siding where the chartered train awaited its American passengers, Gray Dog stood on the roof of the second-to-last car and looked around through the now-swirling fog. It was the same as before the three prisoners had been murdered. The night had become still and preternaturally silent. Gray Dog heard the men loading the supplies and the Comanche even heard several marines cursing their luck at dice by the tracks, but nothing coming from the distant Yorktown. Gray Dog sat back and knew that darkness had raised its presence once more, and he also knew men had already died this night.

As the small paddle-wheeled ferry tied up next to the large French warship, Dumas, John Henry led the procession from the boat. The colonel was only slightly put out that Taylor had went gone of his way to embarrass the sultan’s Immortal, but deep down was secretly pleased.

As they made their way down the gangplank it was Jackson who summed the evening up.

“Not to belabor the point, Colonel, but I think the sultan has had his large ears bent about what our true intent may be and has had a slight change of mind in his welcoming pageantry.”

“I concur,” Claire said as they gained the fog-enshrouded dock. “He fully expected one or the other of the combatants to die a horrible death. He fully expected either you or Colonel Taylor to be the example.”

“Sorry I couldn’t have been of more assistance to the sultan,” Taylor said, and even Claire had to stifle her chuckle behind a gloved hand.

“If that’s the case, our return trip may get a little dicey,” John Henry said as he started to put on his helmet but then scoffed at placing the thing on his head. He shoved it under his arm instead.

“The Yorktown will have to make a speed run for the Black Sea, but I think she can make the rendezvous on time. If you’re still allowing only five days for any recovery efforts.”

“Yes, I figure it will take the Turks or anyone else at least that long to get any substantial force to the area before we either have what we came for, or have failed miserably.”

“You have yet to inform Professor Ollafson of your restricted time frame, Colonel. He will not be pleased.”

John Henry slowed his pace and waited long enough for Claire to catch up. “Madame, we did not inform Professor Ollafson because he does not need to know. You know because I refuse to excuse ourselves and locate to a more discreet area for speaking purposes. Now you know. Just as I must know how you know that Frenchman. You and he seem to be familiar at the very least.” Thomas stopped to make sure that Claire understood the seriousness of his accusation. Jessy, Jackson, and McDonald had stopped also and wondered what it was that the colonel had seen to prompt him to throw so much mistrust at Claire.

“I … I just wanted to know why he did what he did. This mission is not warlike in nature, so why spy? The mountain range has been there for eons and has never been thought of as a significant place by any government, so why now? Is it because the Americans are interested, or is it something else?”

John Henry didn’t respond to her explanation. He simply continued looking at her beautiful face before turning and making his way down the dock toward the Yorktown and the waiting train.

They were stopped by a man running their way. It was a marine corporal who slid to a halt in the fog and then saluted Captain Jackson.

“What’s happened?” Jackson said immediately.

“Sir, we’ve had murder onboard, and Professor Ollafson may be very ill; his heart, maybe, we don’t know.”

“When?” John Henry asked as he saw that the boy was terrified.

“Twenty minutes ago, sir. But that’s not all. We found pieces of men strewn about the captain’s cabin. We don’t know how many, or who, but they have been slaughtered like cattle, sir.”

“Our men?” Jackson asked as he started heading for his ship. The others hustled to catch up.

“No, sir, our personnel are all accounted for. Lieutenant Parnell took a count after Professor Ollafson collapsed.”

“The Indian?” Jackson asked without a guilty look back at Thomas.

“On the train the entire night. He never went close to the Yorktown, Captain.”

As they approached the ship they failed to see a single man slip away into the fog. Renaud had heard all he needed to on the failure of his men and their mission to recover the artifacts. He knew the Americans had caught and killed them. The stakes had just been raised.

“Let’s get that train fired up and get the hell out of here,” John Henry said as they arrived to see the men all standing around on the dock. The talk was rampant about what had happened not once, but twice inside of closed areas of the Yorktown. Thomas knew if they didn’t get moving he would lose the men before they ever started this fanciful flight of hide and seek.

“Lieutenant Parnell!”

The marine officer appeared out of the thick fog and saluted the captain. “Sir,” he said.

“Instruct the men to board the train. We depart immediately. Keep the Confederate prisoners separated from their brethren, not as much as fifteen men per car. I want armed marines at each exit at all times. Inform Lieutenant Anderson to see me for departure orders for Yorktown. I have an addendum to his mission parameters. After that he must get to the Black Sea rendezvous as quickly as possible. The men of the first section will be arriving in the east in about two days and they will start making their way south soon.”

“Yes, sir,” Parnell said enthusiastically, excited to be on the move and not stuck on the slaughterhouse that the Yorktown had become.

“And this is the reward we get after I upheld the honor of the nation?” Taylor said with a smirk. “You treat my men as a very untrustworthy lot.”

“Trust has yet to be earned. Almost, but no cigar for the moment,” John Henry said as he spied the figure of Gray Dog on top of the second-to-last car. He turned and saw his old friend and brother-in-law staring at him. “It may not be just mistrust, Jessy. It seems something may be traveling with us who doesn’t want this mission to succeed.”

“You mean someone, don’t you, Colonel?” Claire asked as she slowly removed her large hat and veil.

John Henry looked at each expectant face in turn. He settled on Claire as he explained.

“I really don’t know what it is I mean, but I believe you may, Miss Richelieu, and when we get aboard that train I want to know everything you do about what that Angelic Script means — and I do mean everything.”

Claire watched as the others made their way to the ship and train that awaited them. They vanished inside the thick veil of fog and she was alone.

The woman who sided with both the French and the British in this matter knew that she could no longer hide the truth from Colonel Thomas and the others. She would have to explain just what darkness they were really heading for in the east. There a mountain awaited, and her experience at both spying and world history told her they were headed to a spot on the map that had been forsaken to mankind. The curse she had made them aware of was something that frightened her far more than the specter of getting caught spying for foreign nations.

Claire knew the Angel of Death watched over that black mountain known as Ararat in the east.

As the last of the supplies were loaded and the prisoners and marines were onboard the train, John Henry was informed by the navy watch commander that a carriage was coming down the dock in a hurry. Thomas turned to Jackson with a wishful thought. Captain Jackson popped open his pocketwatch and looked at the time. He shook his head negatively.

“We still have the last of the mess equipment to load, unless you want to start this little foray into the wilds without adequate food?”

Thomas pursed his lips, almost tempted to say, “To hell with it. Move the train before whoever this is stops us.” He peered into the dense fog surrounding the train and the dock six hundred feet away. He heard the carriage come to a stop and a voice filled with authority order several things unloaded. Then he heard an American-accented voice call out.

“Permission to come aboard?”

Before Jackson could answer, a young midshipman raced to the quarterdeck with a piece of paper. He handed it to Jackson, who read the note. He whistled and then passed it to John Henry.

“You’re going to absolutely adore this one,” Jackson said as he nodded at the young sailor. “Permission granted, sir!” Jackson called into the fog and the boarding ramp below.

“Damn, what now?” John Henry asked as he crumpled up the hastily written note.

Two men came up the boarding ramp followed by Jackson’s dock watchmen carrying several large trunks. The larger of the two men advanced to the quarterdeck. He was heavily mustachioed and had sideburns extending to his jawline. The man looked as stern of visage as Secretary Stanton himself. He removed a black top hat and used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from the band.

“Mr. Ambassador, we’re sorry to have missed you at our welcoming ceremony.” Jackson held out a gloved hand. It was ignored.

“If I’d been there, I assure you the diplomatic ruckus you stirred up never would have happened.” The large man turned to face the questioning look on Thomas’s face. “You have made a hell of a mess for me to clean up, Colonel.”

“Apologies, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Yes, I have had quite enough apologizing for the time being, thank you. Gentlemen, I received a communiqué from President Lincoln this morning, and thus I was sent on an errand and thus I missed your entrance at the palace. This is Mr. Daniel Perlmutter, an assistant to Mr. Mathew Brady. The president has sent Mr. Perlmutter here to document anything you find,” the ambassador said as he reached into his pocket and brought out a sealed envelope. He handed it over to John Henry.

Thomas looked at the large man from Pennsylvania and then raised his brows.

“Your orders have been changed, Colonel, which is why they sent a ship after your small fleet to get Mr. Perlmutter here in time. You are not to bring back any artifact recovered on Ottoman Empire soil.”

“What in the hell are we even here for?” Jackson protested.

Thomas opened the letter from his friend. He leaned into the nearest lamp to read the tight scrawl of Lincoln’s handwriting.

“Document only. It seems we are to discover, document, and then claim American provenance to the world.”

“I’m an educated man, but just what in the hell does that mean?” Jackson asked as he turned and saw the last of the mess kitchen being lowered to the dock for its transfer to the train.

“It means we find it, take a few photographs, and then get the hell out of here.” Thomas looked relieved to a point. “Which suits me to the ground.”

“What about recovery?” the naval officer asked, incredulous.

“There will be no recovery of the vessel. The engineering alone would be too difficult for the time frame involved. The president now knows that the European powers have discovered your true intent in the eastern mountain range.” The ambassador had one more item for Thomas. He pulled two smaller pieces of paper from his coat pocket. “These are two receipts. This one” — he handed it to John Henry — “is for the purchase of one hundred and sixteen horses from the Black Sea Trading Company. They will have the animals waiting for your men once they arrive at the end of the line. This one is for one hundred and sixty-one horses and saddles from the same company that will meet you at the town of Talise, fifty-six miles from Ararat as the crow flies. And I must say, these two purchases nearly broke the embassy petty-cash box. There you have it.”

“Why so many mounts when we are no longer to recover the artifact?”

“Perhaps the president still thinks you may have to leave this place posthaste. I am afraid your guess is as good as mine on that front, Colonel.”

John Henry looked from the receipts in his hand to Jackson, who was slowly shaking his head. Thomas decided to let the matter drop for now. Instead he turned to the newest addition to his mission of fools.

“Welcome, Mr. Perlmutter,” Thomas said as he gestured for his equipment to be loaded onto the train. The men turned and with his trunks in hand made their way back to the dock and the hidden train beyond.

“Thank you, sir,” the young man with wire-rimmed glasses said as he held out his hand to the colonel. John Henry ignored it and the boy lowered his soft fingers.

“What am I supposed to be photographing?”

The ambassador tilted his head and then laughed as he placed an old newspaper in John Henry’s hand. He then turned away and laughed heartily all the way down the loading ramp.

“Good luck, gentlemen, especially since you’ll have half of the European powers out to either stop you, or steal what it is you find.” The ambassador stopped halfway down and then turned and through the swirling fog he had his last say. “Out there, gentlemen, the rules of conduct may be a little lacking in civility, so may I suggest you play the same way. After all, what could happen? War?” He placed his top hat on his head as he started to laugh once more and then vanished.

“What in the hell has changed since we left home?” Jackson wondered aloud.

John Henry opened the newspaper and scanned the week-old headline of the New York Herald.

“The war is almost over and our European friends are a little worried about a growing power in the west.”

“Who?” Perlmutter asked as he was given a foul look by Jackson.

“The United States, and they figure to stop us. Put us in back in our place, so to speak.”

Both men looked at John Henry, who handed the Herald over to the captain.

“Well, since we don’t have to dig anything out of solid ice, we may stand a chance of getting out of this alive,” Jackson said as he perused the headlines. “Can’t say that I want to be the one to inform Professor Ollafson his mission has been curtailed.” He handed the paper to Jessy, who looked at the type and frowned as he read. He turned away and John Henry saw his shoulders slump in sorrow over his drowning nation.

John Henry walked to the ship’s railing and stared out at the fog. He watched the last of the marines disappearing into the swirling mist as they moved operations to the train.

“Now all we have to do is find out what it is that’s killing people right in front of us without being seen,” Thomas said.

“Excuse me, killing?” the twenty-year-old Perlmutter asked a little nervously. “And what are we digging in around in ice for?”

Jackson saw that John Henry was going to remain silent, so he took the boy in the brand-new suit, obviously purchased through the Sears and Roebuck catalogue, and guided him to the boarding ramp just like a father explaining the facts of life to a confused son.

“I take it you have not been briefed on our mission here?”

“No, Mr. Brady just threw me this suit, gave me some old equipment, and sent me to the New York docks. The next thing I know I’m here, and I don’t even know where here is.”

“Well, let me ask you a question instead, my boy,” Jackson started. “Do you read your Bible?”

“Not in a few years, no.”

“I think maybe you’d better brush up on it a little in the next two days.”

“What parts?” Perlmutter asked nervously.

“Genesis would be good for openers; the story of Noah, to be more precise.”

John Henry heard them speaking but his mind was on just how he would gather evidence of a mysterious ship on a mountaintop, and then his only duty would be to get these men home alive. The news of the war made him more determined to do just that.

The Civil War was winding down. Now they would have to survive the peace, but would the rest of the world allow them to do that?

Thomas knew he had a lot of questions he needed answered, and he knew whom to go to for those answers.

Claire Richelieu.

15

The train departed for the east an hour later. The wind of the passing cars had just settled when four men came running up the dock from the shore side of the city. It was Renaud, and he had three Turkish policemen with him.

The American warship was empty of supplies and passengers. The first mate of the Yorktown had been afraid something like this would happen, so he wanted to greet the visitors off of American territory, which the Yorktown was, just in case there was some unpleasantness.

The young lieutenant waited patiently for the men to approach. The three Turks looked as if they had been awakened from a nap and were irritated at the Frenchman. The lieutenant heard the last few words and with his limited French understood. The small man who had been tossed from the Yorktown three days before was giving a description of his three men and was pointing at the ship.

“May I be of assistance to you gentlemen?” the naval officer asked as he stood ramrod straight by the foot of the boarding ramp.

The first policeman, dressed in a black uniform complete with a bright red fez with golden tassel, stepped up to confront the American.

“This man reports that his friends went aboard your ship and have yet to return. We would like you to produce them, please.”

The young American looked at the three officers and then at the French spy, Renaud.

“Three men. Are these men Americans?” the lieutenant asked innocently. As he spoke, the gangway was lifted and then slowly swung over to the boarding side of Yorktown. They all heard her heavy lines being cast off.

The colonel had inspected the cabin where they had discovered the bodies of the three men. There had been no time to make the dead men vanish, nor to clean the cabin thoroughly, so Colonel Thomas had ordered it closed off until the ship made open sea.

“You know they were not American. They are French citizens and our embassy would like them returned.”

The lieutenant turned fully to face the man the colonel had uncovered as a spy.

“I assure you, sir, there are no other personnel other than crew onboard Yorktown. If they’re not American, they’re against navy regulations.”

“My men are inside that ship and I want them back!”

The American turned and tilted his head at the three confused policemen. “Gentlemen, I would love to stay and chat, but we have to make a rendezvous in the Black Sea in just four days. I hope you find your men.”

The agile lieutenant simply turned and jumped onto the low gunnel of the warship as she slowly drifted away from the giant dock. The lieutenant turned as his hand took a firm hold of the rigging and waved at the stunned men on the dock.

The Frenchman cursed as the massive visage of the Yorktown slid into the fog as it drifted with the outgoing current. It was like the men were watching a spectral ghost slide into a white veil of nothing. The only sound heard was three bells as they chimed in the night.

“Thank you, gentlemen. On behalf of the United States Navy, I bid you good night.”

The voice had a light lift to it as it came from the dense fog. They could hear the rigging as it came taut against the light southerly wind. The bells chimed again and the American warship slipped into silence.

On the dock the Frenchman turned angrily toward the three Turkish policemen.

“You fools! You let them leave!”

The three men exchanged amused looks. The man in charge stepped up to the Frenchman, whom he had decided early on was a cad of the first order. He smiled down at the smaller man.

“And how do you suppose we should have gone about arresting a thirty-two-gun warship? Handcuffs, perhaps. Maybe my men should have shot at the fleeing ship to disable her sails?” The man smiled again as his two men laughed. “No, perhaps you’d better file a protest with the American Embassy, but from what I hear, the Americans are little preoccupied with a small civil war at the moment. I wish you good luck, sir,” the policeman said, and then said something in Turkish to the other two, who burst out laughing.

Renaud turned toward the fog and the strait beyond as the last of the warning bells from Yorktown chimed.

“You may think you are clever, Colonel Thomas, but I assure you my sense of humor has its limits.”

The last sound heard that night on the fog-enshrouded Bosphorus Strait was the music of a harmonica as the tune “Dixie” was played by the northern navy men. The southerners had learned that the catchy tune was almost as popular in the North as in the South. It was a small tribute to the men who were now headed east toward a bleak mountain range that clung to the very edges of the ancient Persian Empire — Ararat.

Claire was still in the car’s only water closet. She was sick to her stomach after viewing the cabin onboard Yorktown. The clickity-clack sound and swaying movement of the train cars did nothing to alleviate the situation. Nor did the accusing eyes of John Henry Thomas after he had ordered her not to view the death scene inside his cabin. She had insisted on getting the artifacts into her own hands after Professor Ollafson had been removed to the train after discovering the massacre. She had paid dearly for her venture into the bloodbath.

She started to use the pitcher of water to wash her face but then saw that the old and chipped pitcher had seen far better days, and the water within smelled as if it had not been changed. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and entered the private car that was attached to the train as a special office offered by the sultan. That was the last favor John Henry expected from the Ottoman government. Very soon their ruse would be uncovered and the pressure from the Europeans would come to bear on the sultan for his kindness to the lying Americans.

John Henry had summoned all of the principal players for their discussion of the mission and what was left of it. Professor Ollafson was white as a sheet as he sat down at the long table. The mess steward, Grandee, came in with fresh coffee. Sitting next to Ollafson was McDonald, who was still a concern after he’d been noticed spending an inordinate amount of time with a few of the British Embassy staff at the ceremony earlier that night. Every once in a while McDonald would turn to look out of the train’s window as the fog-enshrouded night flew past outside. To Thomas, the man was starting to look frightened after the discovery of the three murders onboard Yorktown. John Henry had to make a decision sooner rather than later. If he were truly a spy, the man was a terrible one.

Jessy had managed to change out of his dress uniform and was comfortably dressed in a white shirt with black work pants. His hair was askew and his beard was growing longer each day. After the Rebel colonel’s clean-up two weeks earlier, he was slowly starting to revert back to his guerrilla appearance. He was sipping coffee and waiting for John Henry to explain the situation that had developed in his cabin onboard ship. They were all interested.

The door opened and through the steam and the noise entered Captain Jackson, followed by the newest member of the expedition, Daniel Perlmutter. The young man was looking quite uncomfortable, as a moment before he had run into a few of the Rebel prisoners and marines in the accompanying cars who had teased the boy about his dress and his lack of a manly demeanor. Then the strangest thing happened when they learned he was a photographer. It was like someone had turned on a switch and the men stopped teasing and started staring at the boy as though he were a plague carrier. Not one man, North or South, wanted the photographer anywhere near them. They were all having thoughts of the battlefield photographs emerging from the death zone that had become the American landscape. The boy clearly was confused, as he was used to working with willing subjects like Union officers wanting their glory depicted in image for all time. These men cared nothing for glory. They just didn’t want to be the subject of a death photo.

Finally Gray Dog came in through the back door of the car where he had been found by Lieutenant Parnell, who was with him as they both sat, the marine officer at the table, Gray Dog on the floor by the cold wood stove. Grandee smiled down at his friend as he finished pouring the last of the coffee. He quickly reached into his overly large apron and tossed Gray Dog a biscuit and a small chunk of bacon. He winked at the Comanche, who dipped his head once in acknowledgment. So far the cook Grandee was the only person outside of Dugan and Thomas that Gray Dog conversed with. The former slave was most interesting to the young brave because of the scars he had seen on the man’s back during his fight with the Reb corporal, Jenks. He found that a man can suffer for what he dreams, and he could see the large black man had done that.

“How are the men, Lieutenant Parnell?” Thomas asked as he pushed his tin cup away and spread the latest map delivered by the Ambassador.

“Restless at the least, mutinous at the most.”

“So, things haven’t changed?” Captain Jackson asked as he removed his hat and sat down at the opposite end of the table.

“I do believe that you northern folk conveniently expect us to kowtow to your demands without memory of what we have tried to do to each other since 1861. While I gave you my word that we would see this through, do not expect us to embrace you for the chance to die on some other barren and lonely spot in the world. Dying is dying, and these men would rather that event take place a little closer to home. So if you expect singing and rejoicing that we are working alongside our northern brothers again, well, I’ll have to inform Mr. Lincoln that it may take a little bit more than just a fairy tale to draw us back into the fold. Maybe if the killing of our families had stopped first, we would be a little more cooperative, but alas, the war goes on and so does our disdain for all humanity north of the Mason-Dixon Line.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” John Henry said as he slid the weeks-old newspaper toward Jessy, who stopped it and allowed the paper to open to the headlines. His eyes scanned it momentarily and then he returned the glare of Thomas. “The war will be over soon, Colonel. The country will have to find a way to work together once more. This mission may help in that goal, or it may not, I don’t know. But if the president thinks it can, the least I can do is try. I owe the man that.” He looked around the table at each face. “A few years after this insanity is concluded, you will all see what this was about. Lincoln expects this nation to take its rightful place on the world stage, and now that we have close to two hundred years of hatred coming to a close, we can achieve that.”

They all heard the mess steward, Grandee, cough as though he had choked on something as he was about to leave.

“What is it, steward?” Jackson asked as Grandee opened the door allowing in the train noises from outside.

“T’was nothin’, sir.” He started to exit.

“I asked you a question, sailor,” Jackson insisted.

Grandee stood silent with the empty coffeepot in his hands as the door closed, effectively silencing the night. Gray Dog was chewing his biscuit as he glanced up at his friend. He then looked at John Henry and hoped the colonel would open his ears to the black man.

“Well, with all due respect to Colonel Thomas and the president, this war will never be over, sir.”

“What do you mean by that?” Claire asked as she fanned herself with a bare hand.

“You all have forgot what this war was about. No, sir, Colonel Thomas, it will take much more killing and hate before the last shots are fired, and I suspect that it won’t happen for a hundred years. America will be punished by God, for he did not mean this to be for the country.”

All eyes and ears were open to what the former slave was saying and they all had to admit that it was a question none of them wanted to contemplate.

“The way I figure it, the Lord allowed the founding of this nation for the purpose of freeing the world from bad men. Instead the Lord has watched as the nation committed suicide for something that should have ended in the time of Moses. So sad. Slavery is the darkest evil to ever infect men.” The mess steward lowered his head when he realized there was no comment from the people around the table. “May I be excused now, Captain?”

“Return to your duties,” Jackson said as he could not look the black man in the eyes. “And thank you for your insight. We all pray that you are wrong.”

Grandee shook his head and then exited the car without comment.

“That opinion should not startle you, but it does. Freeing the slaves is only the start of the harsh feelings. It will take two hundred years to end the hatred between the races, maybe even more between North and South.”

Thomas stared at Taylor and shook his head.

“His opinion is valid, but one of the reasons we are fighting this war, Jessy, is the fact that you and your people in the South don’t give two tinkers’ damn for what his or any Negro’s opinion is. They had no say.”

Jessy popped out of his chair so fast that it tipped and tumbled to the floor. Thomas remained staring at his old friend.

“Gentlemen, this line of inquiry will only hasten our downfall on this mission. May I suggest we table that discussion for a later date when we can sit with brandy and cigars and discuss this with a little dignity?” Jackson said as he looked from John Henry to Taylor.

“That is exactly how we wound up in a war. Gentlemen, all with brandy and cigars, discussing what to do about the abysmal mess we had gotten ourselves into. But I agree. Jessy, when the time comes we can settle this between you and me, but for now we have other enemies at our throats. I don’t expect they will differentiate between blue and gray if we are caught.”

Jessy looked from Thomas to the others as he returned his chair to the upright position and then sat down. He looked again at the expectant faces around the table.

“You have my apologies.”

“Accepted,” Thomas said as his eyes locked with Jessy’s. The two came to an understanding at that exact moment. They would decide the right and wrong of their personal dilemma when and if they arrived back in Washington. They both knew they had far more than just hatred between them. They had blood, a history, and they once had love of one another.

There came a soft knock on the door and once more Dugan rose to answer it. He saw a very young officer in dress blues standing in front of him, twisting his cap into an unrecognizable wad of cloth. Dugan smiled at the young officer and then allowed him inside.

“We have company, Colonel,” he said as he returned to his chair beside the door.

“Lieutenant Parmentier, reporting as ordered.”

All eyes took in the youthful appearance and the sparkling blue class-A uniform of the second lieutenant. The handlebar mustache was one that impressed even Dugan, who had shaved for the greeting ceremony at the palace he wasn’t allowed to attend.

Thomas smiled when he saw the terror on the face of the boy. He had been taken from the decks of the Chesapeake as she sailed past Constantinople for her run into the Black Sea. He was the leader of the band, so to speak, and John Henry Thomas’s unit commander for the forces arriving on the Black Sea side of the operation.

“The lieutenant joins us from the new 316th Drum and Bugle Corps of the Army of the Potomac. Sit down, Lieutenant, please.”

The young man looked around and then quickly moved to an empty chair next to Claire. The woman glanced over the boy’s features and thought to herself that he could not be more than seventeen years of age. She looked from him to Thomas and shook her head.

“Lieutenant Parmentier will hear his final orders before rejoining the Black Sea expedition at rail’s end. A horse and escort will be waiting at our destination, and from there you will bring in the support if needed. Are you up to the task?” John Henry asked the stunned officer.

“No, sir, not at all. I am in command of one hundred and twenty-two band members. We haven’t fired a weapon since they gave us basic instruction back in Ohio.”

“Well, right now you and your men have been penciled in as window dressing. Hopefully just your mounted presence will scare someone off.”

“Mounted, sir?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never ridden a horse before?” Taylor asked, smiling as he anticipated the boy’s answer.

“No, I mean, yes, but most of those men in the band have never seen a cavalryman outside of a parade.”

“Yep, you can tell this was planned by the U.S. War Department,” Taylor said.

Even Dugan had to snicker at the obvious observation by Jessy.

“Nonetheless, you were what was offered, Lieutenant. I will have the sergeant major show you the basics.”

The young officer started to say something but a shake of the head from Sergeant Major Dugan stopped him. The lieutenant sat stunned and silent.

Ollafson reached down and brought up the satchel and then started to remove the artifacts. It was Claire who stood so suddenly that McDonald next to her thought a snake had bit her.

“Excuse me, but I would prefer it if that thing was taken from here while we discuss this mission.”

“What?” Thomas asked as his eyes went from Claire to the satchel Ollafson was holding.

“I want those items taken from this car.”

“I understand that part of your request, but I need the reasoning behind it.”

“There have been six unexplained murders revolving around those artifacts. Seven if you count the professor’s student in New York.”

“From my understanding, the boy was mugged and stabbed by hooligans,” Ollafson said.

“In the presence of those,” she said pointing at the artifacts as calmly as she could.

John Henry remained silent as he took in a very clearly upset Claire Richelieu. His eyes went to a startled Ollafson.

“Do we need the artifacts in our discussions here, Professor?”

Ollafson slowly lowered the satchel containing the petrified wood to the floor of the private car.

“Well, no, I guess we don’t—”

“I mean out of the car entirely,” Claire said, still staring at the satchel.

“Now, now, let’s not be foolish,” Ollafson started to say.

“I agree. I hate those damned things and would feel better if they were not present.”

John Henry looked at Jessy and could see the colonel was not in a jesting mood. He was also looking at the satchel and Thomas could see his uneasiness. The room was so quiet that most jumped when Dugan spit heavily into a spittoon. The ting sound reverberated in the sudden silence.

“Sorry,” he said as he wiped spittle from his chin.

“Sergeant Major, place the professor’s valise in his car, please. Post a marine and then return.”

“Sir!” Dugan said as he stood and almost had to pry the satchel from Ollafson’s hands. He finally managed and then left the private car. During this exchange, Gray Dog never allowed his eyes to leave the satchel.

“I find this most disturbing, Miss Claire. I fully expected of all my associates you would be too professional to believe in such nonsense away from the mountain. The curse could never extend this far from the summit.”

“But yet you still believe in the curse, just not now. When we arrive you will learn to respect its power. Well, I think its power is massive and can reach out wherever it needs to,” Claire said as she finally saw Dugan leave with the artifacts. She took in a relieved breath and then sat once more, feeling far better than a moment before.

Ollafson knew she was right. You couldn’t believe in the curse as a matter of convenience when trying to convince people of your cause and then put it away until you needed the power of persuasion once again. No, the curse was real and he would have to start respecting that part of the legend.

“All right, the curse can be discussed between you educated folk at a later time. For now, we’ve got to discuss the new directives from the president.”

“New directives?” Ollafson asked as he sat back in his chair with a questioning look on his bearded face.

John Henry hated the fact that it was he who was going to deliver a death blow to the old man’s dreams of glory.

“The president believes that establishing provenance in regard to any vessel we may find on that summit will be enough to not only prove your theory, Professor, but give you the lead on any legal expedition to the mountain. The world would have to acknowledge your rights in that regard.”

Ollafson looked as if he had been poleaxed with an ax handle. His eyes went blank as he took in what the colonel was saying.

“What of the artifact?” Ollafson asked as even Taylor saw the hurt and sorrow in the old man’s face.

“The president explains that since it would take a massive engineering effort to remove your Ark from the mountain, he has given you permission to bring back any viable evidence that is easily recovered. Like the smaller petrified items you recovered on your previous expedition.”

“In other words, we are allowed to bring back any trash we find up there and leave the real find where it sits?”

“That’s the way I read it, Professor. I’m sorry. The realized threat from other nations and their interest in this expedition is forcing the president’s hand on this. We just don’t have the available engineers to do it. Most importantly, we also don’t have the time it would take to accomplish what you want most, full recovery. That will take peace and a whole lot of money this nation does not currently have.”

Ollafson started to say something, then he saw Taylor look at him and lightly shake his head. He patted the professor on the leg in sympathy.

“Don’t worry, Doc. If I find the Ark and if it’s viable, I’ll bring her back for you.”

John Henry knew that Jessy was just trying to placate the old man, and for the first time since their reunion Thomas saw a little of the old Taylor inside the burned-out colonel.

The deflation of Ollafson was complete. He knew he was backed into a corner and there was no way out. He would have to do what he could once on Ararat.

“This talk of curses has to end here, in this car, right now.” John Henry surprised them all with this short comment. “If word of this reaches the men, and I don’t care what uniform they wear, it will frighten them, and there is nothing worse than a soldier frightened of something he can’t see to fight. So” — he looked right at Claire — “this stops now.”

They could all see the logic in the argument so no one reacted. The door then opened and Dugan returned and nodded at Thomas.

“Done, sir.”

“We suspect that Chesapeake is now docking at the Black Sea village of Trabzon. From there they will board the Black Sea Line to our debarkation point, Talise. From there, Lieutenant” — he looked at the young band leader who was still wide-eyed with all the talk about presidents and curses — “if you and your cavalry are needed, you will be sent instructions. It’s fifty-six miles to Ararat from Talise. It should take you a hard day of riding to get to us. Hopefully you won’t be needed.”

“Hopefully,” Taylor laughed and then winked at the frightened lieutenant. “If you are called on, this could very well be another battle of the Crimean.”

The lieutenant really lost his color as again Dugan had to snicker at the boy’s discomfort.

John Henry nodded. “Which is the point I would like to make. The Crimean War could be this mission’s salvation. You see, Russia, one of our only friends in the world, lost their war to a combined allied force of British, French, and Turkish troops. The Russians are still a little put out, to put it mildly. We can exploit that little European disagreement between the Czar and his cousins if the need arises, for escape purposes, or maybe a little sea interference. The Russians really do not care for the Ottoman Empire or her fair-weather friends.”

“Okay, we may have Russians on our side. Is there anyone else crazy enough to see this mission as anything other than what it really is? A way to show the world that we can throw away lives without conscious thought like Europe. Will that make us a legitimate nation?” Jessy asked with interest.

“We can discuss the shortcomings of the world powers, both ours and theirs, at a later time, Colonel.”

“Of course. Excuse my little observation.” Taylor’s eyes were serious.

“Lieutenant Parnell.”

“Sir,” the marine lieutenant started to rise but was stopped when John Henry made a sitting gesture with his hand. The lieutenant relaxed.

“You, sir, are our main defense. You and Colonel Taylor will run defensive and offensive operations if the need arises. You will be in overall command, with Colonel Taylor as the field commander and tactician. Is that clear?”

Parnell looked from John Henry to the smiling face of the Rebel colonel. He frowned. “Sir, I’m not so sure this man can be trusted.”

“Neither am I, Lieutenant, believe me. But I am sure of one thing, if the colonel has a preference between a Turkish prisoner-of-war camp and a Union prison, he has not mentioned it yet. I’ll let you know if he does.”

Taylor lost his smile.

“Yes, sir. What are our rules of engagement?”

“Right now they are simple. If fired upon, don’t shoot back.”

“Sir?”

Dugan spit into the brass spittoon once more as he too was shocked.

“Although we are willing to bluff, the president is not willing to go into a world war if this thing goes to hell. We are to avoid all contact if possible. If they shoot first I will determine the cause and effect of any possible reaction by us. And yes, Colonel Taylor, a war with all of Europe, while assisting the cause of the Southern states in rebellion, will undoubtedly destroy what’s left of your Confederacy, and also all of the United States, and thus would defeat your very purpose, so I expect full cooperation. After all, you are under orders from Robert E. Lee himself.”

Taylor remained silent with not so much as a snappy return salvo at Thomas.

“It should take us two days to Ararat and another two to the summit. Foul-weather gear will be issued to all personnel. The weather at the base of Ararat will be no problem, but at the higher elevations we could come across moderate to severe weather patterns.”

“My duties, sir?” asked the small, girlish man in the middle of the table.

“Well Mr. Perlmutter, you have what I believe you call a camera. You will use it as much as possible, sir. And you will start with a command picture of this car when we arrive. I want our presence well documented.”

“Yes, photographs may come in handy at our courts-martial.”

“That we can agree on, Colonel.”

John Henry remained looking at Taylor and then turned to the rest. “After our arrival I want the men and equipment on the trail in no more than two hours. The train will not be returning to the capital. We may need it to get out, and I’m not a trusting-enough soul to think that the sultan won’t change his mind about our so-called gift. He may make a run for us. As far as the other European powers are concerned, the only force available to them is what they have at sea. As formidable as that is, they can’t travel overland. So, the only opposition we may face is the empire’s, and that’s only if they have a change of heart. They can only do that if the British and the French gain the sultan’s ear.”

“Which I suspect they will by the time we make the summit of Ararat,” Jessy said as a serious point.

“Understood.”

“Now, the questions you undoubtedly have can be covered in the next two days, so we’ll adjourn. Would Captain Jackson, Colonel Taylor, and Miss Richelieu stay behind, please?”

The group got up to leave with McDonald paying particular attention to Claire. All noticed the silence of Ollafson as his dream of Ararat had come crashing down. Everyone gave him a clear path out of the car.

Claire sat silently, wondering why she’d been asked to stay behind. She suspected that her recent hysteria over the artifacts was the main cause. She apprehensively looked over at a smiling Colonel Taylor. The handsome officer had no concern whatsoever about facing Thomas. Jackson remained at the opposite end of the long table. He was also curious about what Thomas wanted to say.

“I’ve noticed how uncomfortable you are around Professor’s Ollafson’s artifacts of late.”

Claire looked up. She noticed that John Henry’s question was directed at her. She looked from him to the others, who watched and waited.

“I think the murders have me thrown off a bit. They do make me uncomfortable.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” John Henry stood and saw that Gray Dog was still sitting by the door and hadn’t moved, even after Dugan had tried to boot him from the car a moment before. He took a small bite of biscuit and watched. John Henry winked at the boy and then made his way around the table. “So, you’re telling me after a full year of study you have just now become a believer in ancient biblical curses?” John Henry asked as he poured four glasses of whiskey from the decanter on the sideboard. He placed glasses in front of each, Claire, Taylor, and Jackson. Then he returned to his chair and sat. “For a lecturer in Angelic Script and ancient languages, you seem to be very vulnerable to the foolishness of myths and legends — not very comforting for us novice biblical followers, would you say?”

“Colonel, I have noticed that instead of coming directly to a point you skirt the tactful way of asking and go with an approach that will allow a subject to say more than they were willing to say. That may work on some, but not all.”

Taylor raised his brow at the quick way Claire defended herself.

“If you have a question, sir, by all means ask it.”

John Henry smiled. “All right, Madame, I will.” Thomas leaned forward, smiling. “How long did you know that your Mr. Cromwell was none other than Paul Renaud, French Intelligence?”

Claire’s breath caught in her throat.

“And what makes you think I knew he wasn’t who he said he was?”

“For the same reason you’re not telling us why you and Professor Ollafson have a British spy on your academic team as well.”

Jackson slowly stood and walked around, nudging past Gray Dog, and silently locked the door. They were now isolated. He returned to his seat and faced a stunned and silent Claire Richelieu.

Claire refused to say anything at first, at least until she found out how much the colonel knew, or guessed. Thus far, if he were guessing, she figured him to be at the very least clairvoyant.

“Now, this is at least interesting,” Jessy said as he placed his hands behind his head and waited on Claire to answer John Henry.

“And your sudden fear of something that you claim to be knowledgeable about, well, it’s a little too unbelievable. How long did it take you to learn Angelic Script?” Thomas asked as he stood and then poured himself a drink. That was when he noticed that Jackson had a Colt revolver placed in his lap as he courteously waited for the woman to speak.

Finally Claire stood suddenly and this brought Jackson’s Colt into the open.

“Whoa, take it easy there,” Taylor said as he came fully awake as Claire didn’t even look at the weapon as she moved past John Henry, and as she did she drained the small glass of whiskey and then she lifted the decanter and poured another. As she did she eyed Captain Jackson.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Captain, really.” She swallowed the second drink and then poured another and then returned to her seat with the glass and the decanter. She sat and then watched as John Henry returned to his seat. Captain Jackson lowered the Colt as Thomas sat down.

“McDonald is not to be touched or molested in any way. Is this clear to all of you?” she asked as she toyed with the top of the glass. She then looked at each face one at a time.

“Clear? Yes, that’s clear, but who in the hell are you to be giving orders?” Jackson asked as he smirked and looked from Claire to the colonel. “Especially as you are about to be thrown off this train.”

“No, I am not,” she said as she downed her third glass of whiskey. She hid a small burp behind her elegant hand and then smiled as she poured a fourth.

“You’re not?” Jackson enquired.

“No.”

Thomas smiled as he sat back and relaxed. “I’ll ask again, Miss Richelieu, how long did it take you to study a crash course in Angelic Script?”

Claire smiled sadly at Thomas. “A full year of the most boring lectures you could ever imagine.”

“After hearing Professor Ollafson’s oratory abilities, I cannot imagine that particular hell,” John Henry said as he saw the confused looks on the faces of Taylor and Jackson. The latter finally lowered the hammer on the Colt pistol and then placed it fully exposed on the tabletop.

“What in the hell is this?” Jackson asked as even Taylor was showing a great amount of curiosity.

Thomas ignored the question from Jackson.

“Why should we not chuck Mr. McDonald into the night air?” John Henry asked instead.

“Because he may know how the Crown will act if we discover the provenance of anything we find up there. I believe he and the British may overreact.”

“What makes you believe that?” Jackson asked.

“Because, gentlemen, they ae terrified of what our nation can become in later years. It’s that simple.”

“I noticed you said our nation,” Jessy stated flatly as his eyes caught Thomas’s.

“Relax, Miss Richelieu, if that is your name. The president does not believe wholeheartedly in sending men off totally blindfolded.”

Claire looked at John Henry and knew then that this army officer had known all along who her employer was.

“It is Claire, but not Richelieu. In Paris and London, yes, but my real name is Anderson. Claire Anderson.”

“How long have you worked for Mr. Lincoln?” Thomas asked as Taylor and Jackson sat stunned.

Claire slowly sipped her whiskey this time. She heard the clickity-clack of the train wheels striking steel as she realized that the hard thumping was her heart, because for the first time in her professional career she had been found out and she didn’t know how to take that.

“For the president, one, almost two years, or ever since this plan of Ollafson’s started to come together after Gettysburg. For Mr. Allan Pinkerton, I have worked for four years. I started training under him in 1859 in preparation for the war he saw coming. Later I was transferred from the war department to this … this mission.”

“A woman spy. What a marvelous and advanced age we live in,” Jessy said as he reached for the crystal decanter and poured himself a drink.

“I gather information from men who are a little weak in the area of security.”

“Meaning your talents were learned for operations against the South,” Jessy said as a statement, not a question.

Claire drank her whiskey and smiled. “Exactly, Colonel.”

“As I said, what an age.” He drank his drink and stared at the woman with a newfound respect and dislike.

“Now, why the fear behind this so-called curse? Was that a play, or are you concerned?” John Henry asked as he now got to the point of his questioning. He knew before Lincoln had explained things that Claire was not the person she said she was. Her reactions and her eyes betrayed her.

“Renaud is not just any French agent; he was and is their best. The man never takes a life without the need for it. The killing of the student was not like him. Why kill the boy when he was just a ruse and not carrying the artifacts with him? No, that is not his style,” she said as she finally slid her empty glass away. “After his attempt to get the petrified items from the professor he became like a man possessed.”

“So, you are what we call a double agent?” Jackson asked as he finally shied away completely from drinking his glass of fiery whiskey. This was not unfolding the way he had expected.

“A triple agent is more accurate,” she said as her hand reached slowly into her bodice. The eyes of every man went wide for a moment as she sent her small fingers into the area of her breasts. She pulled out a small envelope. “My official orders from the War Department.”

John Henry reached for the envelope but didn’t read it.

“Miss Anderson, I knew about your credentials long before we left the docks in Baltimore.” He gave the envelope back to her. “I don’t care what this says. From this point onward you are working directly for me and me alone. Is this in anyway unclear?”

She looked at John Henry as she replaced her orders into her bodice. “Yes, Colonel Thomas, it is very clear. But if you don’t heed my warning about those artifacts we will run into trouble. The kind of trouble you read about in the book of Genesis. Is this clear?”

John Henry saw the determination in the woman’s face but kept his skepticism to a minimum for the time being.

“I will give you your way when it comes to McDonald for now. But if he does anything to corrupt our mission he will be left in the wilderness. The last I heard, you cannot be blamed for a man falling off a train.”

“Understood. He will be valuable when the time comes in figuring out what the British will do if and when we come up with the evidence.”

“Gray Dog,” Thomas said, turning to face the seated Comanche. “What was it you saw in the brig onboard Yorktown?”

Gray Dog finally stood, much to the surprise of Claire who never knew the Indian was even in the same car.

The Comanche looked at the woman and then at the men. “Great Spirit does not wish for men to travel to his black mountain. His mystery is mystery and the dark ones watch and wait. The black one is here now and has awakened since we travel. Black medicine is working in this place.”

“What did you see, boy?” Taylor asked as he lost patience with one of the race of men who murdered his sister, regardless of what John Henry said. His prejudice he kept close to his heart, and he lashed out at anything related to it.

“The dark ones live in the shadows of this world and they grow strong once again. It will protect the mountain and what lies buried there.”

“Women spies and Indian superstition. This is a wonderful combination, John Henry. All of this combined should make for excellent planning.” Taylor had lost all of his humor.

Thomas looked from his young friend to Claire.

“Report anything unusual from our British army friend immediately or you may find yourself off this train also.”

“I will,” was her curt and angry reply.

“Good, dismissed.” John Henry watched them leave and then turned to Gray Dog. “You’re reverting back to old ways. I need you to speak in terms I can understand.”

“There is no understanding of this, John Henry. Men will die if we continue.”

“Ask Sergeant Major Dugan to bring in the artifacts before he beds down.”

“John Henry, we must not go to this black place.”

Thomas watched Gray Dog leave and wondered if every person he knew had gone off the proverbial cliff as far as reality was concerned. With the country killing itself in a war that should have been fought a hundred years before, he didn’t need fairy tales to keep him busy.

He would discover the truth behind those ancient petrified wooden relics.

16

Jessy sat at the wood-burning stove, allowing his feet to feel the warmth they had been seeking since the winter of 1862. The second year of the war had seen one of the coldest winters on record and his feet did not come out of the conflict well at all. Taylor was well aware of a soldier’s right to complain about his feet, and he utilized that right by making his men keep constant vigil on the stove. He sat in his stocking feet as he propped them as close as possible to the stove without actually setting them on fire.

Mess steward Grandee was moving through the car with a tray of coffee and his version of a sweet bun most of the men had never eaten before. Both marine guard and Rebel soldier had been pleased to get the treat from the giant black man. Even Taylor accepted the coffee.

Inside the car there were twenty-two prisoners and ten marines. Thus far they had kept separate company with only an occasional glance that relayed the men’s distrust of one another. Most of the Rebels were gathered near the back of the car around a single table, leaving their wooden bunk areas for the marines. The accommodations supplied by the Turks had surprised both Union and Confederate soldiers.

The soft melody of “Bonnie Blue Flag” permeated the train car. The harmonica was slow and bold. The song was normally an upbeat and rollicking tune sung by the troops in the South. The chorus would usually be a blaring Hurrah, hurrah, the boys are home, hurrah, but instead it was just the harmonica playing a sad refrain instead of the patriotic, inspired verse. Taylor was hearing the sadness as the tune came home to roost.

As the car moved along into the night, a single note sounded from the area where the marines sat. Then another was sent into the sad refrain of the Rebel contingent. It was a slow start to the tune “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” It was another harmonica, only this was used by a marine corporal. The music got louder, interfering with the Rebel tune. In turn the Confederates became louder. Soon a few words to both songs sounded and Taylor grimaced as he foresaw what was coming.

“Shit,” he said as he sat up and started pulling on his boots as the harmonicas gave way to pounding and louder lyrics from both sides.

Suddenly Taylor was saved the bad experience of breaking up a fight between factions when a louder tune started filtering through the other two. It was loud and played with spirit. It was another harmonica, and as the men all stood their words and rhetoric started to dwindle down to nothing. They saw the man who had come into the middle of their songs with one of his own. It was Grandee and the steward was playing the old tune that all American men knew — “Yankee Doodle.”

Taylor had to smile as the men, both marines and Rebels, didn’t know what to do or say. It was Corporal Jenks who started singing the words to the old American folk tune. Soon others joined. Both marine and Reb started caterwauling to the song as loudly as they could.

The door opened at the back of the car and Taylor turned and saw John Henry with a drawn Colt as he stood in the doorway after hearing the loud voices erupt. Jessy smiled as he once more kicked off his boots. He looked at Thomas and then his smile grew and he shook his head. John Henry holstered his weapon and then nodded, leaving the car as it erupted with both sides singing the same song.

For both Taylor and Thomas, that was a start — again.

John Henry closed the door with a mild sigh of relief. The men were not brawling as he’d suspected they would. He smiled and shook his head as he started back to the private car at the back of the train.

“Is everything all right?” came the voice from behind him.

John Henry turned and saw that Claire had left her sleeping berth, the only occupied one in this car, to see what the shouting and singing were about. She was in a white dressing gown and her long, flowing red hair cascaded around her shoulders. Thomas looked down and the dressing gown was not the only item to catch his eye. Claire was holding a small Derringer in her right hand. John Henry looked from it to the woman’s green eyes.

“Expect to bring down many a Rebel with just that?”

“No, just you for exposing my cover story. We could have discussed my orders in private.”

“Well, you can put that away for now. I’ll answer your challenge after this is all said and done.” He started to turn and then thought better of it. He smiled. “If you really want satisfaction, of course?”

Claire grimaced and then she lowered the Derringer. She half-smiled and then looked at the colonel in his long-underwear top and blue pants.

“Are you going to tell me what that is all about?” she asked as she nodded toward the forward train cars.

“Just a few men remembering who they are.” He shook his head and turned away. “Or were.”

Claire listened to the rousing tune coming from the men who had been joined by others, both naval personnel and Confederate, as they came together to remember something from their shared past. She understood why that was significant.

“Sometimes it’s the simplest solutions that stump you, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes,” John Henry said as he opened the door and without looking back he stepped inside the private car.

Claire stood and watched the closed door for the longest time. Then she jumped as she felt someone behind her. When she turned she saw it was the Comanche, Gray Dog. He nodded and stepped past her to Thomas’s closed door, where he sat. He watched her until she turned back to her berthing area.

When she climbed inside and pulled the thin curtain, her thoughts turned to Thomas and she wondered what made a man so resentful of being alive. She got a strange sensation that the colonel would rather be laid low in a grave than be among the living. She suspected she knew why, but for some reason could not understand why it was she cared.

Her thoughts were still on John Henry as she closed her eyes for sleep.

In the dim lamplight Thomas once more unfolded the waterproof cloth covering the two artifacts. The strange symbols were highlighted as darker etchings as the lamp did not fully expose them to light. He ran his fingers over the deep-cut etchings and then he felt the coldness of the petrified wood. He removed his fingers and rubbed them together. He could almost feel the frost as he wanted nothing more than for the feel of the wood to leave his skin.

John Henry reached out and swallowed the last of his whiskey, and then as he reached for the decanter found that it was empty. He pushed both the decanter and empty glass away from him as he felt his eyes growing heavy. His attention was again drawn to the two pieces of artifact and the strange symbols on the one. His fingers almost touched it again and then he pulled them back. His eyelids drooped as he again rubbed the tips of his fingers together. It was as if the cold was extending outward now and he could feel it without actually touching the stone. Finally his eyes closed and he felt the gentle touch of sleep as it claimed his conscious mind.

Outside the door, Gray Dog’s eyes also closed, but not before he pulled the blanket given him by Grandee up around his shoulders as subconsciously he felt the cold as it claimed the car.

Claire was deep asleep in her berth but still managed to pull her quilts and blankets more securely around her.

The two small lamps inside the railcar started to dim as John Henry embraced the sounds of the train as even they fell distant inside his sleeping mind. The soft tinkling of the whiskey glasses and decanter settled to a mournful tune that only added to his deepness of sleep.

Just before the lamps expired to nothing, a large shadow detached itself from the rear section of the car. As the light died it took a giant’s form as its wings spread wide and engulfed John Henry Thomas. The entity spread and then after feeling the thoughts of the American, the shadow slowly dispersed.

Jessy opened his eyes at the same moment John Henry started screaming in his dreams. He hurried from his car and made it through the windblown opening between. As he approached Thomas’s car he saw Gray Dog as he had never seen him before — asleep and not moving. It was as though the boy had been drugged. He pushed aside the sitting Comanche and tried to open the door, but it refused to budge.

“What is it?”

Jessy turned and saw Claire standing behind him. His eyes told her everything. Their gaze was punctuated by a scream inside the darkened railcar. As Claire pulled her dressing gown tighter around her, she realized that it was freezing inside the car. As she passed between the cars she’d felt the night was brisk, but not as cold as it was inside once she entered the second-to-last car. She heard John Henry yell something incoherent.

“Break it down!” she cried as she feared what was happening inside.

Taylor battered the door. Then another body slammed into it from the side as Gray Dog had finally awakened from his unnatural sleep. Both men pushed with their shoulders and the door cracked. Again they pushed as the air rushed by in between cars. The door finally gave, but both men came to a startled stop. Even Claire could see the entity as it stood over John Henry. It was large and it was blacker than the darkness of the car. The giant shadow turned toward them and they saw its mouth widen. They were struck by the sounds of thousands of dying and distressed voices. They were mixed women, children, and men as the maw widened farther. The sounds of slaughter — ten thousand years of man’s crimes against men sounded in all of those terrified and pain-filled voices coming from the blackness.

“Oh, God!” Claire screamed as the entity turned fully. The blackness was complete, but they could all swear they saw things moving in that blackness. It was like a shadow covered with millions of moving insects.

Suddenly with a last scream from John Henry the shadowlike darkness closed and then opened the massive mouth wide and out came a roar of an animal the likes of which had not roamed the world in its existence. Then the shadow vanished and the two oil lamps slowly came up in intensity.

“What in the hell was that?” Taylor said as Claire rushed past him and into the railcar.

“Death,” Gray Dog said as finally he too went in to see about Thomas.

Jessy watched as they slowly coaxed John Henry to come around. As for Taylor, he stepped back into the cold night air and closed the door as he realized what it must have been that made John Henry scream the way he had. They were the same screams he had heard the day he had come upon John Henry cradling his sister’s headless body on a burning porch. John Henry was reliving the past.

He moved his head into the slipstream of the moving train and looked eastward. In the moonlight he saw the range of mountains for the first time. He shivered in the night as he spied the snowcapped summit.

“Gray Dog is putting him to bed. He says the colonel has never been this drunk. I suspect that had something to do with his vivid dreams,” came the raised voice as it reached him through all of the train’s noise.

Taylor turned and saw Claire standing outside in the cold air.

“For a spy, you don’t seem to be very observant, Miss Anderson, or Madame Richelieu, whatever you prefer,” Jessy said as he turned fully to face her. “I’ll tell you what I saw. I saw a large shadow standing over John Henry with an outstretched hand touching his head as he slept — that’s what I saw.”

Claire didn’t respond as she started to turn away. Jessy took her arm and spun her back around.

“Now, tell me you saw different.”

“I told all of you, something is attached to that artifact that’s not natural. I can’t explain it, and the colonel doesn’t want to hear any theories about it, so I suggest you leave it be.” She angrily shrugged out of Taylor’s grip.

Taylor reached out and took hold of her arm again and pulled her to the opening of the section between cars. The wind caught her hair and it flew back. She saw the mountain range and she froze.

“I think you’d better explain it to us before we reach that!” he screamed against the noise of the tracks.

She saw the mountain range and she wanted to turn away but her head wouldn’t move.

“Because, my dear, we are fast arriving at our destination.”

Claire finally managed to turn back to face the Rebel colonel.

“That,” he pointed harshly, “is Mount Ararat!”

The blackness of the mountain range became visible long before the dawn light of morning illuminated the barren landscape.

Only the peak of Ararat looked down upon the approaching Americans with silent scorn. For this was not the first incursion the mountain had faced.

History would never record the truth that the summit of Ararat had claimed more lives than were lost at the American Battle of Gettysburg.

It had been more than twenty-four hours since the incident in the private car with John Henry. Most had noticed the dark circles under his eyes as he moved past them inside their berthing cars. The Rebel prisoners raised their brows when they saw the silent way he moved about. It was Claire who cornered John Henry as the train pulled into their last water stop before they hit Talise. The sun was bright but the morning had grown cold as the weather took a turn for the worse. Claire bundled herself as best she could without breaking into the cold weather gear. She saw the men milling around as the colonel had ordered most off the train to stretch their legs. She waited at the bottom step of the private car until John Henry and Jessy made an appearance.

“Colonel Thomas, do you have a moment?” she asked as John Henry pulled on a pair of leather gloves. He nodded his head and then looked at Taylor.

“Would you excuse us?”

Jessy took his time lighting a cigar and then looked up as the tobacco caught. He smiled and then looked at Claire. “Careful now. I just glued him back together.” He smiled even wider and then tipped his hat and moved away, humming a tune she couldn’t place.

“He is one complicated man,” she said as she followed the easy gait of the Confederate officer.

“Not exactly the word I would use to describe him,” John Henry said as a little of his old self shone through for the first time in a full day.

“Colonel, about the other night, I just wanted to say—”

“Look, I don’t know what happened. I only have what you people say. I had a nightmare about the death of my wife. It happens quite often, I assure you,” he said and then started walking toward the edge of a small road as the train took on water. He turned and saw the men, even their guards, relaxing on the wild grass that grew on the Turkish plains. The area somewhat reminded Thomas of the Llano Estacada in North Texas in its bareness.

“Colonel, I assure you, there was a presence in that car with you. It was touching you as you slept.”

“That is what Colonel Taylor has been saying. All I can say is that I was dreaming.” He turned away in his stubbornness.

“Listen, I understand that you dream, but I was informed that you never act out in your nightmares. You were screaming. It was if you were watching the event right in front of your eyes. It was terrifying.”

“And you came upon this information how?” he asked as his attention was brought back to the beautiful woman questioning him.

She stood silent, knowing she had betrayed a trust.

“I’ll be having a talk with Sergeant Major Dugan, I can assure you.”

“He’s as concerned as myself, so I’m sure the sergeant major will bear up. I have a feeling he does it quite often anyway. I understand you are plagued by nightmares.”

“You have me there. Yes, and Dugan needs to keep quiet.”

For the first time in what seemed like days they both laughed.

They saw Gray Dog approach. The boy was eating an apple. It was something the Comanche could not get enough of. Grandee had also introduced him to the banana and he found it to be a magical fruit of wondrous taste. John Henry had felt bad for depriving the boy of such simple pleasures in their time in the west. He knew he had been lost for the past five years and how badly it had affected those around him.

Gray Dog chewed on his apple.

He watched the two stop laughing and then John Henry looked at him, waiting to see what Gray Dog had to say.

“We are being watched, John Henry.”

The two of them became still as the colonel slowly turned and looked at the low-slung hills surrounding the train line. He failed to see anything.

“Where?” he asked.

“A mile south of us. Four mounted men. They sit upright in their saddles. Soldiers.”

John Henry looked at the spot Gray Dog had indicated. He was surprised when he saw how far off the Comanche had spotted their guests. He could barely make out the shapes of men sitting upon horses.

“Perhaps they are just Turkish drovers. They’re quite abundant in this region,” Claire said, failing miserably at spotting what the men described.

“Maybe we ought to mount up and go see who they are,” Thomas said as he started to turn back toward the train.

“No,” Gray Dog said as he tossed his apple core away into the tall, dry grass.

“Why?” Thomas asked as he stopped next to the Comanche.

“Because they come,” Gray Dog pointed south.

John Henry turned and saw that the riders were indeed headed toward the stopped train.

“I guess we better put on the tea,” Claire said as she finally saw the four men riding hard toward them.

There was no comment from John Henry as he clearly made out the shining sabers as they flashed in the sun. Whoever they were, they were indeed as Gray Dog had described — soldiers.

The only uniformed officers on the train siding that day were Thomas, Jackson, Taylor, Dugan, and Lieutenant Parnell. The prisoners and the U.S. Marine guard were attired in rugged civilian work clothes. The men idly milled about as normal men would after a long and tiring ride on rough rail. As the military men were posing as army and naval engineers, it stood to reason that they would wear their corresponding uniforms. As for Claire, Ollafson, and McDonald, John Henry had ordered that they stay aboard and away from prying eyes.

As the four riders fast approached, Jessy stepped up to John Henry as he finished his cigar.

“See what color those fancy uniforms are?” he asked as he made a show of not looking in that direction.

“Good old bloodred. Rather startling after such a bleak landscape.”

“Why would the British be so brazen as to approach our little band of fools?” Taylor asked as he watched his men for any sign of them not following orders. Word had spread among his men that if any escape attempt was made without his knowledge he would charge the perpetrators with treason.

“I suspect they will have reason. If not, they expect us to be terrified at the sight of royal red.” John Henry smiled as he faced Taylor. “I am not one to frighten easily at mere colors. You boys in gray should know that.”

“Yes, but then again I guess those gray uniforms were kind of hard to distinguish way out there in Nebraska and Kansas counting Indians.”

Thomas kept the smile on his face as he faced Jessy. “You have an innate ability to get my dander up right when I don’t need the aggravation, you know that?”

Taylor puffed on the cigar as he smiled broadly and waved at the four riders as they entered the water-station area.

“Hell, John Henry, that’s what in-laws are for. You know that.” He waved more vigorously as the men stopped and watched the activity around them. Taylor saw a captain and two lieutenants. The fourth was a bearded sergeant who looked as tough and gruff as Dugan. Each wore the shortened versions of the white pith helmet made famous in Britain’s India campaigns. Taylor thought they looked silly and doffed his fedora just for show.

John Henry reached into his tunic and brought out a cigar and slowly lit it, cupping his hands against the freshening wind. His eyes never left the British officers.

“Gentlemen, welcome to the wilds of the Ottoman Empire. Strange to see more lost souls out here.”

“We are most assuredly not lost. We are in the service of Her Royal Majesty, sent to survey a possible new trade route into Iran and points east.”

Taylor made a show of looking around and then he settled on the mountains not that far distant.

“Mercy, now that would be a task getting men and equipment through those passes up there. Sure you’re up to it?”

“I assure you, sir, those small mountains are no hindrance to Her Royal Majesty’s Engineering Corps. Now, may I have your name, sir?” the blond captain asked as he located the rank on Jessy’s uniform jacket. Spying the small shoulderboards with the silver eagles, the captain waited.

“Name’s Jessop Taylor, colonel, United States Army.” He smiled and bowed with a flair of hat swinging wide and low. He half-turned and smiled at John Henry who watched silently while smoking his cigar. His blue eyes went from a bowing and graceful Taylor to the ruddy face of the English captain.

“Now that the matter of who’s lost and who’s not is settled,” John Henry said as he kept the cigar firmly in front of his face as he smoked, “and you see the rank of the officer in front of you, I believe in our army as well as yours, that the eagles on his shoulders rate a salute, sir.” He stepped forward with one hand in his pants pocket and the other holding his cigar. His size compared to the mounted British was still imposing.

The captain cleared his throat and then noticed the eagles on John Henry’s uniform coat also. He immediately stepped down, but not before lightly slapping the knee of the lieutenant next to him to follow suit. All four men dismounted. The captain approached John Henry but he held a hand up and gestured toward Jessy, who was smiling and smoking. The captain turned and faced the wrongly attired Rebel officer.

“You have my apologies, sir. I am normally not discourteous, no matter what the uniform or situation.”

Taylor smiled as his eyes roamed to John Henry, who had also caught the slight as the captain made a show of examining the Union blue uniform.

“Relax, Captain.” Jessy returned the openhanded salute from the officer. He did it quick and not exactly the way he had been taught to do it at West Point. “We are all friends out here.” Jessy walked up to the captain’s mount and patted the animal on the front leg as if admiring it.

“Captain Jeremy Satterfield, Her Majesty’s Black Watch, on assignment to the Ottoman Empire to assist our ally in road construction.” He turned and this time his salute was directed at Thomas, who merely dipped his head without returning the officer’s courtesy.

“So, you, like ourselves, are engineers?” Taylor asked, turning away from the horse and then approaching the silent lieutenants as they stood ramrod straight. Only the gruff color sergeant had the courage to eye the American as he examined them like a species of insect.

“Us? Oh, no, Colonel. We are selecting a safe route for our engineers. The British armed services like to have our boys protected. We are just the vanguard of an entire British regiment. We have been granted permission by the empire to deploy for security reasons.”

“All of that security for an allied army in a friendly state?” Thomas finally broke his silence. “Must be nice to have such friendly relations.”

“We try to do our best, sir,” Captain Satterfield said as he moved away toward the resting and playful prisoners as they were preparing to board the train once more. The train’s whistle sounded as the first man Satterfield approached just happened to be Corporal Jenks.

Taylor turned away from the three remaining soldiers and looked at John Henry, who tried his best not to pay attention to what Satterfield was doing.

“Good day, young man,” Satterfield said with a smile as he placed his hands behind his back as if he were attempting a normal greeting and conversation.

Jenks only nodded his head and tried to step past the tall and very thin red-jacketed officer.

“I would have thought strapping men such as yourselves would be in the armed services of your country?”

Jenks looked at Taylor, who was watching silently. He turned and faced Satterfield. He removed the dirty hat from his head and scrunched it up in front of him as if he were frightened of the British officer.

“Fight for men like you? I think I would rather break rocks in the desert,” Jenks said in a rough imitation of an Irishman. He was trying to conform to Colonel Taylor’s orders as best he could. “First we are driven from our island by the likes of you and then when we get to America we’re treated no better than dirt and they ask us to fight for them?” Jenks spit into the dust at Satterfield’s feet. The officer just looked at the bearded Jenks and said nothing.

John Henry watched what amounted to a British interrogation of his men. He saw that Jenks held up well as Satterfield turned his nose up at him. Somehow the redcoat had been informed about the men being something other than what they represented. Jenks did well to hide his southern accent, but Thomas figured the officer wouldn’t know the differing dialects of the people of the United States. Hell, even he himself had a hard time distinguishing regional tongues.

“These men, as you may have heard from rumor and innuendo, are in fact draft evaders. Their sentence is to work this railroad. Any other questions can be directed to my second-in-command.” John Henry turned on his polished heels and boarded the train.

Satterfield watched the large American colonel vanish into the train’s second-to-last car. He turned and approached Taylor, who was gesturing for the men to board. He was pleased to see the marine guard mingling with their charges in an attempt to maintain the deception. Jessy turned and nodded at the captain.

“May I offer the services of the United States Army for your transport east? I assure you we can accommodate your mounts and find space among the Irish workers for bedding purposes.”

“That will not be necessary, Colonel, although the offer is most assuredly taken for what it was meant for.” The eyes were the only part of the smile that failed miserably.

“I suspected it would be, Captain.” Jessy did have the eyes for the smile that was present on his face after the offered insult as he picked at the shoddy relationship between the English and their Irish brothers.

“Colonel, the empires, both Ottoman and British, know exactly why you are here. I suspect that the sultan is at this very moment regretting his decision to allow you Americans access to the eastern mountain ranges. Your attempt at gaining access to this abominable myth will cause irreparable damage to America’s international future.”

“Now, you see, you lost me there, Captain. We Americans have the irritating ability not to see things the European way. We stumble along the best we can and try to do what we think is right. Now, we’re here to build a rail line that connects north and south all the way to the Mediterranean. To what myth are you referring?”

Satterfield remained silent as Taylor held the man’s eyes with his own.

“Suffice it to say, Colonel Taylor, you will not be allowed to succeed in stealing what most assuredly is not yours.” Satterfield turned and made for his horse. The jangling sword at his side made for a dramatic effect as he mounted. “You are a long way from your home, Colonel. Stop this madness and return there before you cause a stir America can ill afford at this time.”

“I think you’ll find we don’t think that far ahead, Captain. Good day, sir.”

Satterfield did not wait for Taylor to finish before he wheeled his horse around and started whipping it back to the south.

The only man to remain was the sergeant, and he was staring at the three up and three down stripes of Dugan, who had taken an interest in the exchange between nations. The two gruff sergeants held their gazes upon each other and then the British color sergeant winked, as if he and Dugan shared a link that only they had. Then the sergeant turned his mount and rode after the officers.

Jenks stood next to Dugan.

“I don’t think my acting convinced them of nothin’,” he said.

Dugan watched the riders as they shrank in the distance.

“Those boyos know exactly why we’re here, Corporal, make no mistake about that.”

“If that’s the case, I would feel much better with a gun in my hand.”

Dugan laughed hard and loud. “Yep, right after I give you command of a regiment.”

Jenks spit again and then shook his head.

“What do you think?” Taylor asked when he joined John Henry and Jackson as they watched the British ride off from the darkness of the rail car.

“You know what I think. The whole damn world knows why we’re out here and if we’re not careful this could turn into a real shooting war.”

Taylor laughed and then surprised John Henry by slapping him on the back.

“Maybe that’s what old Abe wanted all along, ya think?”

Thomas watched Taylor walk away as the train whistle sounded and the first charge of the steel wheels started them forward once more.

“I sure hope he’s wrong,” Jackson said as he stepped up. “Because all we have as a backup plan is the Argo, and that, Colonel, will not be enough.”

Jackson walked away and left Thomas alone. Once more John Henry stepped outside and then leaned outward between cars. The mountain was growing larger. It seemed he could see a weather front on its summit and wondered if the risk was worth the reward. As he thought about this, Ararat stared back at the approaching Americans with a silent face. Her peaks and valleys awaited the incursion by an unbelieving species that knew no bounds in their arrogance born of success.

As he watched, it seemed the shadows that grew onto the plains in front of the mountain range lengthened, as if reaching out to embrace the newcomers.

John Henry knew Ararat’s embrace would be a cold one.