The Atlantis Legacy - A01-A02

by Greanias, Thomas

  “Open in the name of the United States of America!”

  The door opened a crack to reveal the face of a small boy, who fell back in alarm as the soldiers pushed their way inside. The thirty or so revelers in the tavern sat fast in their chairs, their mugs of ale midair and their mouths open. The music stopped, the sudden silence broken only by the crackling of the fireplace flames.

  The commanding officer, a head taller than most in the room, grabbed the boy by his collar and demanded, “We are looking for a runaway slave, a cook who goes by the name Hercules.”

  Hercules was in the kitchen, chopping onions for one last serving of his popular stew. His wiry dark hair was pulled tight to his scalp and stuck straight back like the handle of an iron skillet. Rules of the house. But he had refused to shave his beard. As his stew rose to a slow boil he suddenly realized that the noise in the tavern had died down. He cocked his ear.

  The kitchen door flew open, and in stormed four Green Coats. Their commanding officer, who identified himself as Major Cornelius Temple of the U.S. Provisional Army, shouted, “Which of you is Hercules?”

  Hercules froze. So did the other kitchen staff, all slaves. None of them said a word, but their anxious gazes drifted toward Hercules.

  Hercules had been a slave until he ran away from his master two years ago. He had been making his way as a cook ever since, having perfected his renowned Southern dishes at the General’s homes in New York, Philadelphia, and Virginia. If all he ever did was cook for his master, he would never have left. But his master made him carry out other missions, too. Secret missions. Dangerous missions. Now his past had finally caught up with him.

  He just hadn’t expected it to come so soon.

  Hercules laid down his chopping knife on the table and stepped forward, praying that the only thing the soldiers were after tonight was a runaway slave, and not the secret his master had him bury years ago.

  The major looked down his nose at Hercules. “Come with us, slave.”

  Hercules was only average in height, but he was as muscular as his namesake. Standing proud, he gazed directly at the commanding officer. The major’s green coat reached the knee and sported yellow lapels and cuffs. His vest was white, single breasted, with white buttons. The white fringed strap epaulette on his right shoulder designated his rank. But it was the major’s black three-cornered hat that had transfixed Hercules, specifically its small but spellbinding silver insignia.

  The Regiment of Riflemen.

  Hercules understood then that he was in the presence of killers, sanctioned by the new federal government. Until now Hercules knew of the Regiment of Riflemen by reputation only. Earlier that year Congress authorized the formation of a specialized unit of snipers that engaged in unconventional tactics. “The first in the field and last out” was the regiment’s motto, and their tactics borrowed heavily from the Light Infantry and even Indians. That much was clear from the major’s belt, which along with a leather cartridge and bullet cases held a tomahawk and scalping knife.

  Hercules would not resist arrest, if only for the sake of the other slaves.

  He turned to open a small closet door and heard the click of a musket hammer behind him.

  “Slowly, slave.”

  “Jus’ gettin’ my coat.”

  Hercules calmly removed his herringbone overcoat with ivory buttons from its hook. The wool was so finely woven it gave the whole coat a glossy sheen.

  The young soldier released the cocked flintlock and lowered his special model French Charleville. But before Hercules could button up, the butt of another musket smacked him in the side of his head and he went down on all fours.

  “You run away with that coat, slave?” the major snarled, as he kicked Hercules in the side like an animal.

  Hercules knew the drill. The major had no feelings for him one way or another. He simply needed to make him an example to any other slaves in the kitchen who might think that they, too, could one day run away.

  “I bought it righteously, suh,” Hercules managed to say with a grunt before four strong arms pushed him outside.

  “He’s a freedman by law in Pennsylvania!” cried one of the cooks.

  “He’s not in Pennsylvania anymore,” the major barked as the door slammed shut behind him.

  A flat-bottom boat, manned by four boatmen, waited at the wharf, the icy waters of the Potomac lapping at its sides. The sleet had returned, coming down even harder than before. The soldiers pushed Hercules to the stern. A moment later he was sitting between two soldiers and opposite the major and two others as they shoved off into the dark.

  “The General is looking for you, slave.”

  Hercules shivered. The General, his master, was a just man and a great leader. But he had burdened Hercules with secrets too heavy for any American patriot to bear, let alone a slave.

  Lord, please don’t let this be about the globe.

  Hercules gazed at the white exterior of the Presidential Palace as they floated by. Now in its seventh year of construction, it was still unoccupied; President Adams lived in Philadelphia with his family. In the distance loomed Jenkins Hill and on top of it the new U.S. Capitol Building, or at least part of it.

  The General had once told him that more than a century ago the hill was called Rome and the Potomac the Tiber, because the property owner, a man named Francis Pope, had a dream that one day a great empire to rival ancient Rome would rise on these banks. But all Hercules could see was marshland, half-finished buildings, and tree stumps along what was supposed to be a grand thoroughfare—Pennsylvania Avenue—linking the great white Presidential Palace to what they were now calling Capitol Hill.

  The boatmen were rowing vigorously now, as a few floating chunks of ice struck the sides of the boat. Even the major had to grab an oar. Hercules at first wondered why they didn’t make him row, too. But he figured they didn’t want to hand a runaway slave an oar only to have him swing it at them.

  Hercules pulled at the collar of his coat as pellets of sleet slapped his face. He felt the stare of the major in the bow, whose own coat was not so heavy. But Hercules had paid for the coat himself, and his tailored wool trousers and buckled shoes, too. The General had allowed him to cook outside of the Philadelphia house in nearby taverns to earn extra money. Much of it he spent on fine clothing, which offended soldiers in the General’s charge who were not paid nearly as much nor dressed as well.

  Finally the sleet stopped and the boat struck the opposite shore. The soldiers pulled him out and escorted him toward steps that led up the hill to the General’s estate.

  Mount Vernon was ablaze with light. There were torches everywhere, and Hercules saw carriages and horsemen five deep in the court as he was marched toward the servants’ entrance. An express courier galloped past on horseback, shouting for them to get out of the way, and almost trampled them.

  Inside the manor, at the bottom of the back stairs, Hercules waited with several parties of private citizens and military officers and wondered what he was doing among such august company. The General’s personal physician, the lanky Dr. Craik, was exchanging sharp words in hushed tones with a portly Catholic priest. Hercules couldn’t hear what they were saying, and he was embarrassed by the curious glances from the others. They all seemed to know some terrible secret that he did not.

  A few minutes later, a gaunt-looking man Hercules recognized as the General’s chief of staff, Colonel Tobias Lear, plodded down the steps. Hercules anxiously watched the group part as Colonel Lear walked straight up to him. His military escort, seeing no chance for him to flee, stepped back and released him.

  Lear looked him over. “My God, man, they were supposed to bring you, not beat you senseless.”

  Hercules didn’t understand what Lear meant, nor Lear’s glare at the major, whose expression remained emotionless.

  “I been beaten worse,” Hercules said.

  Lear glanced about the room in search of Dr. Craik, but the General’s physician was still occupied with the pr
iest. He took out his own handkerchief and touched it to Hercules’ temple. When Lear withdrew his hand, Hercules saw blood on the cloth. Instantly worried about his coat, Hercules glanced down and was relieved to find no soiling.

  “His Excellency will see you now,” Colonel Lear said.

  Hercules glanced back at his military escort and then followed Lear up the stairs. Lear paused before the door to the General’s chamber.

  “Brace yourself, man,” Lear said and opened the door.

  Hercules at last beheld the cause of all the hue and cry: There, in his bed, writhing in pain and gasping for air, lay General George Washington, first president of the United States of America and current commander-in-chief of its armed forces. A string was tied around the great man’s arm, where blood, thick and heavy, oozed from a vein.

  They’re bleeding him, Hercules realized. A bad sign.

  Sobbing quietly at the foot of the bed was the General’s wife, Martha, who rose to her feet and smiled weakly at Hercules. Young Christopher, the General’s personal servant, helped her out of the room and shut the door, all the while averting his eyes from Hercules. The guilty look on his face made Hercules wonder if he was the servant who gave him up and told Washington his whereabouts.

  “The General asked for you,” Lear said now that they were alone. “As you can see, he’s dying.”

  How can this be? Hercules wondered. The last time Hercules saw his master, he seemed as robust and regal a man in his 60s as he had ever laid eyes upon. That was shortly before Hercules had run away. Terror seized his heart as he approached the bed, anxious to know what punishment his master might have in store for him.

  “Massa Washington,” Hercules said. “I didn’t mean no disrespect. I just wanna be free, like you said the law allowed back in Philly.”

  “Don’t be alarmed, Hercules,” Colonel Lear said. “His Excellency understands the reasons for your departure and apologizes for the abruptness of your summons. He wants you to know all is forgiven. But he asks one final favor of you, not as a slave but as a freedman and patriot. Apparently, you are the only man he trusts with it.”

  Astonished, Hercules drew himself up to his full stature, his pride mixed with fear. For years the General had trusted him with his life—every time he put a fork in his mouth—like the Pharaohs of Egypt and their taste-testers, paranoid of conspirators who would poison them. But this was different.

  Washington tried to speak but struggled with it, forcing Hercules to bend his ear. “The republic requires your services,” Washington gasped hoarsely, in so low and broken a voice that Hercules could hardly understand him. He could smell vapors of vinegar, molasses, and butter on the General’s breath. “I would be most grateful.”

  Hercules, moved deeply, bowed low. “Massa Washington, I ain’t up to something like this no more.”

  But the General seemed not to hear him and gestured to Colonel Lear, who held out an envelope for Hercules.

  Despite his protest, Hercules took the yellowed envelope and saw the bold letters written across that spelled STARGAZER. Like most of Washington’s slaves, Hercules couldn’t read, and he often wondered if this was another reason why the General trusted him with these sorts of communiqués. But he knew the code name all too well.

  Colonel Lear asked, “Do you know the Christian name of this patriot, this agent with the code name Stargazer?”

  Hercules shook his head.

  “Neither do I, and I know more about the General’s military papers than anybody else,” Lear said. “But you know where to find him?”

  Hercules nodded.

  “Very well, then. Two of the General’s officers will escort you to the woods outside the Federal District. From there you will take the route the General says you have taken before for him, and deliver the letter to its proper destination.”

  Hercules put the letter in his coat, aware of Washington’s anguished eyes following the path of the letter closely. The General preferred his spies to carry secret communiqués at the bottom of their knee-high boots. But tonight Hercules was wearing his shiny buckled shoes, which the General considered far less secure, so that was not an option.

  “One more thing,” said Lear, and presented Hercules with a small dagger in a leather sheath. “As a token of his appreciation, the General would like you to have this. It’s one of his favorites. During the Revolution you apparently proved yourself very good with a knife.”

  Hercules took the dagger in his hand. Engraved on the handle were strange symbols that Hercules would never understand but which, after decades in the service of his master, he recognized as Masonic. He slipped it under his coat and into his belt behind the small of his back.

  The General seemed to approve and strained to say something. He gulped air to breathe and made a harsh, high-pitched respiratory noise that frightened Hercules.

  “Hercules,” he gasped. “There is one evil I dread, and that is their spies. You know whom I mean.”

  Hercules nodded.

  “Deliver the letter,” Washington hissed, his voice losing strength. “Rid the republic of this evil. Preserve America’s destiny.”

  “Yessa.”

  Hercules rose and glanced at Lear.

  “You have the final orders of His Excellency General George Washington, commander-in-chief of the United States armed forces,” Lear said. “Carry them out.”

  “Yessa.”

  Hercules bowed and walked out the door just as Dr. Craik and two consulting physicians rushed in with Martha. As Hercules stumbled down the stairs in a daze and stepped out into the bitter night, the cries of the servants rang in his ears:

  “Massa Washington is dead! The General is dead!”

  Outside, dispatches concerning the General’s demise were already being handed to express couriers for delivery to President Adams and Generals Hamilton and Pinckney.

  Two military aides, meanwhile, were waiting for Hercules with the horses. Hercules faintly recalled their faces. One was a former Son of Liberty. The other was an assassin and an original member of the Culper Spy Ring who helped Washington beat the British in New York. No words were exchanged as Hercules threw a leg over his chestnut-colored horse and they galloped away from Mount Vernon.

  They avoided the main roads as they rode north through the outskirts of Alexandria, cutting across farms and orchards in a wide arc until they reached the nape of the Potomac and crossed a wooden bridge a few miles west of Georgetown. Ten minutes later they reached the great woods at the edge of the federal district and Hercules brought his horse to a halt.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked the former Son of Liberty.

  Hercules looked into the woods. The twisted trees and strange noises had always spooked him, even before that terrible night when he and the General buried the old globe.

  Oh, Lord, not here! Please don’t make me come back here!

  Hercules remembered the stories about the ancient Algonquin Indians that old Benjamin Banneker, the General’s Negro astronomer, used to tell him when the General used the stars to draw the boundaries for the federal district. According to Banneker, long before Europeans colonized the New World, the Algonquin held tribal grand councils both at the base of Jenkins Hill, where the new Capitol Building sat, and in the ravines of these woods. What they did during those councils, Banneker wouldn’t say. But he did say that the Algonquin were linked by archaeology to the ancient Mayans and by legend to the descendents of Atlantis. The chiefs of their primary tribe, the Montauk Indians, were known as Pharaoh, like their ancient Egyptian cousins 10,000 years ago. Banneker told him the word Pharaoh meant “Star Child” or “Children of the Stars.”

  Hercules craned his head up to the stars. The clouds had parted like a frame around Virgo. A chill shook his bones. Hercules knew that by making the layout of the new capital city mirror the constellation, the General benignly sought the blessings of the Blessed Virgin in heaven upon the new republic. But such mysteries spooked him, almost as much as words like Phara
oh and Star Child.

  After all, slaves built the pyramids of Egypt. Would the same be true of America?

  “Let’s move,” demanded the former assassin.

  Hercules led his military escort into the woods. For several minutes he listened to the crunch of leaves beneath hooves as he weaved between the trees in the starlight, a bare branch or two scratching him along the way.

  “Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come,” he began to sing, repeating his favorite verse from the song “Amazing Grace.” “’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.”

  He tried not to think about old Banneker’s otherworldly stories or, God forbid, the secret cave and the secret globe, which contained the greatest secret of them all. As he sang, his eyes darted back and forth, glancing at the dancing shadows all around. Then he heard the snap of a twig and stopped.

  He glanced back at the two horses of his military escort in the darkness. But he could see only one rider—the former assassin. At that moment, he felt the muzzle of a pistol in his back and then heard the voice of the other escort, the former Son of Liberty.

  “Get down here, slave.”

  Slowly Hercules dismounted and turned. Both soldiers, now standing before him, pointed their pistols at him.

  “The communiqué,” said the assassin. “Hand it over.”

  Hercules hesitated, staring down the long barrel of the French flintlock.

  “The communiqué, slave!”

  Hercules slowly put his hand into his coat and removed the letter. He handed it to the former Son of Liberty, who glanced at it and handed it to the assassin.

  “Who is Stargazer?”

  Hercules said nothing.

  “Tell me or we kill your family, too, starting with your two-year-old bastard daughter. We know where to find her. She lives with her mother in Philadelphia. So, again, who is Stargazer?”

  “I-I don’t know,” Hercules said.

  The assassin’s face turned red with rage and he tapped the barrel of his flintlock to Hercules’ temple. “How can you not know, slave?”