The Devil's Path (An Alexander Scott Novel Book 1)

by Richard Turner

  Edging back, Scott waited for the inevitable strike. His heart was racing in his chest.

  If only he had a weapon.

  With a snarl, the Maori charged straight at Scott.

  Scott held his ground. Seeing his opponent coming, Scott waited until the last possible second before turning on his heels so the Maori would hit his side. Bending his knees, Scott took the full brunt of the charge, and grabbing the Maori by his collar, Scott threw him straight over his hip. With a loud bang, the Maori hit the wooden pier. Scott was about to dive at the downed man, when unbelievably, he rolled over and jumped right back up, a maniacal look gleaming in his eye. Scott cringed inside. The man was tough and resilient.

  Laughing to himself, the Maori juggled the knife back and forth in his meaty hands.

  The man’s enjoying himself thought Scott as he steadied himself for the man’s next attack.

  With a war cry from his lips, the Maori charged once more at Scott; this time he was not going to fall for Scott’s moves. Seeing Scott prepare himself, the Maori dove forward, rolled once and came straight up beside Scott.

  Scott could not believe his eyes, when his opponent suddenly appeared beside him. Slashing out with his right hand, he hit the Maori’s knife hand, blocking it. He expected the man to back off and try another lunge with his knife; instead the Maori warrior turned his head towards Scott. His eyes seemed to grow in his head, and then with a growl he stuck out his tongue… a Maori war challenge.

  With a practiced move, the Maori spun his knife around in his hand and then with all his strength, he slashed at Scott’s chest.

  Sensing a slight change in his opponent’s posture, Scott jumped back, knowing what was coming.

  He was fast, but not fast enough.

  He felt the blade slice along his chest, deep enough to cut the skin and glide along one of his ribs. Searing pain filled Scott’s mind. Grimacing in pain, Scott launched his right hand onto the Maori’s knife hand, digging in his fingers into the man’s forearm. Turning on his heels, Scott threw his forehead straight onto his surprised adversary’s nose, smashing the cartilage in one painful blow.

  A howl of pain and surprise flew from the Maori’s throat as he staggered back on his feet. Blood streamed down the man’s face and all over his gray suit.

  Scott had expected the man to drop, but instead he seemed to relish the pain. It was as if he was just a plaything for his opponent. He had to do something fast, or the Maori would tire of the game and kill him. With all of his strength, Scott shot his right heel straight onto his adversary’s exposed left knee. The sickening sound of the man’s kneecap popping out of its socket even surprised Scott.

  With a loud howl of pain, the warrior staggered on his feet, but somehow managed to remain standing. His eyes suddenly burnt with anger and hate. With his free hand, he grabbed Scott’s right hand holding his knife hand and then began to twist it.

  The pain was excruciating. Scott felt like his arm was going to break at any second. He tried kicking his adversary’s smashed knee, but he had stepped just too far out of Scott’s reach. Tears filled his eyes. He had to let go, or risk losing his arm. A hiss escaped Scott’s gritted teeth as he let go of the Maori’s knife-hand. In an instant, he felt himself being lifted up off the pier. His feet dangled in the air as he was held out in front of the massive Maori like a child’s toy. With a smile on the man’s face, Scott was hurled through the air, smashing into a crate. Pain lanced from the knife wound in his ribs. Struggling to breathe, Scott rolled off the crate and staggered up onto his feet. He shook his head to clear his blurry vision. Across from him, his opponent stood there, wounded and battered, but still on his feet; in his hand his long deadly curved blade.

  “You were good…a real good soldier man, but it’s time to say goodbye, mate,” said the Maori as he raised the knife and took a step towards Scott.

  The sound of a pistol firing startled Scott. Looking past the Maori, Scott saw Gray standing there with both hands on his pistol.

  Blood gurgled up from the dying man’s chest. A smile crept across his bloodied face. Even in death, the man still acted as if it were all some sort of damned foolish game. Staggering back a couple of paces, the Maori crumpled down onto the pier, his eyes rolled up into his head…he was dead.

  Gray ran over to Scott. “Are you all right, Colonel?” asked Gray, placing an arm around Scott.

  “Another ten seconds and I would have been killed,” said Scott, trying to catch his breath. “Thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it, Colonel, just doing my job looking after an officer,” said Gray with a grin as he helped Scott to hobble down the dock.

  The sound of boots running down the hardwood pier filled the air. Looking up, Scott was relieved to see Kate, Thomas, and a detachment of Marines running towards him, only they weren’t Americans, they were British.

  Kate practically knocked Gray out of the way to get to Scott. Wrapping her arms around Scott’s neck, she held onto him as tight as she dared.

  Scott winced in pain. “Easy does it, Kate,” said Scott. “I’m happy to see you too, but I think I need to see a doctor,” Scott said, pulling a bloody hand away from the gash on his ribs.

  “That looks bad. We’ll have to get you back to the Phoenix right away,” said Kate, trying to stem the bleeding with a handkerchief.

  “Where did you find these guys,” said Scott, turning his head to look over at the tough-as-nails-looking Royal Marines.

  “They were just about to leave for their ship when they saw Thomas and me racing down the pier,” Kate said. “Corporal Jones put two and two together, and before I could say a word, he and his men were running to help.”

  Scott thanked the corporal and then, flanked by the marines, Scott’s party trudged their way past wary onlookers not wanting to get involved as they made their way to their waiting longboat to take them back to the Phoenix and safety.

  Chapter 19

  With a tight tug, the ship’s surgeon snugly tied off Scott’s dressing.

  Scott thanked the man, a bald-headed New Yorker, and then ever so slowly and carefully put his bloodied shirt back on.

  “Like a shot?” asked the surgeon, holding up an open bottle of rum, his breath already heavy with alcohol.

  “Not today,” replied Scott politely, wondering if the surgeon was always inebriated.

  Finding his way back up on deck, Scott was thankful for the warm salt air breeze blowing across the harbor. Looking over, he saw Kate standing with Captain Moore. They were busily engaged in conversation while looking up at the old Knights Hospitaller Castle.

  “What’s so interesting?” asked Scott as he stopped beside Kate, wanting to place his arms around her, but deciding not to do so in front of Moore.

  “We were just talking about how much the world has changed since the castle had been built,” said Kate.

  “I don’t know,” said Scott, “we’re still killing one another over land, gold, what have you. We’ve just become more efficient at it.”

  “That’s a very pessimistic point of view, Alex,” said Moore.

  “I saw thousands of men die fighting over a bloody peach orchard at Antietam,” Scott said, his voice heavy and tired. “When it was all over Bobby Lee withdrew, but the war still drags on. We’re going to win, of that I have no doubt, but at what cost?”

  “It’s not for people like us to decide,” said Kate, looking up at Scott. “Perhaps one day it will all make sense.”

  Scott smiled at Kate and then looked over at Moore. “Sir, if Kate hasn’t already told you, we need to push onto Constantinople without delay. If today is any indication, our enemies are getting bolder with each passing day.”

  “Yes, Kate did mention it,” replied Moore. “As it happens, you’re in luck. The HMS Scimitar is sailing for the Black Sea with the tide. I spoke with her captain earlier today and have arranged for you to be ferried across to her at dawn. He will put you ashore in Constantinople, after that you’re on your own, I’m afra
id.”

  “Thanks,” Scott said. “Captain is there any chance that I can hold onto Gray and Thomas a little while longer, they’re both damned good in a fight.”

  “I thought you would ask,” Moore said, chuckling. “As long as you return them home after you are finished, I don’t see any harm in the Navy helping out the Army,” said Moore with a friendly smile.

  With that, Moore tipped his hat to Kate and then went to inspect the duty stations throughout the ship.

  Scott slipped his hand into Kate’s and felt the warmth of her touch. He found himself thinking of her whenever they were apart.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Kate, looking over at Scott’s bloodstained shirt.

  Scott looked down at his shirt. He knew he should have changed, but wanted to see Kate before doing anything else. “I’m doing fine. Just a few stitches and a liberal dousing of rum will cure anything, or that’s what I was led to believe by the surgeon.”

  “I didn’t think we were going to make it today,” Kate said, squeezing Scott’s hand tightly. “How do they know where we are all the time, and just who the hell are they?”

  “I haven’t a clue as to who they are. I doubt they represent a foreign country, that much I do know,” said Scott. “As for how they know where we are all the time, I think I have an idea about that.”

  “Which is?”

  “We’ve already decided that they want to get their hands on you. I think they left agents all along the path your father took, hoping that you would follow his path. That means only one thing…we’re on the right track.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Without a doubt, we are following in your father’s footsteps. We just need to be bold and step off them if we wish to lose our friends.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  Scott looked in Kate’s green eyes. “Easy my dear, we aren’t getting off in Constantinople…we’ll get off somewhere else and then make our way into the city,” Scott said with a boyish grin.

  “You’re a devil of a man, Alexander Scott. I still have the captain’s cabin for one more night,” said Kate with a smile as she strolled away from Scott.

  “Well, if that wasn’t an invite, nothing ever will be,” mumbled Scott under his breath.

  Chapter 20

  Athens, Greece

  On the outskirts of Athens, out of sight on a secluded private train line, a cordon of armed men walked beside a stationary steam train, their eyes fixed on the green fields surrounding the station.

  Up front, the engineer supervised the loading of a fresh load of coal. In his hands was a new set of orders; their next destination was Constantinople. Having raced across Europe in the past few weeks it did not surprise the engineer, a short, bearded Austrian that they would eventually push into the Ottoman Empire. He was paid to operate the train and not to ask questions. Wiping his sweaty brow with a dirty rag, he stepped out onto the wooden platform and yelled at his men to hurry up. He wanted to cross into Turkey before nightfall.

  Inside his private carriage, Karl Wollf read the latest decoded report from Duval and then with a deep mournful sigh he crumpled up the telegram and tossed it into a wicker garbage can. The loss of the ironclad had been particularly galling, but the fact that Duval had managed to lose three of Karl’s best men in a failed attempt to grab the woman in Rhodes dug into Karl like a festering wound. The Order could always build more instruments of war and hire men to work them; it was the loss of skilled and dedicated men who could not be replaced easily that angered him. It took time and careful indoctrination to ensure the loyalty of men. The longer this fiasco dragged on, the more good men were likely to be lost. The Order saw the guidance of world affairs as a struggle that could only be accomplished by using the best, brightest, and most-dedicated people from all corners of the globe. The current state of affairs would not do.

  A knock at the door made Karl turn his head. He bristled at the interruption; he had left specific instructions to be left alone.

  “Yes, what do you want?” tersely called out Karl.

  The door opened; a bookish-looking man with thinning light brown hair stood there. It was Johann, his private secretary; in his hand was another decoded telegram.

  “Give it to me,” said Karl brusquely.

  Johann handed Karl the telegram and then left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Karl opened the telegram and saw that it was from his sister. He quickly read over the message. A thin smile formed on his face. The Council had seen things her way. He was now free to pursue the Americans any way he saw fit. Obtaining the Grail took precedent over all other Council protocols. He did not care how she had accomplished it, Karl Wollf was just happy to be free to conduct business the way he had always wanted to, liberated from the chaffing limitations of The Council and its antiquated policies.

  “Johann,” called out Karl, an idea forming in his mind.

  A moment later, the door opened. Johann stepped back inside. “Yes, sir.”

  “Johann, please arrange for Professor O’Sullivan to be brought to Constantinople without delay,” said Karl. “I think it’s time to start using the old man as leverage.”

  “Very good, sir, will there be anything else, sir?” asked Johann as he scribbled down the orders he would need to send out immediately.

  A flame flickered to life in Karl’s dark eyes. “Tell all our men that anyone or anything that comes into contact with the Americans is to be destroyed. We cannot afford to risk any information on the Grail being passed on, no matter how innocuous it may be. I want this order to be conducted with the upmost precision and anonymity.”

  Chapter 21

  Turkey, Ottoman Empire

  With a wave of his hand to the departing longboat crew, Scott looked up in the dark at the rest of his party already making their way up the narrow, winding path that led up from the beach. The HMS Scimitar’s captain had recommended that they disembark there because a local rail line ran close by.

  Their trip from Rhodes had gone without a hitch. He was not surprised to see that the captain and crew of the Scimitar were disappointed that their mysterious pursuers had not bothered to tangle with them. The pride and fighting prowess of the Royal Navy were legendary.

  Running to catch up with his group, Scott saw Thomas hefting a heavy-looking wooden crate on his shoulder. Gray struggled behind him, his backpack weighed down, straining at his shoulders.

  “What the hell are you two lugging around?” asked Scott.

  “Secret, sir,” said Thomas over his shoulder.

  “If we told you, Colonel, it wouldn’t be a secret,” added Gray.

  “Suit yourselves, just don’t complain later that it’s too heavy,” Scott said, catching up with Kate. She was dressed like the men in white pants, a thick blue shirt with a cap pushed down on her head.

  “How you doing?” asked Scott.

  “Fine.” Her voice hid her growing anticipation. For the first time in months, she felt as if she were going to find her father, or at least learn what had happened to him. The thought that he might be dead haunted her mind; either way, she knew that she had to know.

  “Sun should be coming up in an hour,” Scott said, looking at the gray light on the eastern skyline.

  Two hours later, sitting at the back of an already overcrowded train carriage, Scott’s party found themselves trading smiles with a shepherd and his flock of sheep, the animals noisily bleating all the way to Constantinople.

  Chapter 22

  HMS Scimitar, Sea of Marmara

  The commotion at the bow of the HMS Scimitar grew louder by the second. Placing his hands behind his back, Lieutenant Commander Wright, the ship’s first officer, walked forward, his patience fading with every step.

  “What the bloody hell is all the kerfuffle about?” demanded Wright.

  “Sir, Innis said he saw a narwhal swimming under the ship,” excitedly said one of the ship’s teenage junior officers.

  “That’s i
mpossible,” said Wright dryly. “We’re too far south for them.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Innis, a grizzled old sea hand. “I’ve been on board whalers up around Canada in the winter, and I’ve seen narwhals with my own eyes I have, and what I saw swimming underneath us was a narwhal.”

  Stepping forward, Wright looked down. The water was crystal clear. He could see well into the depths. Looking up and down the entire length of the ship, Wright saw nothing. Turning about, he looked into the faces of more than a dozen crewmen. With a guarded smile, he said, “Gentlemen, I cannot see a narwhal or any other whale underneath the ship. While Innis may have believed that he saw a narwhal, I can assure you that it’s not there now.”

  With that, the crew, grumbling to themselves, began to disperse and go about their duties, when Innis stopped in his tracks and pointed out to sea.

  “There….there I told you,” shouted the old sailor, pointing to a whale in the water moving towards them.

  Wright opened his telescope and trained it on the object just below the surface of the water. It appeared to be lining itself up with the center of their ship. His heart skipped a beat when he realized that it wasn’t a whale at all, it was mechanical. It could only be a man-made machine of some sort. Training his telescope on the machine, he saw a long thin metal tube protruding out the end of it. No wonder the crew thought it was a narwhal, thought Wright.

  “General Quarters,” yelled Wright as loud as he could. “The ship will beat to General Quarters,” called out Wright again. He had never seen a submarine in his life, but he had read the Admiralty reports coming out of the U.S. Civil War. There was no doubt in his mind that that’s what he was looking at and that they were about to be attacked.