“Yes—”
“Now get away from me.”
All five of the men saw the killer eyes of the man in front of them, and not being used to seeing an officer in such worn and dirty attire, it was frightening at the very least.
“You should have waited until the sergeant major came for you,” Thomas said as he and Gray Dog made their way back to their seats. Several women and a few of the male passengers leaned as far away from the Indian and crazy colonel as they could.
“I wanted to see Washington City.”
“You could have waited. We’ll be seeing plenty of it before too long.”
“Wanted to see now,” Gray Dog argued.
Thomas knew that Gray Dog was not a servant of his nor an employee. Gray Dog thought himself free and not tied to anyone. He tolerated the orders given to him by John Henry, but he wasn’t forced to follow them if he did not want to.
“If I ever get the chance, I’m going back to the Brazos to hang Reverend Percival for teaching English to this boyo,” Dugan said as he reached up for the colonel’s bag. He angrily tossed it to Gray Dog, but it bounced off the small Comanche’s chest and hit the floor. Gray Dog looked at Dugan and his eyes told him the tolerance and respect that he showed John Henry in no way related to his feelings about Dugan. The prejudice of the man came out of every pore. John Henry knew the truth of the matter. Sergeant Major Dugan saw the exact same prejudice that he’d faced in Ireland by Englishmen, now being thrown at Gray Dog, and he was angry but didn’t know how to say it.
John Henry Thomas reached down to retrieve his valise but Gray Dog beat him to it. The Comanche just didn’t want Dugan to hand it to him. Principle, Thomas thought.
“Let’s go see what this is all about, shall we?” Thomas said, eyeing both Gray Dog and Dugan as he moved down the aisle.
“After you, dog-boy,” Dugan said as he half-bowed to Gray Dog.
“Old and ignorant fools always go first, hair-face,” Gray Dog said as he halfbowed in return.
“‘Hair-face’? Why you coyote-wearing son of a—”
“Oh, this was a good idea,” John Henry said as he shook his head and moved off, to all the passengers’ relief.
The man who would command the strangest expedition in the brief history of the United States had arrived.
* * *
The patrons of the Willard Intercontinental Hotel were aghast at the sight in the main lobby—two soldiers in filthy frontier uniforms, who still carried most of the dirt and grime of the prairies clinging to their skin and their clothing, from the dual suspenders of the officer to the grimy yellow kerchief of the sergeant major next to him. However, even more shocking was the savage Indian in their company. Although completely dressed, his bird-bone chest piece and the coyote hide on his head shocked most and angered the rest. This was the position the hotel’s manager was attempting to point out.
“Sir, your rooms are ready, but I’m afraid our bylaws will not allow your … your … guest to stay in the hotel. I am sorry.”
John Henry Thomas looked around him at the well-dressed men and women. He saw the brass in the lobby—the officers were either on leave or were the professional types Thomas despised. They all looked at him in his sand-encrusted blue cavalry uniform as if he had just crawled out of their kitchen cabinet. He glanced at Gray Dog, who was busying himself staring at a feathered plume rising from a lady’s large hat. She finally noticed when his fingers reached out and touched a feather the likes of which he had never seen before. Sergeant Major Dugan slapped his hand away, eliciting an angry glare from the Comanche.
“Look, you are supposed to confirm my party, no matter what or who it consists of,” Thomas voiced, knowing that it was falling on deaf ears, especially after the second attempt of Gray Dog trying to snatch the long purple feather from the lady’s hat. She screamed and quickly moved off as Dugan again held the Indian at bay. Thomas rolled his eyes and then angrily slapped his white, wide-brimmed hat on his striped pant leg, creating a small cloud of dust that elicited gasps.
“Having a problem checking in?” a voice sounded from behind Thomas, who knew something was wrong when he saw Dugan stop his angry rebuke of Gray Dog.
Thomas turned and he then he knew why Dugan was so angry. Standing before him was an army officer. His mustache and small beard were expertly trimmed and his double-breasted dress uniform immaculate. The officer stood before him, holding a cigar at chest level and looking up and into the eyes of the much larger John Henry Thomas. The man who had attempted to have himself and Dugan court-martialed two years prior stood before him. Major General George Brinton McClellan, “Little Mac” as he was called, was standing arrogantly before him as if he was the exterminator sent to destroy a household pest.
“Perhaps it’s the company you keep, Colonel,” McClellan said as he examined both Dugan and Gray Dog. “I see nothing much has changed in two years, except for one or two items,” he finished with a note of disgust as he eyed Gray Dog up and down.
“General,” was all Thomas said as he immediately held out a restraining hand to Dugan’s ample chest as he turned his attention to Little Mac instead of Gray Dog. With a slight shove he sent the sergeant major reeling away.
“I see you still have that little wart of a man at your side. I was quite hoping he would have been scalped by now.” McClellan looked at Gray Dog as he wheeled Dugan about and walked a few paces away. “But I see you made friends with the hostiles out west. Very good way to keep your hair, Colonel.”
“What can I help you with, General, or is it candidate McClellan?” Thomas said, throwing his twin saddlebags over his shoulder as he looked down upon the small two-star general.
Mac rolled up on the heels of his shoes and then flicked his cigar ash. He smiled. “Correct, it may not be ‘General’ for very much longer, Thomas, old man. It seems I still may be able to hang you and that mutinous little bastard Dugan after all, only this time I will not be signing off on the order as commander of United States forces, but as commander-in-chief.”
Thomas remained silent and as neutral as his features would allow, although he did feel some of the empty-stomach bile rise in his throat at the thought of this man as president.
“I wish you luck in that … endeavor,” Thomas finally managed to say as his fingertips rose to his black hair in mock salute. “On both the presidency, and hanging us.”
“Miserable son of a—”
“At ease, Sergeant Major!” Thomas said.
“I will someday see to it, Colonel, that you are stripped of the popularity you have with men in power, most assuredly that great baboon that sits in the White House at this very moment.”
Thomas couldn’t help it. He took a menacing step forward, having almost the same angered reaction as at the battle of Antietam that started this whole mess for him and Dugan. Several other army officers and a few naval officers started to take interest in the standoff in the lobby—until another presence entered the room.
“Well, until such a time as we call you commander-in-chief, perhaps you can let these men bathe and shave for their meeting with the real president?”
McClellan turned and he immediately lost his good humor. A man he hated almost as much as Thomas or Lincoln was standing before him. Of equal size to Little Mac, the man in the immaculate three-piece suit stood with an even larger cigar than McClellan’s.
“Mr. Secretary,” McClellan said as he half-bowed, his sword jutting out far enough that Dugan wanted to kick it.
Secretary of State William H. Seward stood with an immensely satisfied smile on his face. One arm was behind his back and one was holding the cigar—meaning he was not about to shake the general’s hand.
“Yes, with Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Seward here in your corner, I suspect you’ll go a long way, Colonel, at least until the election.”
Little Mac turned abruptly on his heel and returned to the table he’d been sitting at, where the curious eyes of financial backers were watching the spectacle at the
front desk.
“Now,” Seward said as he turned to the front-desk clerk, “these men need rooms, and I am here to secure them, or to close this hotel down for harboring suspicious activity.”
“Suspicious activity?” the manager said with all of the dignity he could muster.
“If I wished to do so I could surround this hotel and bring out at least six spies for the Confederacy that I know of. Should I start picking them out for you, sir?” Seward said as his gray, wiry brows rose.
The hotel’s manager knew the power that Seward wielded and immediately turned and lifted two sets of keys off the hook. “I’m afraid only two rooms were reserved. We are currently full.”
Seward reached out and took the room keys and then tossed them haphazardly to Thomas. “I’m sure they’ll figure out the sleeping arrangements on their own.”
Thomas nodded at Seward, whom he knew from the night the president had pardoned him and Dugan and then clandestinely sent them on their way out west to count Indians and survey for new fort locations.
“Colonel,” Seward said with a distasteful glance at Little Mac, who was looking their way and laughing with his well-appointed friends. “You and you alone will meet with the president at exactly twelve midnight. A carriage will be out in front of the hotel at eleven thirty. Be there.”
Seward turned away and started to walk toward the large bar for a quick pick-me-up before returning to the hot and dusty streets of the capital.
“Mr. Secretary, what is this about?” Thomas asked as he tossed Dugan one of the keys.
Seward stopped and then his smile grew as he turned to face the weary man they had dragged from the plains. “I could tell you now, Colonel Thomas, but I think this should come from the president,” he said as he started to turn away, then he stopped and faced John Henry once more with an even larger smile. “I would never deprive Mr. Lincoln of the look you will give him when he informs you of your mission. I assume it will be as priceless as mine was.” He laughed, shaking his head as he finally walked away.
“Don’t tell me I have to share a room with—”
Thomas closed his eyes as Dugan voiced his concerns about the sleeping arrangements.
“Not one, but all of my favorite people are showing up. This is going to be wonderful,” he mumbled in resignation as he moved toward the stairs.
5
An hour later John Henry returned from the bath and spa area, clean for the first time in what he thought was a full year. Gone was his beard that had been in place since the last stages of the battle of Antietam. The mustache that curled at the corners of his mouth and the small patch of beard below his lip were the only facial hair that remained. A new uniform had been delivered to him from the war department, and he even sported new shoes.
Thomas entered the room on the third floor of the Willard and immediately saw Sergeant Major Dugan leaning out of the window. By the shaking of the Irishman’s hindquarters, Thomas could see he was angry.
“Are you such a son of a bitch that you’re now screaming at pigeons?” the colonel asked as he tossed his old, dirty uniform on the floor. “And why are you doing it in my room and not your own?” he asked as he went to the dresser and poured himself a small glass of whiskey.
“It’s that goddamn Indian, boyo, he’s out on the damn ledge and will not come down!” Dugan said as he ducked his head back in the window. “And the only reason I am in your room, Colonel, sir, is that this coyote-wearing bastard is just sitting there on the ledge. Causin’ quite a spectacle down on the street.” Just at that moment a knock sounded on the door. Thomas shook his head and pulled the door open to see the hotel’s night manager.
John Henry immediately held up a hand to stay the manager’s disapproval of Gray Dog’s nocturnal activities.
“We will bring our friend in. He … he … likes to sit in high places, not so unusual for Washington I would think,” Thomas said as a small joke. The night manager just stared at the colonel.
“He is scaring people down on the street, sir.”
Thomas only nodded and then unceremoniously closed the door on the small, prissy man’s face. He downed the liquor and then went to the window where he grabbed Sergeant Major Dugan by the suspenders and pulled him away from the window. He ducked his freshly combed hair out of the window and saw that Gray Dog was sitting calmly on the ledge with his moccasins hanging idly over the side. The ledge itself was only nine inches wide but the Comanche didn’t seem to have a problem with either the narrow dimensions or the height at which he risked his life. Thomas shook his head when he realized that Gray Dog was talking to his ancestors. He sat looking up at the full moon. Thomas cleared his throat.
Gray Dog didn’t respond at first and then his nose wrinkled and his head slowly turned. He saw Thomas and his new haircut and the clean-shaven face and his eyes betrayed his amazement. Much to John Henry’s shock and horror, Gray Dog leaped to his feet. The colonel’s eyes widened when he realized that Gray Dog would fall right over and go crashing down to the street far below. There was a gasp from the few onlookers that had camped outside on the walkway to see the strange Indian fall. Then came an audible moan from the crowd as the Comanche did not fall but balanced gracefully on the nine-inch ledge and made his way to John Henry.
“Don’t suppose it’s asking too much for you to come inside the hotel?”
Gray Dog didn’t respond as he dropped to one knee with John Henry cringing in fear the Indian’s equilibrium would give way. It didn’t. Gray Dog brought his hand to John Henry’s face and touched the freshly shaven and perfumed skin of his cheek. Thomas allowed him to feel the difference.
“Stupid bastard,” Dugan mumbled from behind. Thomas used his hand to signal for Dugan to hush.
“Now, come inside,” he said as he eased back through the open window. Gray Dog easily ducked inside and then gave Dugan a withering look.
“Now, can you two get along long enough for me to find out why in the hell we are here?”
“Ah, Colonel, I can’t turn my back on this savage for one minute without him getting into some kind of mischief.”
“Deal with it,” Thomas said as he reached for the new hat box on the end of his bed. This was also delivered over from the war department. He opened the round box and withdrew a new hat. It was turned up on the side and had his silver eagle planted on the front. A bright red feather adorning the side made John Henry wince.
“Ah, that is an adorable chapeau, Colonel Darlin’.”
John Henry shot as angry a look at Dugan as Gray Dog had delivered only a moment before. Thomas ripped the long red plume from the blue hat and tossed it on the wooden floor. Gray Dog immediately sprang forward and retrieved the feather and stared at it.
“That may keep him occupied for a while.” He turned to face an astonished Dugan. “Now, go to your room and lock yourselves in so he doesn’t head down to the theater district or something. Can you do that, Sergeant Major?”
Dugan just glared at Thomas. “Come all this way to babysit a coyote-wearing savage, why I ought to—”
“That’s enough. Just follow orders without question, for once in your miserable career.”
Dugan saw that Thomas was not in the right mood for any bantering or complaining. He just nodded his head and then looked at Gray Dog, who was now blowing on the red feather, amazed at its softness.
Thomas shook his head, opened the door, and quickly left.
“Tonight John Henry learns his destiny as written by the Great Spirit.”
Dugan poured himself some of the colonel’s whiskey and then turned to face Gray Dog, who was still staring at the brightly colored feather and blowing lightly to see it fluff and wiggle.
“Great Spirit my Irish ass, boyo.” He swallowed the glass of whiskey whole and then reached for the bottle once more.
“This is why I am going with John Henry. The spirit that lives on mountain far away is calling me, as it is you, and I will go to see this great thing.” Again he blew on the
feather. “Where does this big red bird live?” he asked as he blew on the feather again.
“Red bird?” Dugan then saw the feather and realized that Gray Dog had changed subjects on him. “Oh, no, that is from a peacock, a strange bird that lives down south, I think. Now what in the hell do you mean, ‘great thing’?”
“John Henry will know. We will both go into the darkness to find what calls us.”
Dugan stared at Gray Dog and shook his head before downing the second glass of whiskey.
“Darkness, Great Spirit, mountains, you talk like a bleedin’ officer, boyo. And don’t think I ain’t noticed your English gets better around John Henry.”
* * *
The carriage was out front of the Willard at precisely thirty minutes to midnight. The coach was empty, occupied only by the driver sitting on his high seat. The corporal saluted as he opened the door for the colonel. Once in, the coach sped off into the humid Washington night.
The road they traveled was a familiar one that led northward from the capital. John Henry felt as though he was heading into court to find out his execution date. After the debacle of Antietam, Thomas had decided to resign his commission after the last shot of the war was fired. His career was over in the army and he knew it. Even though most general officers knew he had been right to challenge the orders of Little Mac, he was never to be fully trusted again because of that challenge to command. He wouldn’t fight Indians after the war and he wouldn’t be garrisoned in some far-off European posting. He would return to Texas and live a quiet life raising his cattle. The life he always intended to live with Mary.
The coach soon arrived at a small farmhouse just three miles outside the city. The corporal opened the door for Thomas with a tip of his cap. John Henry stepped out and saw the small, but very well kept house with a picket fence surrounding a patchy lawn. He pulled open the gate and made his way up the walk. The house seemed dark but the lantern on the front porch illuminated the front of the yellow house in crystal clarity.
“My staff thinks my mind is gone, foregoing their security and meeting out here,” came a familiar voice from the porch.
The Mountain Page 11
