The Mountain

by David L. Golemon

  John Henry stopped as he reached the front steps of the house. He looked to his left and saw two long legs with one pant leg showing a bony, white ankle. His eyes swept over to the man who was stretched out on the porch swing. John Henry immediately snapped to attention.

  “We’ve come far too many miles for that nonsense,” came the soft, very tired voice. “Come sit for a moment before we join the others.”

  The man John Henry Thomas had known for more than fifteen years sat with his trademark stovepipe hat upon his lap. His black hair was now graying and was in its traditional scattered state. The beard was thinning and the man’s eyes were as drawn as his face. He had aged fifty years since he’d last seen his friend.

  “And don’t you dare say anything about how tired I look. I get enough of that from Mrs. Lincoln, and that damn Seward.”

  “Never, Mr. President,” John Henry responded without much conviction as he eyed the president of the United States. He eased in beside Abraham Lincoln and then also stared out into the yard. The president reached out and patted John Henry on the knee.

  “I am happy to see you, my boy.” For the first time Lincoln looked over and took in the colonel. “Glad the wild Indian tribes didn’t get your hair.”

  “They may not be as wild as everyone has been led to believe, sir.”

  “I suspect they are not. But some angry politician will claim they are eventually.” Lincoln took in a deep, long, and very sad breath. “I would like to protect them, but alas that task may have to fall to another.” Again the tap on the leg. “Life used to be a lot simpler. How long has it been since you escorted me around when I was an attorney for the railroads?”

  “Fifteen years, Mr. President.”

  “You were what was known as a young shavetail, Lieutenant, if I recall correctly.”

  “You do, and I was a shavetail.”

  Again Lincoln patted Thomas on the knee as he drew up his own legs and placed the hat on his head. “I wish we had more time, my boy, to reminisce about better days, but we have some surly gentlemen awaiting us inside.” Lincoln stood slowly. John Henry heard his joints popping audibly as the president stretched his long frame.

  John Henry rose as the president turned toward the front door. “Sir,” he said as he gripped the ridiculous Union officer’s hat in his hands. Lincoln stopped and turned. His sad smile was in place as he waited for Thomas to say what was on his mind. “I never had a chance to thank you for what you did for me and Sergeant Major Dugan after Antietam.”

  Abraham Lincoln allowed his smile to grow and for the first time Thomas saw a little of the old log splitter there. He shook his head as he turned away for the door once more.

  “After all of this time I thought you would have hanged that ill-tempered Irishman by now. How is the old coot?”

  “The same, only worse. But one thing he is, sir, is grateful.”

  “I think maybe you both ought to hold off on your praise of your savior until you have heard why I brought you back from the wilds of Indian Territory. You may not be too grateful afterward.”

  The door was opened for the president as he stopped and turned to John Henry with a sad look on his wrinkled and drawn face. “Shall we?” He gestured for Thomas to follow.

  The living room of the small farmhouse was darkened as they were escorted in by a private from the Washington barracks. A door opened and Thomas heard the cessation of talking in a smoke-filled room. As the president entered many of the men around a large table stood, but Lincoln waved them down with a flash of his hat.

  “Gentlemen, Colonel John Henry Thomas,” Lincoln said as he placed his hat on the table and then sat at its head.

  John Henry looked around the room to see many a familiar face. Sitting next to Lincoln was the sour and long-bearded face of Secretary of War Stanton. His rotund size took up a lot of space as he was glaring at the new arrival. Stanton, it was presumed, had not been in favor of saving him nor Dugan after Antietam, but relented when he found out the order saving them would go against General McClellan’s wishes. He hated Little Mac as much as the president himself. Thomas nodded his head at the secretary. Next to him was the man he had seen that very afternoon, Secretary of State William Seward, his ever-present cigar lit as he looked at Thomas with raised brows. On the far side of the president was a man Thomas had only seen pictures of, and those images did not come close to revealing the stern presence of the secretary of the navy, Gideon Welles. Next were several men and a woman Thomas did not know.

  “We’ll save the formal introductions and make them as we go, shall we?” Lincoln said and then cut off Secretary Seward before he could say something. Lincoln patted the man’s arm, trying to get his former antagonist, turned close friend, to relax.

  “To begin, I would like placed into the formal record that I am in serious doubt as to the reasoning behind this action. It’s foolhardy and ill advised.” Edwin Stanton puffed out his chest and waited for the president to give him a rebuke.

  As John Henry took his seat he made eye contact with the woman, whose expression told him he was just another despicable military officer to her.

  “Yes, we know your position, oh mighty Hermes. Besides, wise one, there is no formal record of these particular proceedings,” Lincoln said, eliciting snickers around the smoke-filled room. “Colonel Thomas, the gentleman to your right is Professor Lars Ollafson, most recently a professor of biblical studies at Harvard University. My son vouched for him over three years ago when I was introduced to him.” Ollafson nodded his gray head at Thomas. “Next to him is an assistant to his former department, Miss Claire Richelieu, an interpreter of ancient tongues and written language—quite an accomplishment for a young lady.”

  The woman who was known in other circles as Madame Richelieu didn’t nod or smile; she just looked at the colonel without greeting.

  “Professor?” Lincoln said as he gestured for the small man to take over the meeting.

  “In the spring of 1859, I and many close colleagues from differing nations funded and mounted an expedition to eastern Turkey. We gather tonight to discuss that journey and what we are to do next.”

  “I guess that’s already been determined by God, without my approval I may add,” Stanton cried as Lincoln frowned at him, silencing the irritable man.

  “As I was saying, after this meeting concludes, we should come to the logical deduction by all parties”—he looked at Stanton with raised brow waiting for another interruption, but Stanton only mumbled and grumbled—“that the new expedition must proceed at all cost and speed.” Ollafson looked at the president, visibly angry. “After all, this was supposed to happen last year immediately after the Battle of Gettysburg, but it is only now we prepare.”

  “Professor, once more may I explain that an expedition this size and this complex takes planning, safeguards—that’s time, sir,” Lincoln said. “Now continue, please.”

  John Henry looked from the white-haired professor and glanced at the president.

  Ollafson cleared his throat. “The question Mr. Stanton needs to ask himself, and anyone else with any doubts, is why was it that so many knowledgeable men in the fields of not only religious studies, but also archaeology, lost languages, and human history, were so interested in Eastern Turkey?” Ollafson stood from his chair and then through the cloud of hazy cigar smoke lifted a small wrapped article and placed it on the table. He stared at the oilcloth-wrapped parcel for the longest moment and then he placed a hand on the shoulder of the pretty woman sitting next to him. “My assistant in ancient languages will explain.” The professor returned to his chair but kept his eyes on President Lincoln.

  The lady stood and then without ceremony tossed the oilcloth away from the parcel. Lincoln watched the eyes of the men around the table. Only he, Stanton, and Seward had ever seen the artifact before. John Henry noted that Richelieu had a peculiar strength about her and automatically knew her to be the type that hated men for their preconceived notions on the subject of women in a
ny profession. Thomas didn’t hold with that since he had seen plenty of women take a hospital element with all its death and horrors and make it their own. Yes, Thomas had grown to respect the women of the world.

  “We have here two prime examples of what is known as Angelic Script, or what is being taught at universities worldwide as the Enochian language.”

  “Which, I must confess from my limited reading skills, is known as a language thought up by two men in the 1500s, and that this Angelic Script you proclaim is the basis of this theory of yours, was and still is a fraud,” Lincoln said as he challenged the woman for the benefit of the men around the table. Lincoln never led anyone anywhere unless he knew his subject would benefit from it.

  “Precisely.” The woman returned the challenge with her green eyes. She then placed a white glove on her right hand and lifted the blackened stone to the weak lantern light. “These symbols here are a warning, described in that very same Angelic Script alphabet. A warning, or a curse if you prefer.” She showed the line of strange circles and glyphs to the men in the room. “I have an alphabetic key for those who wish to double-check my facts.” Her gaze went to Stanton and then to Seward. Both men only looked on with mild interest.

  “This, gentlemen, is wood,” Ollafson said. “We cannot know its age. We only estimate that it has to be at least five thousand to ten thousand years of age.”

  Seward snorted and Stanton closed his eyes while shaking his head. Gideon Welles, the secretary of the navy, seemed keenly interested.

  “How can you come up with that estimate of its age?” Welles asked, looking like a stern teacher at a boy’s school with his white beard and hair.

  “Excellent point, mighty Poseidon,” Lincoln said, comparing Welles to the Greek god of the seas.

  “Two reasons,” Claire said as she again lifted the first of the heavy slices of thick, petrified wood. “One, this particular piece of wood came from a specific area of the globe. Two, the name inscribed in Angelic Script found on this smaller piece.” She touched the second.

  “You’re dancing around the question, woman,” Stanton said in his no-nonsense voice.

  “Yes, I guess I am. It’s the theater coming out in me. This first one was recovered by a Turkish explorer in 1827. This second was discovered in 1842.”

  “The point, woman!” Stanton said as Lincoln again scolded him for interrupting.

  “They were both found on the mountain in Eastern Turkey called Ararat.”

  Silence met her disclosure and it confused her momentarily. She turned her attention to the new man in the room, John Henry Thomas.

  “It’s the mountain mentioned in the—”

  “—Bible, as the resting place of the Ark described in Genesis,” Thomas answered for her. “Most of us went to Sunday school, ma’am.”

  She nodded to Thomas and then with a stern look at Stanton she said, “Yes, but maybe more than a few around the table needed to be reminded. Now, the second reason is this.” She held up the second piece. “Placed side by side we have a story. The first states that whoever disturbs the resting place of God’s gift to man will suffer the wrath of heaven and all of its archangels.” Claire Richelieu dabbed her gloved fingertip at each symbol as she explained. “This one is the bridge that completed the theory. It’s a name. You see here where the broken end of the wood cuts off after the dire warning of a curse?” Most leaned forward in their chairs, all except Stanton and Lincoln, to see better. “The name is simple and was the easiest to decipher. The word inscribed on the wood, or stone if you prefer, is the name Noah. Coupled with where these were discovered, the name gives us the true identity of these artifacts. Noah’s Ark is real and can be located just where the Bible said it would be, Mount Ararat. The evidence is right here on this table. It’s a fact the Ark is where I say it is.”

  Stanton snorted; Seward turned his head angrily, which he did every time he heard the theory; Gideon Welles laughed aloud but clapped his hands in delight; and Lincoln only smiled. As for John Henry Thomas, he was beginning to feel ill. Claire Richelieu nodded at the professor and then sat as she peeled the white glove from her right hand. Her eyes went to John Henry, who sat stoically silent at the far end of the table.

  President Lincoln stood and walked to the cold fireplace and placed his arms on the mantel as if deep in thought. Thomas knew different; it was Lincoln’s famous pause before he told everyone his plan, which he had formulated a full year before sending for Thomas. The president turned and walked back to the table, reached down and took a small book from the tabletop, and slid it down the table to John Henry.

  “It’s time to call in favors, John Henry. I figure you owe your president one. That, sir, is a journal. Two years’ worth of entry space. You will take that with you and recover or gather proof of whatever it is upon that mountaintop. You will make it an American discovery.”

  Thomas made no move to retrieve the leather-bound journal. He looked from it to the president. Then a look toward Ollafson and then finally Claire Richelieu.

  “This, in the middle of a war we may very well still lose?” Thomas was looking at Lincoln as if he had lost his mind.

  “As my old war horse here will attest”—Lincoln placed his hand on the thick shoulder of the long-bearded Stanton—“the war will be over in a year. The forces in rebellion have never fully recovered from their Pennsylvania adventure. It’s cut and dried. General Sherman is down south at this very moment explaining it to them.”

  “I cannot accede to your order, Mr. President, out of good conscience. I could never do this while men are fighting and dying on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line. I request a combat assignment.”

  “Denied,” Lincoln said, almost angered at Thomas’s response. “You will do what is asked, and I have my reasons, Colonel.”

  John Henry noticed Lincoln used his rank instead of “my boy” or “John Henry.”

  “The war was the simple part of this equation. The peace is what will be hard fought. Imagine yourselves, Americans all, how you would feel after losing a war, which Americans have never done before. We have beaten back the world’s most deadly power not once, but twice. The thought of losing is inconceivable to most Americans, north or south. Hatred will rule the land for three hundred years. Unjust sanctions will be placed on the South—sanctions I want to avoid at all cost. This”—he pointed at the two pieces of petrified stone—“can save precious time in our endeavor to bring true peace to the nation. You, Colonel Thomas, will bring back that prize on the mountain for the nation or proof that it truly exists, and the men that will assist you in doing this will help solve that reconstruction problem I have referred to.”

  “You have lost me, sir,” John Henry said as his jaw muscles clenched.

  “I imagine I have.” Lincoln nodded at Stanton.

  Edwin Stanton slid a thick piece of paper down the table and it landed in front of Claire Richelieu, who picked it up and handed it to Thomas.

  “That is a roster of Confederate prisoners of war. The war department has selected one hundred and twenty individuals under the command of an officer you may know. These prisoners will be given the opportunity to participate in this … this … miscarriage of military spending. These men are offered as a goodwill gesture by their commanding officer, General Robert E. Lee. You will be in overall command.” Stanton sniffed and snorted as Lincoln watched Thomas for reaction.

  “Lee signed off on this?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes, he knows as well as we that the war for the South was essentially lost at Gettysburg.”

  John Henry Thomas knew he had to delve back into his history and current events of world politics.

  “You do realize that this amounts to no less than an invasion of the Ottoman Empire? And the last I knew they were busy forging alliances with England and France. They are nervous as they watch their empire being reduced by thousands of miles each and every year. And we’re just going to sneak in and steal what amounts to their property? We’ll be ending one w
ar just to enter a world war soon after.”

  Lincoln, instead of disparaging Thomas and his argument, laughed for the first time. “You see, gentlemen, this is the right man for the job at hand. He understands what’s at stake for this country.”

  “I wasn’t agreeing with you, sir, I was warning you of what will happen.”

  “Yes, and we do have a way around that. The Ottoman Empire, or in this case a little closer to home, Turkey, is trying to push itself into modern times. They have begun a massive railroad buildup and infrastructure construction inside their nation. The United States, ever a friend to the Empire, has made a gift of a thousand miles of railroad, which will connect their eastern provinces with Constantinople and the northern Black Sea. This gift is from the people of the United States on the anniversary of the birth of their leader, Sultan Abdülaziz. He has gratefully accepted this gift.”

  “Your force will pose as civilian engineers that will lay out the route of said railroad, one east from the capital and the other south from the sea,” Seward said proudly, as it was he who had thought up the ruse. “While you and your second-in-command will be official Union Army engineers, the president thinks enough of his railroad years soaked into your head to pass muster on that account.”

  “Force?” Thomas enquired.

  “With the Rebel prisoners, you will be in command of two hundred army, marines, and naval personnel,” Stanton finished for Seward. “Much more if you count the crews of the vessels involved.”

  “Colonel, this will have a most healing effect on this country. The nation, together, will bring back the grandest prize in the history of the world. I cannot stress enough that a successful expedition by two warring sides will show that no matter the differences between us, we are one, and forever will remain so.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Gideon Welles as he rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. This elicited sour looks from both Stanton and Seward.

  John Henry felt as if he were a rat trapped in a maze of confusion. He suspected that everyone, including his old friend Abraham Lincoln, had lost their minds in taking resources from a war that in his opinion was far from over. These people were underestimating the war prowess of Robert E. Lee. Thomas knew the man personally and also knew that even if the war was eventually lost due to his setback at Gettysburg, Lee would fight a war of attrition, which was what they were all taught at the Point … fight until the other side tires of war.