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.
BALTIMORE NAVY YARD, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
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 lea
rned 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, j
ust 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.
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