The Mountain

by David L. Golemon

  “Column, forward!” he called out loudly as he waved his gauntleted right hand in the air and then extended his fingers toward their dark destination—Ararat.

  * * *

  The American expeditionary force moved onto the Plain of Mount Ararat. The summit now rose seventeen thousand feet above them. As the column advanced to its ultimate goal, a tune was started by none other than the naval mess crew. As they moved east men started picking up the old favorite, and soon the words were clear to John Henry at the front of the column. Why that particular old tune, Thomas would never know.

  As snowflakes started to accumulate on man, animal, and wagon, the first horses and riders crossed the shallow Murat River as the soft refrain of the old hymnal “The Old Rugged Cross” reverberated from man to man, from Rebel to marine. The scene was surreal as every man knew what they were being drawn toward and the old hymn was the only thing the men of both North and South could think of to sing. To Thomas and Taylor it was a most appropriate choice.

  The American raiders grew closer to God’s mountain, and every man knew the owner to be rather pricklish at times and one who never hesitated to make an example out of foolish mortals.

  Seventeen thousand feet above them, buried in thirteen-thousand-year-old ice, the Ark waited.

  * * *

  Since the men had ample rest and food for the past two weeks, John Henry knew he could push them. The weather had held off on the first day, sputtering snow from time to time, but the sun was being held back by some of the more ominous clouds Thomas had ever been witness to. The thunderheads that developed on the vast reaches of the American southwest were this way also, but in his experience they moved fast in their destruction, while these just seemed to hover around the summit of Ararat and extend to the lower elevations as if the weather was reaching down for them. He could see that the expedition members were indeed wary of the signs.

  He rode up and down the line extolling Dugan to keep his wagon train up to speed. The Reb drivers were cautious on the uneven terrain in front of the steeps of Ararat.

  He spurred his horse forward when he saw that McDonald and Ollafson had decided to take a break from the cold by vanishing into one of the mess wagons where the men had a hot stove going. Claire had not accompanied them.

  “Not joining your friends?” he asked as his horse settled in beside her own. Thomas’s animal nudged hers and then the two bumped heads.

  “Whoa,” Claire said softly to make her mount calm in the presence of the large roan. “I can only take so much bellyaching about how miserable the weather is. McDonald is not your everyday field officer. I think he’s used to getting what he wants from the sitting side of a desk planted inside a well-warmed room.”

  “It’s a soldier’s right to complain, even in Her Royal Majesty’s Black Watch, I guess,” John Henry said as he took in the reddened features that blotted Claire’s face. “Miss Anderson, go to the mess wagon and warm up. Take some time to thaw out. We’ve been riding for fourteen hours and won’t settle in until sunrise when I can post less of a guard detail.”

  “I’m fine, Colonel. Unlike Captain McDonald, I have been field trained and rather excel at it.”

  “I can see that, Miss Anderson, I just—”

  “My name is Claire, Colonel. Every time you say Miss Anderson I look around for my mother, who wouldn’t have appreciated it either.”

  “Fair enough. My meaning was not intended to insult, but rather to inform, Miss … Claire,” he corrected himself quickly and received a small dose of a smile from the spy. “You see, although the temperature is a balmy thirty-one degrees, the wind is the real danger here. If you could see your face right now you would agree.”

  Sudden panic filled her eyes as she pulled down the thick scarf from her mouth and face.

  “What do you mean?” she asked pointedly.

  John Henry almost smiled but held off. She was a stubborn woman, but like every woman the world over she was vain to a point. And that was the way he attacked this formidable woman. Thomas knew he was thinking like a caveman.

  “Frostbite, Madame. The splotches on your cheeks are just the onset of a not-so-severe case of frostbite.”

  Claire cleared her throat as she turned in her saddle for a look back a quarter mile to the mess wagon, whose small stove pipe was bellowing smoke and she could imagine the enticing heat as well as Grandee’s cooking aromas.

  “A cup of coffee would be welcome, I suppose,” she said as she quickly raised the scarf to her face so John Henry could not see her rough skin. This time Thomas did smile as she abruptly turned her horse and galloped off.

  John Henry laughed as he heard the quick beat of hooves after Claire realized she might lose part of that gorgeous skin to the weather. Before he realized it Gray Dog was riding beside him. The Comanche turned and saw that Claire had almost made it to the chuck wagon at cavalry-charge speed. He turned back and faced John Henry with a strange look on his face.

  “All right, what is it?” Thomas asked.

  “Is the red-haired woman your friend, John Henry?” Gray Dog asked as they rode.

  “First Dugan and now you?” He turned to look at his youthful friend. “She’s brave, but no, not a friend.”

  “No, she is a friend. She trusts John Henry.”

  “Hell, there’s a lot you have to learn about women, Gray Dog. She’s the one that’s a little short of trustworthy characteristics.”

  By the look on Gray Dog’s face he could see that he did not understand what Thomas was saying. He decided to leave it for another time.

  “We are being watched again.”

  “I suspected as much. Who?”

  “Uniforms, black and red.”

  “Damn,” he said as he turned and looked around at the vast terrain. “That could be anyone. German or Turk. The Germans we could bluff, but if it’s representatives of the empire we may have some hard questions to answer for being so far out of line of the supposed track extension. I was hoping they would be observing Parnell and his men. Damn it. How many?”

  “Five, maybe six riders,” Gray Dog said as he moved his horse away and then galloped toward the front where he was scouting ahead.

  Taylor saw the exchange and rode up beside Thomas. “Bad news?” he asked with that irritating and ever-present smile.

  “We have more company,” Thomas said in exasperation.

  “Kind of wastes your forced march from the station, doesn’t it?”

  “It was a judgment call, Jessy.” Thomas turned angrily in his saddle. “You do remember the variables of command, don’t you?”

  “I seem to remember the course at the Point. I also seem to remember I failed and you were at the head of the class.”

  “I know there’s a point in there somewhere, Colonel.”

  “The point, Colonel Thomas, is the fact that if that is a reactionary force and not a scouting element, you have a handful of tired and sleepy men. They may not have the quickness you hoped for if confronted.”

  “What makes you think I would order a defense? Maybe we talk our way out of any situation.”

  “Listen,” Taylor reined in his horse, forcing John Henry to do the same. “You can say these dumbass things to some shavetail lieutenant, but it’s me you’re talking to. The first shot at these men, marine or southerner, these boys will shoot back. Maybe you forget what all of these men have been doing for the past four years, John Henry. They’re killers of the first order and I don’t think whoever is out there has taken that into account. So you better wrap your arms around it—if we’re confronted these men will not surrender to the likes of them.”

  John Henry saw Taylor’s point but chose to remain quiet. He did turn to Sergeant Major Dugan.

  “There’s a small rise ahead and we only have two hours until sunup. We make camp there. Make sure every man is fed well. We pull out in twenty-four hours.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dugan said as he turned his horse and sped to the front to terminate the forced march.


  “I see my powers of persuasion are still viable,” Taylor smirked. “Must be that ol’ southern charm.”

  “That’s it, Jessy, that old charm. Now see to your men.”

  John Henry watched Jessy ride off knowing that he had been right. Expecting men who had been fighting a merciless war against their own kin to be able to hold off defending themselves against a European foe was rather naive of himself. He had to think things through better or they would fail at every aspect of their mission. He decided that Claire had been right after all—he had been affected by his dream. He knew now that the episode was not just memory, it was a warning about the power they were possibly facing. He had to start owning up to the fact that this mission might have more mystery than he first believed.

  John Henry Thomas watched as the column ahead slowed and then started to circle as they made the rise in the land. As he watched, his eyes were drawn to the dark shape of the mountain range with its bright sheeting of white snow.

  Up there the shadows would be dense and impenetrable.

  THE BOSPHORUS STRAIT, CONSTANTINOPLE

  Lieutenant J.G. Riley Montague Abernathy stood on the bow sail of the U.S.S. Carpenter as she slowly slid past the eastern shore of the capital. The fog was so thick it seemed it was pressing down on the young naval officer. He tilted his head as he heard the shallow-draft warning bells as they sounded across the strait. It was hard to discern the distance and he hoped he didn’t run aground with the Carpenter or the vessel the large thirty-two-gun warship was towing into the Black Sea, the U.S.S. Argo.

  Abernathy turned and shouted out behind him. “Give me distance to Argo!”

  “Towline is taut, warning chime still at safe distance,” came the reply from the aft section of the Carpenter.

  The lieutenant was one of the brightest up-and-coming young officers in the United States Navy. He had been handpicked by Captain Jackson for the task of getting Argo into position.

  “Ten degrees right rudder,” he called out.

  “Ten degrees right rudder, aye,” came the reply.

  “Depth?” he called again as he tried again to penetrate the dense fog with nothing more than faint hope working for him.

  “Back to forty fathoms!”

  “All right, Mr. Harvey, straighten her out.”

  His second-in-command watched the lieutenant, who was now a ship’s captain for the first time in his life, hop down from the rigging and onto the darkened deck.

  “Aye, Captain,” he said. “Helm, rudder amidships, steady as she goes.”

  “Rudder is amidships, steady as she goes, aye,” came the relieved reply.

  The two vessels had just crossed the narrowest point of the strait. They were only a few miles away from entering the Black Sea where they would hide for as long as Colonel Thomas needed. But the way the Argo had performed thus far, Abernathy was worried she would founder long before she was called upon. Twice the Carpenter had to stop to save the large Argo from foundering in calm seas. It had taken long hours to shore up the flotation balloons inside her hull to keep Argo above the waves. He had almost lost the one-hundred-man crew of the Argo long before they had arrived in the Mediterranean. Twice she had rubbed her keel on the bottom of the strait since the fog had set in, but she had made it through with much sweat lost in the process.

  “I thought for sure we would have torn out Argo’s keel when we hit that twenty-fathom mark back there, Mr. Harvey.”

  “Aye, the hairs were standing straight up on my neck on that one.” The young naval officer chuckled in relief. “Odds are we still left some Maine oak back there on the rocks. Argo draws ten more feet of draft than does the Carpenter.”

  “If Ericsson hadn’t come up with the idea of transferring Argo’s ordnance over to Carpenter we might indeed have lost her. The extra tonnage would have weighted her right to the bottom of the Bosphorus.”

  Lieutenant Harvey looked at his pocketwatch in the weak lighting of the bow. “Well, in a little while the Yorktown will make a daylight show of entering the strait for all the prying eyes to see. Meanwhile, we’ll be cruising the Black Sea where no one expected us to be.”

  Abernathy raised his brows at the comment.

  “Let us just hope we can get back out when the need arises. As I recall, that part of the plan was rather vague.”

  “You mention that now?” Harvey asked, incredulous.

  “Need-to-know basis, Mr. Harvey, and you—”

  “Didn’t need to know,” they both said simultaneously.

  Abernathy nodded and then watched the swirling fog as it started to thin the closer the two vessels got to the Black Sea.

  “The only real thing we have to worry about is one item, I guess,” Harvey said.

  “And that is?”

  “If they brought the Argo along for the ride, hiding her inside a barge, someone was expecting big trouble.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Harvey, indeed.”

  * * *

  At 0510 hours on the morning of October first, the United States Navy entered the Black Sea in undeniable force for the first time in American history.

  Three hours later, and while ordinary Ottoman citizens on the western shore cheered, the U.S.S. Yorktown entered the strait.

  It was but five hours after that the French warships Especial and Osiris, two thirty-six-gun frigates, slipped past the lighthouse at the mouth of the Bosphorus and into the Black Sea.

  18

  THE PLAIN OF ARARAT

  Most of the men had collapsed immediately into their tents. Each four-man cover held three Rebel prisoners and one marine. You could no longer call the marines a guard; they were just as tired and apprehensive as their charges, and the cause was the summit that was looming ever larger.

  John Henry was surprised to see Claire up and about two hours before he wanted the column to reassemble for the final leg onto Ararat. He would have thought she would have taken more advantage of the singularly large tent with which he had supplied her. Thomas had also made sure that Grandee and his mess crew made hot water available for her use. He continued walking as Claire accepted a cup of coffee from a mess steward. She nodded her thanks and then noticed John Henry. She nodded but did not approach. She looked again and then vanished back into her tent. Thomas pulled his pocketwatch from his coat and saw that it was 1620 hours. Two hours until the sun set.

  Sergeant Major Dugan stepped up, rubbing his hands together. To John Henry’s surprise Dugan had trimmed and cut his beard to a manageable jumble. His boots were polished and his brass shined in the dreary late-afternoon sunlight that filtered through the black clouds overhead. Thomas did a double take when he noticed the change in the gruff Irishman.

  “Is that a hair treatment I smell?” Thomas asked as he took a tentative step away from the sergeant major.

  “Might be a touch. Had a hard time getting my cowlick to settle in.”

  “Uh-huh. And instead of sleeping you polished boots and brass and curtailed that jumble of baling wire you call a beard.”

  “I slept plenty on the train.” He sniffed the air and then slapped his hands together. “Well, I think I’ll go see what the navy has rustled up for mess call.” He started to turn away.

  John Henry kept his gaze on the east as he scanned the plain for a sign of Gray Dog, whom he had sent ahead to scout.

  “I suppose this sudden change has nothing to do with that spit-and-polished first sergeant of Her Majesty’s Black Watch making you feel somewhat”—he turned to Dugan with a smirk—“lacking?”

  “Me, lacking decorum to a bloody damn Brit? Not likely Colonel boyo. Why I would—” His words trailed off when he saw Gray Dog riding hard and fast for the camp. Dugan nodded his head. “Gray Dog’s back and it looks like he might have something to say.”

  The Comanche rode hard directly into the center of the large encampment. The noise of beating hooves woke many, including Captain Jackson and Colonel Taylor. Others stepped out into the cold to see what the excitement was abou
t.

  Gray Dog remained seated on his saddle blanket. His horse was winded.

  “Riders, over fifty men.”

  “Same uniforms?” Thomas asked as he made sure Jessy was awake and listening. Grandee assisted in this by handing both officers a steaming tin cup of thick and rich coffee.

  “No, dress in black, flowing robes. Headdress. Swords, and are well mounted.”

  “Who in the hell is this now?” Jessy asked as he stepped closer and took hold of the reins of Gray Dog’s horse. “How far?”

  “They wait in a draw two miles up.”

  “For a barren wasteland it sure is getting crowded out here,” Taylor said as he took a sip of the coffee and then made a face and dumped the cup into the fire.

  “Report,” John Henry said to Gray Dog as his eyes scanned the horizon in the east.

  “They not come from west of us, but east. I backtrack and pick up sign coming from a pass next to Black Mountain.”

  “Again, I didn’t fare too well in geography. What’s over those mountains?” Jessy asked.

  “That is Persia. Not a real friendly place. However, they have no love for the Ottoman Empire either,” Jackson said as he too nervously watched the horizon.

  “Good report. Get some hot food in you. I need you back out there,” John Henry slapped Gray Dog’s horse on the hindquarters and sent it toward the smell of cooking food.

  “Odds on hostility?” Claire asked, walking up from behind, surprising them all. She was dressed and bundled and looked as if she were ready to travel. She was joined by McDonald and Ollafson, the latter looking like death warmed over, as if he had gotten no sleep at all.

  “Transitioning state, that’s about all the briefing I received on Persia. After all, we didn’t plan to gain the summit of Ararat from the eastern side,” Jackson said as he nodded a greeting at Claire, who was impressing the young naval officer more each day.

  “Inform the mess to slap some bacon on a biscuit and drown the men in coffee. I want to break camp in fifteen minutes. Get the tents struck and the wagons hitched.” The officers and sergeants stood rooted to the spot for only a moment at the sudden change of orders. “Move, gentlemen.”