Thomas Greanias
The Atlantis Prophecy
Atlantis Series - 2
'The only new thing in the world is the history you don't know.'
—Harry S. Truman 33rd American President, 33rd Degree Freemason
PROLOGUE
FIVE SOLDIERS of the U.S. Provisional Army came to an abrupt halt at the Georgetown wharf and dismounted their horses. The sleet had stopped, but it was bitter cold outside. The commanding officer looked out across the water at Suter's Tavern. It was the middle of the night, but he could hear music from inside. A lone lantern flickered in the middle window of the second floor.
That was the sign.
The man they were after was inside.
The officer signaled his men. They moved quickly toward the front door in single file. Their boots splashed lightly in the moonlit puddles, the bayonets at the end of their muskets glinting. Two soldiers went around the back to take positions behind the kitchen. The other two pounded the front door with the butts of their muskets.
'Open in the name of the United States of America!'
The door opened a crack to reveal the face of a small boy, who fell back in alarm as the soldiers pushed their way inside. The thirty or so revelers in the tavern sat fast in their chairs, their mugs of ale midair and their mouths open. The music stopped, the sudden silence broken only by the crackling of the fireplace flames.
The commanding officer, a head taller than most in the room, grabbed the boy by his collar and demanded, 'We are looking for a runaway slave, a cook who goes by the name Hercules.'
Hercules was in the kitchen, chopping onions for one last serving of his popular stew. His wiry dark hair was pulled tight to his scalp and stuck straight back like the handle of an iron skillet. Rules of the house. But he had refused to shave his beard. As his stew rose to a slow boil he suddenly realized that the noise in the tavern had died down. He cocked his ear.
The kitchen door flew open, and in stormed four Green Coats. Their commanding officer, who identified himself as Major Cornelius Temple of the U.S. Provisional Army, shouted, 'Which of you is Hercules?'
Hercules froze. So did the other kitchen staff, all slaves. None of them said a word, but their anxious gazes drifted toward Hercules.
Hercules had been a slave until he ran away from his master two years ago. He had been making his way as a cook ever since, having perfected his renowned Southern dishes at the General's homes in New York, Philadelphia, and Virginia. If all he ever did was cook for his master, he would never have left. But his master made him carry out other missions, too. Secret missions. Dangerous missions. Now his past had finally caught up with him.
He just hadn't expected it to come so soon.
Hercules laid down his chopping knife on the table and stepped forward, praying that the only thing the soldiers were after tonight was a runaway slave, and not the secret his master had him bury years ago.
The major looked down his nose at Hercules. 'Come with us, slave.'
Hercules was only average in height, but he was as muscular as his namesake. Standing proud, he gazed directly at the commanding officer. The major's green coat reached the knee and sported yellow lapels and cuffs. His vest was white, single breasted, with white buttons. The white fringed strap epaulette on his right shoulder designated his rank. But it was the major's black three-cornered hat that had transfixed Hercules, specifically its small but spellbinding silver insignia.
The Regiment of Riflemen.
Hercules understood then that he was in the presence of killers, sanctioned by the new federal government. Until now Hercules knew of the Regiment of Riflemen by reputation only. Earlier that year Congress authorized the formation of a specialized unit of snipers that engaged in unconventional tactics. 'The first in the field and last out' was the regiment's motto, and their tactics borrowed heavily from the Light Infantry and even Indians. That much was clear from the major's belt, which along with a leather cartridge and bullet cases held a tomahawk and scalping knife.
Hercules would not resist arrest, if only for the sake of the other slaves.
He turned to open a small closet door and heard the click of a musket hammer behind him.
'Slowly, slave.'
'Jus' gettin' my coat.'
Hercules calmly removed his herringbone overcoat with ivory buttons from its hook. The wool was so finely woven it gave the whole coat a glossy sheen.
The young soldier released the cocked flintlock and lowered his special model French Charleville. But before Hercules could button up, the butt of another musket smacked him in the side of his head and he went down on all fours.
'You run away with that coat, slave?' the major snarled, as he kicked Hercules in the side like an animal.
Hercules knew the drill. The major had no feelings for him one way or another. He simply needed to make him an example to any other slaves in the kitchen who might think that they, too, could one day run away.
'I bought it righteously, suh,' Hercules managed to say with a grunt before four strong arms pushed him outside.
'He's a freedman by law in Pennsylvania!' cried one of the cooks.
'He's not in Pennsylvania anymore,' the major barked as the door slammed shut behind him.
A flat-bottom boat, manned by four boatmen, waited at the wharf, the icy waters of the Potomac lapping at its sides. The sleet had returned, coming down even harder than before. The soldiers pushed Hercules to the stern. A moment later he was sitting between two soldiers and opposite the major and two others as they shoved off into the dark.
'The General is looking for you, slave.'
Hercules shivered. The General, his master, was a just man and a great leader. But he had burdened Hercules with secrets too heavy for any American patriot to bear, let alone a slave.
Lord, please don't let this be about the globe.
Hercules gazed at the white exterior of the Presidential Palace as they floated by. Now in its seventh year of construction, it was still unoccupied; President Adams lived in Philadelphia with his family. In the distance loomed Jenkins Hill and on top of it the new U.S. Capitol Building, or at least part of it.
The General had once told him that more than a century ago the hill was called Rome and the Potomac the Tiber, because the property owner, a man named Francis Pope, had a dream that one day a great empire to rival ancient Rome would rise on these banks. But all Hercules could see was marshland, half-finished buildings, and tree stumps along what was supposed to be a grand thoroughfare-Pennsylvania Avenue-linking the great white Presidential Palace to what they were now calling Capitol Hill.
