PROLOGUE
Tennessee, 1809
The full moon kissed the hilltop as it rose in the clear night air, framing the two weary riders as they neared their destination. The one in the lead appeared hell bent for leather, his pale white horse, Pegasus, straining to respond to his master’s silent commands.
“Try to keep up with me, Sergeant Major,” he good-heartedly yelled at his companion, for Sergeant Major Jean St. Jean had been Major Michel LeNeuf’s steady right hand going on some thirteen years; ever since the Sergeant Major had saved the Major from certain death during the Napoleonic Wars.
Both men had formed a bond through the secret brotherhood of Masonry, which meant that even though LeNeuf outranked St. Jean, they both were considered to be the equal of each other – one free man to another - French Masons and Templars at that; and now, here they were under direct orders from their current Commander-in-Chief, Thomas Jefferson, President of the United States, performing a sacred duty for the ancient fraternity.
“How much farther?” the Sergeant Major mouthed to LeNeuf, while urging on his black beauty, aptly named Icaria.
“According to my calculations, just over the next rise at the bend in the road there should be the inn.”
As if on cue, the faint wisp of low mist parted, allowing the golden beams to reflect off the rough slate roof of an inn that lay in the valley below. It was nestled next to a small brook and copse of gently rustling poplars. Harper’s Inn, it was called. LeNeuf had visited there previously, for in better days it had provided a mid-way point to the long journey east.
LeNeuf mused to himself. It’s indeed quite strange…..after all of these years of searching, am I to learn the secret that so many good men had died while seeking?
The answer to that question would have to wait, though, for his direct orders were to deliver Brother Lewis to the place known as the Old Barns, which in truth concealed the Grand Lodge of Tennessee.
LeNeuf reared his horse in.
The Sergeant Major did the same and took in the serenity of the midnight scene. “Do you think that he’ll come of his own free will?”
“He’ll have to if he recognizes the signs,” responded LeNeuf. “But I understand that he’s been drinking heavily of late.”
“This is how the Brotherhood first learned of his intention to reveal the secret that he supposedly discovered, along with Brother Clark, during their journey of discovery across the new continent. A fellow Brother had overheard Lewis ranting one night while drunk and passed the message along.”
By silent sign, the two riders as one slowly descended the hillside following the ancient track that at one time had been a major native trading route. They had performed the same manoeuvre dozens of times before and seemed to sense each other’s slightest movement. Yet there was something different about this evening. It was as though the Ancients were directing them in their quest.
The tactic prompted LeNeuf just then to recall that he had previously read about the earlier exploits of the medieval Knights Templar who, during the crusades, had formed a special bond with the man who fought beside him. Apparently, the knights had developed strategies whereby one knight’s shield arm was protected by the next knight’s sword and thus, this enabled them to fight side by side or back to back in a defensive manner. The seal of the Knights Templar even displayed two riders on one horse. Surely, this was a sign of their bond in brotherhood.
Silently, they dismounted and loosely tethered their horses to a fallen log next to the brook, enabling the horses to drink from a dark pool of water while they completed their mission. Somewhat reassuringly, St. Jean found the horses’ images that were mirrored in the blackness of the water as though they both possessed wings. A good sign, for sure.
The two Frenchmen were as superstitious as any old soldiers would be on a night like this.
LeNeuf removed his pistol from his saddle. “Jean, you take the back, just in case of the unexpected. Check out the barn that’s there and then meet me inside.”
St. Jean responded with his usual slight nod, palmed his trusty stiletto, and slipped into the shadows.
The front porch of the inn was hauntingly illuminated by a flickering oil lamp that hung above the front door like a guiding star. A slight creak could be discerned from the inn’s sign, which slowly swayed in the faint breeze.
Major LeNeuf tested the front door and, to his delight, found that it opened without a sound. He slowly slipped inside, taking a few seconds to adjust to the faint glimmer of moonlight penetrating through the front windows and then, ever so slowly, closed the door behind him.
A few seconds were enough for him to gain his bearings and to make out the basic layout of the main floor. It had been as he remembered . . . rough bench seats on both sides of long slab tables with a huge stone fireplace . . . like any typical tavern of the day. A hearty meal and ample refreshment could be had here, along with a warm fire and good conversation after a long ride. Probably the same since the inn was first built during the American Revolution some thirty three years ago!
Rumour had it that General George Washington had slept here. Michel chuckled to himself at his own lame joke. It was funnier when told in French.
Aside from the general condition of the inn, LeNeuf had also been provided with critical information as to where Meriwether Lewis slept that evening. It was up the stairs and the first room on the right. It couldn’t have been the second room for that was where the clandestine lodge meetings had first been held . . . right under the noses of the British.
The Major crept up the centre stairs and, as quietly as possible, turned to the right ninety degrees, laying his hand on the brass knob of the door immediately in front of him. He thought of knocking but shrugged his shoulders at the gesture and entered the room unannounced.
The foul smell almost drove him backwards. It was a mixture of sweat, cheap beer and vomit. Had it really come to this?
Flat on his back on the small cot which lay along one side of the room remained all that was left of what was once a great man – Captain Meriwether Lewis – the same man who had “discovered,” along with Clark, an inland route to the Pacific Ocean. LeNeuf knew, as many did, that the journey could have only been completed with the help of those French explorers, Masons all, who had gone before them. But nevertheless, it had been an amazing exhibition of raw determination amidst hardship and diversity.
Just then the Sergeant Major appeared. “All is quiet, Major. Mon Dieu! It stinks to high heaven in here. He smells like he’s been dead for days.”
“Watch that tongue of yours, Sergeant Major, or I’ll have to rip it out of your mouth. Here, help me raise him up.” LeNeuf had gripped the arm of the prone man.
Lewis rose to his feet with a fright, befuddled by the dark army uniforms. St. Jean quickly cupped his hand over Lewis’ mouth and whispered in his ear to be quiet. Lewis, although somewhat foggy from the drink, had just enough wits about him to discern a slight French accent and the faint smell of garlic, but also to catch the glint of the deadly looking knife nestled in the big man’s right hand.
LeNeuf moved in quickly. “Brother Lewis, my name is Brother LeNeuf, Major Michel LeNeuf, of the 53rd Army Battalion of the United States of America. My home lodge is in Paris, France, where it is dedicated to the last Templar Grand Master, Jacques De Molay, who was burnt at the stake on the Isle de Paris in 1314. My companion and I, who are also Christian Templars, are now affiliated with the Lodge in Washington, the capitol. My fellow Brother, Sergeant Major Jean St, Jean, and I have been instructed by President Jefferson himself to escort you to the capitol to meet with him. We understand that you want to reveal that-which-was-lost to him, and only to him. As a fellow Mason, I am somewhat confused by this entire episode but it is not my right to question your purpose. Shall we go now?”
“Now?” Lewis stammered.
“What better time? The moon is full, with a light cloud and refreshing breeze.” LeNeuf shrugged. “The sun will be at its meridian in no time.”
“And, I’ve already saddled your horse.” The Sergeant Major chimed in, trying to reassure the dishevelled ghost of a man that stood before him. “Have you your apron, Brother?”
Lewis’ senses slowly started to return. Finally, the President has agreed to meet with me. The way the native peoples were treated by the Indian agents who travelled up the Missouri after he and Clark had published their accounts was horrible. He couldn’t just stand by and let that happen after everything they had done for them, after everything that they had revealed to them.
What was it that he and Clark had really discovered? They had followed the ancient meridians, just as Jefferson had instructed them. The Templar Meridians, the president had called them. He would never forget that.
The critical points of longitude and latitude had always corresponded to prominent limestone outcrops or promontories along the rivers, or some other unique geographical feature. The natives had for centuries recognized them as holy places . . . places of ancient spirits and nature’s forces. Longitudinal meridians! Jefferson had even taught them how to measure the phases of the eclipses in degrees. W here had he learned such things?
LeNeuf brought him back to earth. “Brother Lewis, quickly, we have a timetable to keep. Bring your saddle bags and your apron. Leave your trunk and we’ll arrange for a Brother to see to it.”
Lewis responded by kneeling to open his trunk. Reaching to the one side, he exposed a hidden compartment that contained his well-travelled Masonic apron, with the symbol of the all-seeing eye framed by the two pillars. How long had it been since his initiation? He remembered that night well. It had taken him a long time afterwards to fully understand the moral obligation that he had committed to that evening; from darkness to light. And, now, he believed that he would break those vows.
Along with his apron, he took advantage of the shadows to pocket the small dagger that he had always hidden next to his apron. He was enough of an old soldier to realize the significance of the pistol and knife in the hands of his guides. He had been reckless, of course. It was the drink, he told himself. His one curse in life! He also knew the penalty for revealing Masonic secrets. He was convinced that Jefferson was also a Mason, although the president had never confirmed nor denied it. The president certainly knew a great deal regarding the esoteric side of Masonry. And how did he know where to discover the Templar symbols once the coordinates were determined? The Templar Meridians – the president had been right. And, now, two French Masons – Templars to boot! American army officers, working for the president of the United States?
Wincing at the thought of what may lie in store, Lewis summoned all of his strength that remained. He knew that he was on the precipice of the abyss. “Okay, my Brothers, let us begin our journey together.”