Stars and Stripes Triumphant

BRUSSELS, BELGIUM, JUNE 1865

The floor-to-ceiling windows were open to the warm sunshine, admitting the background hum of the busy Belgian capital. They also admitted the effluvia of horse manure, a smell unnoticed by anyone who had dwelled for any time in a large city. President Abraham Lincoln was seated on an ornate Louis XV couch, reading the document that Ambassador Pierce had just given him. He looked up when there was a tap on the hall door.

“I’ll see who it is, Mr. President,” Pierce said. He strutted a bit when he walked; this was his first political appointment and he was immensely proud of it. He had been a Wall Street banker, an old business associate of Lincoln’s from the same law firm, until the President had nominated him for this position. Secretly he knew that he had been selected more for his knowledge of French, and his intimacy with international commerce, than for any political skills. Nevertheless it was still quite an honor. He held the door wide so that the two general officers could come in. Lincoln looked over the tops of his reading glasses and acknowledged their salutes.

“Sashes, swords, and ribbons, gentlemen, as well as festoons of gold braid. We are quite elegant today.”

“Seemed appropriate for this morning’s presentation at court,” General Sherman said. “We were just informed about it.”

“As was I,” Lincoln said. “I was also told that it was most important, and was told as well that they particularly requested that you and General Grant be present.”

“Did they say why, sir?” Grant asked.

“Not directly. But Pierce here, who has made many important contacts since his appointment, took a senior Belgian civil servant aside and managed to elicit from him the fact that the presentation of some honors would be involved.”

“They will surely be a fine sight,” Pierce said. “It seems that the smaller the country, the bigger the medals are. And I was assured by the same official that the past war between our country and the British would not be involved in this presentation. It seems that Queen Victoria is very touchy on that subject, and King Leopold, who, after all, is her favorite uncle and constant correspondent, has no desire to offend her on that score. The awards will be for heroic actions that you gentlemen engaged in during our recent civil war.”

Grant smiled as he peered down at the plain blue cloth of his infantryman’s uniform. “It could do with a bit of smartening up.”

They all looked up as Gustavus Fox, the Assistant Secretary of the Navy, let himself in through a connecting door. He was a man who kept a very low public profile; only at the very highest levels of government was it known that he headed America’s secret service. He nodded at them and held up a sheaf of papers.

“I hope that I am not interrupting, but is there time for a briefing, Mr. President?” he asked. “Some new and urgent information has just been made known to me.”

Ambassador Pierce grunted slightly as he pulled his fob watch from the pocket in his well-rounded waistcoat. “More than enough time, I do believe. The carriages are not due to arrive here until noon.”

“I hope that with a bit of luck you are bringing me some good news, Gus,” the President said hopefully. “There never seems to be much of that.”

“Well, I am forced to admit that it is somewhat of a mixed bag, sir. Firstly, just two nights ago the British raided the harbor at the port of Kingstown in Ireland. This is the ferry port that is quite close to Dublin. They landed troops, and the attackers burned the city hall, as well as some of the harbor installations, then finished it all off by seizing and setting fire to some ships that were tied up there. The Irish believe that it was a terror raid, pure and simple, since it accomplished nothing but wanton destruction. It apparently was a clear reminder to the Irish that the British are still out there. As they left they exchanged shots with an Irish revenue cutter, but retreated back to sea before the troops from Dublin could arrive.”

Lincoln shook his head with great unhappiness. “I feel that the timing of this action is deliberate, that there is no coincidence here since this intrusion occurred just as our delegation was arriving in Belgium.”

“I concur, Mr. President. It is obviously a simple message to us,” Sherman said, his face cold, his pale eyes deadly. “They are telling us that they can strike at Ireland, whenever and wherever they please. And they will let no international conference stand in their way. It appears that their losses and defeats in America and Ireland have taught them nothing.”

“I am afraid that yours is the most valid interpretation,” Lincoln said with a great weariness. “But you said it was a mixed bag, Gus. Is there no good news in there? Can you pull nothing from your bundle that will bring cheer to a weary old man?”

Gus smiled and shuffled through the papers, drew out one sheet, and passed it over to the President.

“This came in on the navy packet that tied up in Ostend this morning. It is a personal report made to your cabinet by Mr. John Stuart Mill. They have forwarded this copy to you. If you will look there, you will see that the Secretary of the Treasury has penned a personal note to you on the first page.”

Lincoln nodded and read the opening aloud. “Yes, indeed, this will surely be of interest to all of you here. ‘Mr. President. You will of course wish to acquaint yourself personally with the contents of this most valuable economic report. But permit me to sum it up in its entirety. I do believe that Mr. Mill’s conclusions are not only very accurate, but inescapable as well. The American economy is booming, as it never has in the past. Our factories are working flat out, both in the industrialized North and in the new works that have been constructed in the South. It is evident now that everyone who wants a job is hard at work. The reconstruction and modernization of the railroads is almost complete. It is obvious what has happened. Due to the exigencies of war this country has been involuntarily changed from being a basically agrarian economy to one that is rich with industry. Exports are rising, the railroads are being modernized and extended, while shipbuilding is at an all-time record high. All in all, Mr. Mill is most enthusiastic about this country’s economic future. As am I. Yours faithfully, Salmon P. Chase.’ ”

Lincoln skipped through the report. “Most interesting, gentlemen. Mr. Mill appears to have been comparing production figures right around the world. Great Britain, the powerhouse of industry ever since the industrial revolution, had always led all of the other countries in strength and output. But no more! He believes that when the final figures are compared at the end of the year, America will outstrip Britain on all fronts.”

There were murmured agreements, and when they died away Fox spoke again.

“With this inspiring news, Mr. President, do you think you can spare a few moments to meet with a delegation?”

“Delegation? I made no appointments.”

“They arrived at dawn this morning. I had the pleasure of their company at breakfast. It is President Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa of Ireland. With him is his vice-president, Isaac Butt — accompanying them is General Thomas Meagher. They say it is a matter of some urgency, and they hope that you will grant them a few moments of your time. They were — how shall I say it? — greatly upset. I think it would be prudent if you could make the time to see them now.”

“But you say that Tom Meagher is here? The last I heard he was stationed at Fort Bragg.”

“No longer. Some months ago he was granted indefinite leave to go to Ireland, where he is advising the Irish army.”

“We are pressed for time, Mr. President…” Pierce said, looking at his watch again.

Sherman’s voice was icily cold. “We are not too pressed, I sincerely hope, to see the elected President of Ireland — and with him an old comrade who, in addition to his victories in Ireland, has fought long and hard for our country.”

“Yes, of course, we must see them,” Lincoln said. “By all means show them in.”

“Shall we leave?” Grant asked.

“No — with Meagher here, this matter must surely be of some importance to the military.”

Lincoln stepped forward when the three men came in and took Rossa’s hand. “We haven’t met since your inauguration in Dublin,” he said warmly. “I must say that it was quite an occasion, as well as being one that I will never forget.”

“Nor shall I, Mr. President — for you speak the very truth. Until the day I die I shall always remember with great warmth the events of that gorgeous day. If you will recall, it was the first day of a springtime that held out such great promise for our future. That promise is indeed being fulfilled. But, as you know, there have been many problems as well. There has been so much water under the bridge since that blessed occasion. But excuse me, sir, I digress. You remember Vice-President Butt?”

“Of course. I speak only the truth when I say, Mr. Butt, that yours, and the President’s, is a most grave and important labor,” Lincoln said as he took the Vice-President’s hand. “I do marvel every day at the glowing reports I read of your unifying and modernization of Ireland.”

“It has been a mighty task indeed — but well worth every effort,” Rossa said. His expression darkened as he went on. “A task that has been made far more difficult by the continuing harassment by the enemy from the outside. Goodness knows that I, and the people of Ireland, have enough black memories. Our history has indeed been a long and dark one ever since the day when English troops first set foot in our poor country. Now, I am most sure that I speak for every man in the country when I say let bygones be bygones. Enough of painful memories and ancient crimes. We Irish tend to live too much in the past, and it is high time that we were done with that practice. The past is done with and shall not return. We must turn our backs on it and instead turn our faces toward the glowing sun of the future—”

“But they will not let us!” Isaac Butt broke in, cracking his knuckles resoundingly, so carried away was he by the strength of his emotions. “The recent raid on Kingstown was but a pinprick among our greater sorrows. Every day — every hour — sees its like. There are constant landings in remote Irish seaports, where innocent Irishmen are killed and their small craft, their only possessions, burned. Ships are stopped at sea as well, stopped and searched, and many times they have their cargo confiscated. It is as though we have a demon on our backs that cannot be removed, a curse from hell that cannot be lifted. The war was well won — yet it will not end. The British are indeed our demon possessor!”

General Meagher’s quiet voice was in great contrast to Butt’s impassioned plea, and the more damning because of that.

“And there is worse. We have had reports now of kidnapping and imprisonment in the city of Liverpool. We do not know the details — other than that something terrible is happening there. As you must know, there are many Irish resident in the Midlands, hardworking people who have been many years resident there. But now it appears that the British question their loyalty. In the name of security, entire families have been rounded up and taken away by armed guards. And the worst part is that we cannot find what has happened to them. It is as though they have vanished into the night. We have heard rumors about camps of some kind, but we can discover nothing factual. I do not deny that we have had agents among the Liverpool Irish, but that certainly cannot justify the arrest and detainment of innocent people. This is a matter of guilt by association. Are the women and the children guilty as well? They are treated as such. And we have unconfirmed reports that other camps are being built across the breadth of England. Are these for the Irish, too? I can only say, Mr. President, that this is a monumental crime against humanity.”

“If what you say is true — and I have no reason to doubt you in the slightest — then I must agree with you,” Lincoln said wearily as he found the couch and seated himself once again upon it. “But, gentlemen — what can we do about it? The American government can protest these crimes strongly — as indeed we have done in the past and shall do in the future. But beyond that — what can be done? I am afraid that I can read the British response already. This is only a civil matter, an internal one, of no concern to other nations.” In the grim silence that followed, Lincoln turned to Meagher. “You, as a military officer, must recognize that this is not a situation that can be resolved by the military. Our hands are tied; there is nothing that can be done.”

“Nothing…?” Meagher was not pleased with the notion and worked hard to conceal his dismay.

“Nothing,” Sherman firmly concurred. “I speak not for myself, but as general of the armies. The war has ended and the world is at peace. The British are now doing their best to provoke us, and they have certainly succeeded in stirring our rage. They know that after the recent war, we are concerned with Ireland and have a vested interest in Irish freedom. But does that mean that there is ample cause here to go to war again? I frankly do not think so. The British are careful to make this appear to be an internal matter — over which we, of course, have no providence. You must remember that this day we are embarked on a most important civil mission of peaceful negotiation. The major nations of the world are assembling here in Brussels, and one can only wish them the best of success. We can talk of war again only when our mission fails. None here wish that. But, with your permission, Mr. President, I can take a few moments with these gentlemen, and General Grant, to discuss what material assistance we can afford them. About the imprisonment of Irish people in camps in England — it is my frank belief that there is nothing officially that can be done. But the other matters, the raids, halting vessels at sea, I can see where an American presence night alleviate some of the problems.”

“We must leave here in half an hour,” Pierce said, worriedly, consulting his watch.

“I regret that we have taken up your time,” General Meagher said. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. President.”

“I must thank you for making the effort to come here and present us with details of the current unhappy Irish problems. Be assured that we will do everything in our power to alleviate them.”

Gustavus Fox showed General Sherman and the visitors into an adjoining room, then remained with them to take notes. When they had gone, Lincoln shook his head wearily. “I am beginning to feel like the feller that tried to catch the rainbow, and the faster he ran after it the faster it vanished away before him. I have had enough of war, yet I fear greatly for the peace. With men of strong will and determination in Britain, the matter of peace does indeed take second place.”

“That is why we are gathered here in Brussels, Mr. President,” Pierce said. “As the various delegates have arrived, I have taken the time to have many confidential talks with them. It is my fond belief that all of them are united in their desire for peace and prosperity. Europe has had too much political unrest in recent years, not to mention the wars that have always plagued this continent. The overall feeling appears to be that we must all labor together to bring about some lasting peace.”

Lincoln nodded and turned to the silent Grant, who sat sternly on the front edge of his chair. The general’s hands rested on the hilt of his sword, which stood upright before him.

“Is this the military view as well, General?” Lincoln asked.

“I can only speak for myself, sir. I believe in a world at peace — but I am afraid that not all men share that belief. The bloody history of this continent is mute witness to the ambitions and ancient hatreds of the countries here. Therefore he must consider the situation carefully — and must always be prepared for war, as little as we may desire it.”

“And America is prepared?”

“She is indeed — at the present moment more so than ever before in our history. You read us Mr. Mill’s letter. Certainly the manufacturers who supply and support our military strength are operating at full pace. But we should consider our military manpower as well. With the onset of peace many soldiers will find that their terms of enlistment are up. This is already beginning to happen. It is obvious that the lure of a return to their families will be great. If nothing is done we are going to see a dwindling away of our physical resources.”

“Has not the regular army been expanded?”

“It has indeed. With enlistment bonuses and better pay and conditions, our forces have grown and increased greatly. But at the present time I must admit, in private to you gentlemen, there are not really enough divisions existing to engage in a major conflict.”

Pierce was more interested in protocol than in world politics, worried about being late. While Lincoln sat bemused, trying to understand the ramifications of General Grant’s summation of the military situation, Pierce kept looking at his watch and fidgeting nervously. He relaxed only when General Sherman rejoined them.

“I am afraid that we must leave now, gentlemen,” Pierce said, opening the hall door and making small waving motions, stepping aside as they passed. He walked out after them. Fox remained behind, then closed the door.

The American mission with all their officials, clerks, and functionaries occupied the entire second floor of the Brussels Grand Mercure Hotel. When Abraham Lincoln and his party exited the rooms, they saw before them the magnificent sweep of the wide marble staircase that dropped down to the lobby. There was a growing murmur of voices from below as Lincoln and his party appeared at the top of the staircase.

“We are indeed expected,” he said, looking down into the lobby of the hotel.

From the foot of the stairs, stretching away to the outside door, two rows of soldiers, to either side of a crimson carpet, stood at stiff attention. Silver-cuirassed and magnificently uniformed, they were an honor guard, all of them officers of the Belgian household regiments. Beyond them, outside the glass doors, a magnificent carriage was just drawing up. The soldiers themselves, standing to attention, their swords on their shoulders, were silent, but not so the crowd that filled the lobby behind them. Elegantly dressed men and women pushed forward, all eager to see the President of the United States, the man who had led his country to such resounding victories. A small cheer arose when Lincoln’s party appeared.

The President stopped a moment to acknowledge the reception and raised his tall stovepipe hat. Set it back in place and tapped it firmly into position — then led the way down the stairs. Generals Sherman and Grant were close behind him, while Ambassador Pierce brought up the rear. They made their way slowly down the steps, then across the lobby toward the open doors.

There was a murmur from the crowd and a disturbance of some kind. Suddenly, shockingly, apparently pushed from behind, one of the ranked officers fell forward onto the floor with a mighty crash. As he fell, a man dressed in black pushed through the sudden opening in the ranks of the soldiers.

“Sic semper tyrannis!” he shouted loudly.

At the same moment he raised the pistol he was carrying and fired at the President, who was just a few paces away from him.

AN ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION!

At was a moment frozen in time. The fallen Belgian officer was on his hands and knees; the other soldiers still stood at attention, still obeying their last command. Lincoln, shocked by the sudden appearance of the gunman from the crowd, stopped before taking a half step back.

The pistol in the stranger’s hand came up — and fired.

The unexpected is the expected in war. While both of these general officers accompanying the President had had more than their fill of war, they were still seasoned veterans of many conflicts and had survived them all. Without conscious thought they reacted; they did not hesitate.

General Grant, who was closest to the President, hurled himself between his commander in chief and the assassin’s gun. Fell back as the bullet struck home.

There was no second shot.

At first sight of the pistol, General Sherman had seized his scabbard in his left hand and, with his right hand, had pulled the sword free. In one continuous motion the point of the sword came up, and as he took a long step forward, Sherman, without hesitation, thrust the gleaming weapon into the attacker’s heart. He drew it out as the man dropped to the floor. Sherman stood over him, sword poised and ready, but there was no movement. He kicked the revolver from the man’s limp fingers, sending it skidding across the marble floor.

Someone screamed, shrilly, over and over again. The frozen moment was over. The officer in charge of the honor guard shouted commands and the uniformed men drew up in a circle around the President’s party, facing outward, swords at the ready. Lincoln, shaken by the sudden ferocity of the unexpected attack, looked down at the wounded general stretched out on the marble floor. He shook himself, as though struggling to understand what had happened, then took off his coat, folded it, bent over, and placed it under Grant’s head. Grant scowled down at the blood seeping from his wounded right arm, started to sit up, then winced with the effort. He cradled his wounded arm in his left hand to ease the pain.

“The ball appears to still be in there,” he said. “It looks like the bone stopped it from going on through.”

“Will someone get a doctor?” Lincoln shouted above the din of raised voices.

Sherman stood above the body of the man he had just killed, looked out at the milling crowd, which was pulling back from the ring of cuirassed officers who faced them with drawn swords ready. Satisfied now that the assassin had been alone, he wiped the blood from his sword on the tail of the dead man’s coat. After slipping the sword back into its scabbard, he bent and rolled the body onto its back. The white-skinned face, the long dark hair seemed very familiar. He continued to stare at it even as one of the officers handed him the still-cocked assassin’s revolver. He carefully let the hammer down and put it into his pocket.

The circle of protecting soldiers drew apart to admit a rotund little man carrying a doctor’s bag. He opened the bag and took out a large pair of shears, then proceeded to cut away the sleeve of Grant’s jacket, then the blood-sodden fabric of his shirt. With a metal pick he bent to probe delicately at the wound. Grant’s face turned white and the muscles stood out on the sides of his jaw, but he said nothing. The doctor carefully bandaged the wound to stop the bleeding, then called out in French for assistance, a table, something to carry the wounded man. Lincoln stepped aside as uniformed servants pushed forward to aid the doctor.

“I know this man,” Sherman said, pointing down at the body of the assassin. “I watched him for three hours, from the front row of the balcony in Ford’s Theater. He is an actor. The one who played in Our American Cousin. His name is John Wilkes Booth.”

“We were going to see that play,” Lincoln said, suddenly very tired. “But that was before Mary was taken ill. Did you hear the words that he called out before he fired? I could not understand them.”

“That was Latin, Mr. President. What he shouted out was ‘Sic semper tyrannis.’ It is the motto of the state of Virginia. It means something like ‘thus always to tyrants.’ ”

“A Southern sympathizer! To have come all this way from America, to have crossed the ocean just to attempt to kill me. It is beyond reason that a person could be filled with such hatred.”

“Feelings in the South still run deep, as you know, Mr. President. Sad as it is to say, there are many who will never forgive you for stopping their secession.” Sherman looked up and saw that a door had been produced and that Grant, his bandaged arm secured across his chest, was being lifted carefully onto it. Sherman stepped forward to take charge and ordered that the wounded Grant be taken to their suite of rooms on the floor above. He knew that a military surgeon accompanied their official party — and Sherman had more faith in him than he had in any foreign sawbones who might appear here.

It was silent in the bedroom once the servants left. The closed doors shut out the clamorous crowd. From the bed where he had been carefully placed, Grant waved to Sherman with his good arm.

“That was a mighty fine thrust. But then, you were always good at fencing at the Point. Do you always keep your dress sword so well sharpened?”

“A weapon is always a weapon.”

“True enough — and I shall remember your advice. But, Cumph, let me tell you, I have not been drinking of late, as you know. However, I never travel unprepared, so if you don’t mind I am going to make an exception just this one time. I hope you will agree that these are unusual circumstances.”

“I can’t think of anything more unusual.”

“Good. Why then you’ll find a stone crock of the best corn in that wardrobe thing in my room…”

“Good as done.”

As Sherman stood up there was a quick knock on the door. He let the doctor in — a gray-haired major with years of field experience — before heading off to find the crock. While he was away, the surgeon, with a skill born of battlefield practice, found the bullet and extracted it. Along with a patch of coat and shirt material that had been carried into the wound by the ball. He was just finishing up rebandaging the wound when Sherman returned with the stone jug and two glasses.

“Bone’s bruised, but not broken,” the surgeon said. “The wound is clean; I’m binding it up in its own blood. There should be no complications.” As soon as the doctor let himself out, Sherman poured two full glasses from the crock.

Grant sighed deeply as he emptied his glass; color quickly returned to his gray cheeks.

The President and Ambassador Pierce came in just as he was finishing a second tumbler; Pierce was flustered and sweating profusely. Lincoln was his usual calm self.

“I hope that you feel as well as you look, General Grant. I greatly feared for you,” he said.

“I’m not making light of it, Mr. President, but I’ve been shot a lot worse before. And the doctor here says it will heal fast. I’m sorry to ruin the party.”

“You saved my life,” Lincoln said, his voice filled with deep emotion, “for which I will be ever grateful.”

“Any soldier would have done the same, sir. It is our duty.”

Suddenly very weary, Lincoln sat down heavily on the bench by the bed. “Did you get off that message?” he asked, turning to Pierce.

“I did, sir. On your official stationery. Explaining to King Leopold just what happened. A messenger took it. But I wondered, Mr. President: Would you like to send another message explaining that you won’t be able to attend the reception tonight at the Palais du Roi?”

“Nonsense. General Grant may be indisposed, but he, and General Sherman, have seen to it that I am fit as a fiddle. This entire unhappy affair must have a satisfactory end. We must show them that Americans are made of sterner stuff. This attempt at assassination must not be allowed to deter us, to prevent us from accomplishing our mission here.”

“If we are going to the reception, may I ask a favor, sir?” Sherman said. “Since General Grant will not be able to attend, I would like to ask General Meagher to go in his place. He is not due to return to Ireland until tomorrow.”

“An excellent idea. I am sure that no assassins will lurk in the palace. But after this morning I admit I will feel that much more comfortable with you officers in blue at my side.”

Sherman remained with Grant once the others had left. The two generals shared a bit more of the corn likker. After years of heavy drinking, Grant had given it up when he resumed his military career. He was no longer used to the ardent spirit. His eyes soon closed and he was asleep. Sherman let himself out and the infantry captain stationed in the hall outside snapped to attention.

“General Grant, sir. May I ask how he is doing?”

“Well, very well indeed. A simple flesh wound and the ball removed. Has there been no official statement?”

“Of course, General. Mr. Fox read it out to us — I had one of my men bring a copy to the palace. But it was quite brief and just said that there had been an attempt on the President’s life and that General Grant was wounded in the attempt. The attacker was killed before he could fire again. That’s all it said.”

“I believe that is enough.”

The captain took a deep breath and looked around before he spoke again in a lowered voice. “The rumor is you took him with your sword, General. A single thrust through the heart…”

Sherman ought to have been angry with the man; he smiled instead. “For once a rumor is true, Captain.”

“Well done, sir, well done!”

Sherman waved away the man’s heartfelt congratulations. Turned and went to his room. Always after combat he was dry-mouthed with thirst. He drank glass after glass of water from the carafe on the side table. It had been a close-run thing. He would never forget the sight of Booth pushing forward between the soldiers, the black revolver coming up. But it was all over. The threat had been removed; the only casualty had been Grant being injured and left with a badly wounded arm. It could have been a lot worse.

That night a closed carriage was sent for the American party. And, not by chance, it was surrounded by a troop of cavalry as it made its way across the Grande Place and past the Hôtel de Ville. They drew up before the Palais du Roi. The two generals exited first, walking close beside the President as they climbed the red-carpeted steps; Pierce followed behind. Once they were inside, Pierce hurried ahead of the rest of the American party as they entered the hall, whispered urgently to the majordomo who was to announce them. There was a moment of silence when Lincoln’s name was called out; all eyes were upon him in the crowded hall. Then there was a quick flutter of clapping and then the buzz of conversation was resumed. A waiter with a tray of champagne glasses approached them as they entered the large reception room. All of the other brilliantly clad guests seemed to be holding a glass, so the Americans followed suit.

“Weak stuff,” General Meagher muttered, draining his glass and trying to see if the waiter was about with another.

Lincoln smiled and just touched the glass to his lips as he looked around. “Now, see the large man in that group of officers over there; I do believe that is someone I have met before.” He nodded in the direction of the imposing, red-faced man, dressed in an ornate pink uniform, who was pushing through the crowd toward them. Three other uniformed officers were close behind him. “I do believe that he is a Russian admiral with a name I have completely forgotten.”

“You are president, we meet once in your Washington City,” the admiral said, stopping before Lincoln as he seized his hand in his own immense paw. “I am Admiral Paul S. Makhimov, you remember. You people they sink plenty British ships, then they kill British soldiers… very good! These my staff.”

The three accompanying officers clicked their heels and bowed as one. Lincoln smiled and managed to extricate his hand from the admiral’s clasp.

“But that war is over, Admiral,” he said. “Like the Russians, the Americans are now at peace with the world.”

As the President spoke, one of the Russian officers came forward and extended his hand to Sherman, who had, perforce, to take it.

“You must be congratulated, General Sherman, on a brilliant and victorious campaign,” he said in perfect English.

“Thank you — but I’m afraid that I didn’t catch your name.”

“Captain Alexander Igoreivich Korzhenevski,” the officer said, releasing Sherman’s hand and bowing yet again. While his head was lowered he spoke softly so that only General Sherman could hear him. “I must meet with you in private.”

He straightened up and smiled, white teeth standing out against his black beard.

Sherman had no idea what this was about — though he dearly wanted to know. He thought quickly, then brushed his hand across his mustache, spoke quietly when his mouth was covered.

“I am in room one eighteen in the Hotel Grand Mercure. The door will be unlocked at eight tomorrow morning.” There was nothing more that could be said and the Russian officer moved away. Sherman turned back to his party and did not see the captain again.

General Sherman sipped his champagne and thought about the curious encounter. What had caused him to respond so quickly to the unusual request? Perhaps it was the officer’s command of English. But what could it all be about? Should he be armed when he unlocked the door? No, that was nonsense; after this day’s events, it appeared that he still had assassination on his brain. It was obvious that the Russian officer wanted to communicate something, had some message that could not go through normal channels without others being aware of what was happening. If that was the case, he knew just the man to ask about it.

The reception and the presentations, the bowing and saluting, went on far into the night. Only after the Americans had been introduced to King Leopold could they even think about leaving. Happily, the meeting with the King was brief.

“Mr. President Lincoln, it is my great pleasure to meet you at last.”

“It is mine as well, Your Majesty.”

“And your health — it is good?” The King’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

“Never better. It must be the salubrious air of your fine country. I feel as comfortable here as I would at home in my own parlor.”

The King nodded vaguely at this. Then his attention was drawn elsewhere and he turned away.

Once they had been dismissed, the President rounded up his party. It was after midnight and they were all tired. Not so, apparently, the Belgian cavalry officer commanding the troopers who accompanied their carriage back to the hotel. Spurred on by his shouted commands, they surrounded the carriage, sabers drawn and ready, warily on guard. The streets were empty, echoing the clattering hoofbeats of the mounted guards; a strangely reassuring sound.

As soon as he had left the others at the hotel, General Sherman went and pounded on Gustavus Fox’s door.

“Duty calls, Gus. You better wake up.”

The door opened immediately. Gus was in his shirtsleeves; lamps illuminated a table strewn with papers. “Sleep is only for the wicked,” he said. “Come in and tell me what brings you around at this hour.”

“An international mystery — and it appears to be right down your line of work.”

Gus listened to the description of the brief encounter in silence, nodding vigorously and enthusiastically when Sherman was done.

“You have given this officer the perfect response, General. Anything to do with the Russians is of vital interest to us right now — or at any time, for that matter. Ever since the Crimean War they have had no love for the British. They were invaded and fought very hard in their own defense. But it is not only Britain that they see as the enemy — it is almost every other country in Europe. In their own defense they have a superb spy network, and I must say that they make the most of it. I can now tell you that a few years ago they actually stole the plans for the most secret British rifled hundred-pound cannon. They actually had the American gunsmith Parrott make them a replica. Now we discover that an English-speaking officer on the Russian admiral’s staff wants to meet with you in private. Admirable!”

“What should I do about it?”

“Unlock your door at eight in the morning — then see what happens. With your permission I will join you in this dawn adventure.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way — since this is your kind of game and not mine.”

“I shall be there at seven, which is only a few hours from now. Get some sleep.”

“You as well. And when you come, why, see that you bring a large pot of coffee with you. This has been a long day — and I feel that it is going to be an even longer one tomorrow.”

The knock on the door aroused Sherman. He was awake at once; his years of campaigning in the field had prepared him for action at any hour. He pulled on his trousers and opened the door. Gus stepped aside and waved the hotel servant past him — who pushed a wheeled table laden with coffee, hot rolls, butter, and preserves.

“We shall wait in comfort,” Gus said.

“We shall indeed.” Sherman nodded and smiled when he noticed that there were three cups on the table. When the waiter had bowed himself out, they saw to it that the door remained unlocked. Then they sat by the window and sipped their coffee while Brussels slowly came to life outside.

It was just a few minutes past eight when the hall door opened and closed quickly. A tall man in a dark suit entered, locking the door behind him before he turned to face the room. He nodded at General Sherman, then turned to face Gus.

“I am Count Alexander Igoreivich Korzhenevski. And you would be…?”

“Gustavus Fox, Assistant Secretary of the Navy.”

“How wonderful — the very man I wanted to contact.” He saw Gus’s sudden frown and waved away his concern. “I assure you, I am alone in my knowledge of your existence and will never reveal that information to a soul. I have been associated with Russian naval intelligence for many years, and we have a certain friend in common. Commander Schulz.”

Gus smiled at this and took the Count’s hand. “A friend indeed.” He turned to the puzzled Sherman. “It was Commander Schulz who brought us the plans of the British breech-loading cannon that I told you about.” With a sudden thought he turned back to Korzhenevski. “You would not, by any chance, be associated with that affair?”

“Associated? My dear Mr. Fox — at the risk of appearing too forward, I must admit that I was the one who managed to purloin the plans in the first place. You must understand that in my youth I attended the Royal Naval College in Greenwich. Graduated from that admirable institution, having made many friends there down through the years, I am forced to admit that I am fairly well known throughout the British navy. So much so that old shipmates still refer to me as Count Iggy. Someone not too bright, but very rich and well known as an ever-flowing font of champagne.”

“Well, Count Iggy,” Sherman said. “I have only coffee to offer you now. Please do sit and have some. Then, perhaps, you will enlighten us as to the reason for this sub-rosa encounter.”

“I will be most delighted, General. Delighted!”

The Count took the chair farthest from the window and nodded his thanks when Fox passed him a cup of coffee. He sipped a bit before he spoke.

“My greatest indulgence these days is my little boat, the Aurora. I suppose you would call her more of a yacht than a boat. A steam launch, since I never could master all of those ropes and lines and sails and things that most sailors are so fond of. It is really quite jolly to fool about in. Makes traveling here and there and everywhere most easy as well. People admire her lines, but rarely query her presence.”

Sherman nodded. “That is most interesting, Count, but—”

“But why am I telling you this? You are wondering. I do have my reasons — first I must bore you with some of my family history. History tells us that the Korzhenevskis were glorious, but impoverished Polish nobility until my great-grandfather chose to join the navy of Peter the Great in 1709. He had served with great valor in the Swedish navy, but was more than happy to change sides when the Swedes were defeated by the Russians. He was still in the service when Peter expanded the Russian navy, and my reading of our family history reveals that his career was a most distinguished one. My great-grandfather, who was also very much a linguist, learned English and actually attended the British Royal Naval College in Greenwich. Very much the anglophile, he married into a family of the lesser nobility, who, impoverished as they were, considered him a great catch. Ever since then our family, in St. Petersburg, has been very English-orientated. I grew up speaking both languages and, like the eldest son of each generation, attended the Greenwich Naval College. So there you have it — you see before you an Englishman in all but name.”

His smile vanished and his face darkened as he leaned forward and spoke in a barely audible voice. “But that is no more. When the British attacked my country, I felt betrayed, wronged. On the surface I still amuse and entertain my English friends, because that role suits me best. But deep inside me, you must understand, is the feeling that I loathe them — and would do anything to bring about their destruction. When they attacked your country — and you defeated them — my heart sang with happiness. May I now call you my friends — because we are joined in a common cause? And please believe me when I say that I will do anything to advance that cause.”

Deep in thought, Gus rose and put his empty cup on the table, turned, and smiled warmly.

“That is a very generous offer, sir. Do you think you might consider a little ocean cruise?”

The Count’s smile mirrored his. “I might very well indeed. I was thinking of tootling up the Thames to Greenwich. I have some classmates still stationed there. Might I invite you to join me? Aurora is getting a refit in Hamburg just now. I intend to join her in a week’s time. I shall then sail her to Ostend. Please think about this, and when you make a decision, please leave a note for me at the desk sometime today, since I will be leaving at dawn tomorrow. A yes or a no will suffice. And I do hope that you will say yes. And in addition, you must excuse me, I do hate to be personal — but I must tell you that there are almost no redheads in Russia.”

He rose and put down his cup, turning once again to Gus. “If I could bother you — to look down the hall. It is important that we not be seen together.”

The hall was empty. With a cheery wave, the Count was gone and Gus locked the door behind him. Sherman poured himself some more coffee and shook his head.

“I’m a simple man of war, Gus, and all this kind of thing is beyond me. Would you kindly tell me what that was all about?”

“It was about military intelligence!” Gus was too excited to sit and paced the room as he spoke. “By revealing himself as an intimate of Schulz, he was letting us know that he has experience and training as — well, not to put it too fine — as a spy. He also believes that Britain and America may go to war again and has offered us assistance in preparing for that eventuality.”

“So that’s what all that strange talk was about. He wants you to join him in snooping around the British Isles?”

“Not me alone. Remember — it was you he contacted. He wants to give you an opportunity to see for yourself what the British defenses are like. If another war is forced upon us, we must be prepared for anything. An intimate knowledge of the coast defenses and major waterways of that country would be of incalculable aid in planning a campaign.”

“I begin to see what you mean. But it sounds pretty desperate. I don’t think that I would relish going to sea in the Count’s ship. We would have to hide belowdecks during the daylight hours and emerge like owls after dark.”

“That we will not! If we go, why, we are going to be Russian officers. Swilling champagne on deck and saying ‘Da! Da!’ Of course, you will have to dye your beard black. The Count was very firm about that. Do you think you can manage that — gospodin?”

Sherman rubbed his jaw in thought.

“So that’s what the bit concerning red hair was about.” He smiled. “Da,” he said. “I think I can manage almost anything, if it means that I can take a look at the British defenses and wartime preparation.”

With sudden enthusiasm Sherman jumped to his feet and slammed his fist down so hard on the table that the plates and saucers bounced.

“Let’s do it!”

THE ULTIMATUM

The rain was streaming down the glass lobby doors. Barely visible through them were the horses, hitched to the carriage outside and standing with lowered heads in the downpour. Abraham Lincoln stood to one side of the lobby talking with Ambassador Pierce and General Sherman. Pierce was upset and very apologetic.

“That is all I know, Mr. President. A servant brought me a note from Mr. Fox, saying that he would be slightly delayed and we should not wait, but should go on without him.”

“Well, if truth be known, I’m in no rush to go out in this rain. We’ll give him a few minutes in the hope that the weather might ameliorate. I am sure that we still have plenty of time once we get to the assembly.”

“Here he comes now,” Sherman said, then turned and looked out at the waiting carriage; he turned his uniform coat collar up. “At least, considering the time of year, it will be a warm rain.”

“Gentlemen, my apologies,” Gus said, hurrying to join them. “I was delayed because I was getting a report from an agent. It seems that the British are coming after all. A goodly sized party was seen already entering the palace — and it was headed by Lord Palmerston!”

“Well, there is no end to surprises,” said Lincoln, “as the man said when he first saw the elephant. I believe that we shall meet at last.”

“For good or ill,” Pierce said, mopping his sweating face with his kerchief.

“We’ll know soon enough,” Lincoln said. “Well now — shall we brave the elements and finally get to meet Lord Palmerston?”

The carriage was still accompanied by the Belgian cavalrymen, now looking damp and miserable, the elegant plumes on their helmets drooping and wet. King Leopold had taken it as a personal responsibility that the American President had been assaulted in his country. He was determined that there would be no reoccurrence. There had been unobtrusive guards in the hotel, most disguised as employees, and others now waited along the route that the carriage would take. The King believed that the honor of Belgium was at stake.

It was a short ride to the palace, but when they reached it they had to stop and wait until the occupants came out from the two carriages that had arrived ahead of them. The men who emerged had to brave the rain to enter the building while servants with umbrellas did their best to shield them from the elements. The cavalrymen did not like the delay, and transmitted their unease to their mounts, which stamped and pulled at their reins. They were relieved when the other carriages left and they could take their place at the foot of the steps.

Once inside, the Americans were ushered to the great chamber where the conference would convene. Even on this dark day, light streamed in through the ceiling-high windows. Ornate gas lamps abolished any traces of gloom, illuminating the ornately painted ceiling where centaurs pranced around lightly clad, very large women.

But Abraham Lincoln had no eyes for any of this. Across the floor and opposite their table (with the neatly lettered sign ÉTATS-UNIS upon it) was that of GRANDE BETAGNE. One seated man stood out sharply from the dark-clothed delegation. His foot propped on a stool before him, his hands clasped around the head of his cane, he glowered out at the entire assembly.

“Lord Palmerston, I presume?” Lincoln said quietly.

Gus nodded. “None other. He looks to be in an angry mood.”

“Considering the tenor of his communications with us, I believe he must live in a permanent state of bile.”

The Belgian Foreign Minister, Baron Surlet de Chokier, rose and the murmur of voices died away as he addressed the assembly in French.

“He is just reading out a formal and general greeting to all the delegations assembled here,” Fox said, leaning over to whisper to the President. “And it is his fond hope that prosperity for all countries will be the fruitful conclusion of these highly significant and most important negotiations.”

Lincoln nodded. “You never cease to surprise me, Gus.”

Fox smiled and gave a very Gallic shrug of his shoulders.

When the baron had finished, he waved to his clerk, who began to read the protocol of business for the assembly. But Lord Palmerston loudly cleared his throat. He rumbled like a distant volcano as he climbed to his feet.

“Before these proceedings continue, I must protest strongly about the nature and particular membership of this assembly—”

“I beg your lordship to hear the protocol first!” de Chokier said pleadingly — but Palmerston would have none of it.

“A protest, sir, about the very basic nature of these proceedings. We are assembled here in a congress of the great nations of Europe to discuss matters most relevant to countries that are European. I therefore object most strongly to the presence of representatives of the upstart nation from far across the Atlantic. They have no right to be here and have no relevance to the matters at hand. The sight of them is an abomination to all honest men, of whatever nationality. Particularly insulting is the presence in their midst of a military officer who, until recently, was deeply involved in the slaughter of loyal British troops. They give offense, sir, and should be turned out into the street at once.”

Abraham Lincoln was no stranger to acrimonious public debate. He rose slowly to his feet, clutching his lapels casually. To those who knew, the mood indicated by the droop in his eyes — hiding their cold gaze — did not bode well for his opponents. The instant Palmerston paused for breath, Lincoln’s high, penetrating voice echoed from the chamber’s wall.

“I believe that the British representative is laboring under a self-imposed delusion, for which I apologize to all of the other delegates present. He should know that all of the nations gathered here were invited officially by King Leopold of Belgium himself. It is a most solemn and important gathering that we attend, for this is no provincial European occasion, but is instead a congress of countries who meet together to discuss matters of world importance. As Britain represents a world-embracing empire, so do we speak for the New World and its countries across the Atlantic Ocean—”

“Your comparisons are odious, sir!” Palmerston bellowed. “How dare you compare the sweep of the British Empire, the might of our world-spanning union, with your ragtag so-called democracies?”

“How dare you single out General Sherman, a brave soldier, for denigration when I see a plethora of uniforms about this room. And please tell me, is that not a general sitting close behind you?”

Palmerston, livid with rage, would have none of it. “You presume too much to speak to me in this manner—”

“Presume, sir? I presume nothing. In fact, I control my impatience as I address the person who was so presumptuous, so rash, that he dared to send armies to attack our peace-loving country. That was an act of war that did not go unpunished. However, it is my greatest hope that the nations convened here will not think of the past and of war. Instead we should look forward to peace in a peaceful future.”

Palmerston was beside himself. He crashed his cane again and again across the tabletop until the shocked voices of protest had died away.

“Her Majesty’s representatives did not come here to be insulted,” Palmerston bellowed. “It would be our pleasure to join the other representatives in a congress of mutual cooperation at some other time. But not here, not today, while these totally repugnant foreign intruders are present in this hall. I am therefore forced to wish you all a good day.”

He stalked from the room, his dramatic exit hampered by a stumbling progress caused by his swollen foot, while most of the other members of the delegation hurried after him. The door slammed shut and Lincoln nodded sagely. He slowly regained his seat. “I think the clerk can continue now,” he said.

The clerk began to read in a shaky voice until Baron de Chokier interrupted him. “I believe these proceedings should continue after a brief recess. If you please, gentlemen, in an hour’s time.”

“Got a mighty fierce temper for an old man,” Lincoln observed. “I wonder he didn’t explode years ago.”

“It must have all been prearranged,” Fox said, looking worried. “King Leopold is Queen Victoria’s favorite uncle and she looks up to him for advice and counseling. Knowing this, her prime minister could not easily refuse the invitation. But coming here was one thing for Palmerston; staying and talking peace with Yankees something altogether different. But now that they have shown their flag—”

“And retreated after the first engagement,” Lincoln said. “Can we proceed without their presence?”

“We can,” Pierce responded. “But I doubt if we will get very far. The British royal family is related to half the crowned heads in Europe and exercises a great deal of influence. Palmerston will of course report to the Queen and blame us for everything that has occurred here today. It is inconceivable that this congress can continue after Queen Victoria expresses her displeasure to the other crowned heads. The politicians who can make decisions will be recalled, and all that will be left behind will be delegations of second raters and timeservers… who will of course block any real agreements and will only drag their feet. I am afraid that this congress, that looked so promising, is going to be a rehearsed performance, with very little to show as a result.”

Lincoln nodded. “Well, we must do our part and not retreat at the first volley. Performance or not, we will sit it out. The British cannot blame us for threatening the peace of Europe — or standing in the way of any trade agreements.”

Pierce’s predictions proved to be most exact. There were discussions of the agenda, but they were all between minor officials as the leaders of the delegations slipped away one by one. At the end of the first week Lincoln did the same.

“Too much talk, too little action,” he said. “Ambassador Pierce, I am putting you in charge of this delegation while I attend to pressing business in Washington.”

Pierce nodded gloomily. “I understand, Mr. President. General Sherman — might I count upon your assistance?”

“Regrettably no. I will accompany the President to Ostend, where the battle cruiser USS Dictator is still tied up. We know that you will do your best.”

Pierce sighed and nodded his head. The conference, which had held out such great hope, was now an empty shell, with only minor officials like himself keeping it going. He looked on gloomily as the presidential party departed.

“And you two, are you sure that you won’t tell me what you are up to? What mysterious matters take you with me to Ostend?” Lincoln asked Fox and Sherman, once the three of them were in their closed carriage, his interest still piqued by their prolonged silence.

“We dare not,” Fox said. “If even a whisper gets out of what we are doing — well, I am afraid that the international consequences might very well be disastrous.”

“Now you really do have me interested.” Lincoln raised his hand. “But I shall not ask again. But please reassure me that you will report to me as soon as your mission has been accomplished.”

“You shall be the first to know — that I promise.”

Back in his room at the hotel, General Sherman took his clothes from the drawers of the dresser and laid them on the bed. Then he unlocked his suitcase. There was a sheet of paper inside that had not been there when he had closed it many days ago. He held it in the light from the window and read:

You are being watched closely by British agents.

Proceed with the President and board the USS Dictator.

Mr. Fox will receive further instructions.

The communication was unsigned.

Arrangements had been made well in advance and an entire railroad car reserved for the presidential party — as well as for the numerous armed officers of a household regiment. King Leopold would be very relieved when the Americans were safely aboard the warship in Ostend — but in the meantime they were to be closely guarded. The journey was a quick one, first by train and then by carriage. Sherman had barely set foot aboard the vessel when he was summoned by a sailor to the officers’ wardroom. Gus Fox was waiting there, accompanied by a puzzled-looking naval officer. Fox introduced them.

“General Sherman, this is Commander William Wilson, the second officer of this vessel. The commander was a chartered surveyor before he attended Annapolis and began his naval career.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Commander,” Sherman said, having a strong inkling of what Fox had in mind. When Fox next spoke his suspicions proved correct.

“I told Commander Wilson only the bare fact that you and I were undertaking a mission of great importance to our country. As well as one that might be highly dangerous. As a serving officer, he could of course be ordered to accompany us. However, considering the secrecy — not to mention the delicacy — of this assignment, I felt that the decision must be left up to him. Therefore I asked him if he would aid us without receiving any more information than that at the present time. I am happy to say that he volunteered.”

“I am pleased to hear so, Commander,” Sherman said. “It is good to have you on our side.”

“It is indeed my pleasure,” said Wilson. “I’ll be frank, General. I find the whole matter very mysterious, and under different circumstances I might reconsider my decision. However, I do welcome the chance to serve under you. Our country owes its very existence to your valor in battle, so I deem this a great honor indeed.”

“Thank you, Commander. And I know that Gus will tell you everything as soon as possible. In the meantime we must take our instructions from him.”

“Let’s start with this,” Fox said, taking a box from under the table and opening it to remove three silk hats. “These are as different from uniform hats as I could manage at short notice. I hope that I bought the right sizes.”

They traded the hats around, smiling as they tried them on, until they had each found a reasonable fit.

“These will do fine,” Fox said, looking into the mirror and tapping his into place at a rakish angle. “Now — will each of you please pack a small bag with personal necessities? No clothes, please, that will be taken care of later. Meet me here at midnight. And please wear trousers without piping. I will have greatcoats for you, also with their insignia removed. The captain has said that he will provide enough squads of armed sailors to sweep the dockside area as soon as it is dark and remove any intruders. This is most important, since we must not be seen as we leave.”

“And just where are we going?” Sherman asked.

Fox just smiled and touched a finger to his lips. “All will soon be revealed.”

There was no light on deck when, soon after midnight, they emerged into the darkness. Nor was anyone visible on the dock below. They felt their way down the gangway in the moonless night, with only starlight to guide them. There was a black form barely visible on the dock; a horse’s whinny revealed a waiting carriage.

“Entrez, s’il vous plaît,” a man whispered, holding the door open for them. The carriage jolted into motion as soon as they were seated. Curtains covered the windows. They could not see out — neither could anyone look in. They sat in silence, jostled about as the carriage bumped over cobbles, then picked up speed on a smoother road.

The trip seemed to last forever as they moved swiftly through the dark city. They stopped just once and there was the murmur of voices outside. Afterward, the horses speeded up to a fast trot — until they stopped once again. This time the door was opened by a man holding a blacked-out lantern. He lifted the covering flap of the lantern just enough to reveal the carriage steps.

“If you will please come with me.”

They heard the sounds of lapping water and saw that they were at another dock. Granite steps led down from the ground level to a waiting boat. Six silent sailors manned it, oars rigidly upright. Their guide helped them into the stern, then cast off the painter and joined them. As soon as he was seated, he said something in a foreign, guttural tongue. The sailors lowered their oars smartly and rowed them out into the stream. There were lights on the small ship anchored a little ways out, and a uniformed officer waiting at the foot of the gangway to help them aboard. Their guide was out first.

“Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to follow me.”

He led them belowdecks to a large compartment that spanned the width of the small vessel. It was brightly lit by candles and lamps.

“Welcome aboard the Aurora,” he said. “I am Count Alexander Korzhenevski.” He turned to the puzzled naval commander and put out his hand. “These other gentlemen I know, but you, sir, are also very welcome here. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. And you are…?”

“Wilson, sir. Commander William Wilson.”

“Welcome aboard, Commander. Now, gentlemen, please. Remove your outer garments and join me in some champagne.”

A white-jacketed sailor instantly appeared with bubbling glasses on a tray. They drank and looked around at the luxuriously appointed compartment. Heavy red curtains covered the shining brass portholes. Oil paintings of naval scenes adorned the walls; the chairs were soft and comfortable. The door opened and a young Russian officer with a curling blond beard joined them, taking a glass of champagne, nodding and smiling.

“Gentleman,” the Count said. “May I introduce Lieutenant Simenov, our first engineer.”

“Bloody good!” Simenov said, shaking Fox’s hand industriously.

“Ah — you speak English, then?”

“Bloody good!”

“I’m afraid that is the be-all and the end-all of his English,” Korzhenevski explained. “But he is a bloody great engineer.”

“Now, if you please,” Commander Wilson said. “Will someone be so kind as to tell me just what is happening? I admit to being completely in the dark.”

“Of course,” Fox said. “It seems that the Count has been kind enough to put his steam yacht at our disposal. We shall sail aboard her, and it is our intent to visit as many British coastal defenses as we can. That is why I asked you to volunteer. I look to your drafting skills to chart these positions.”

“Good God! We’re to be spies! They’ll arrest us on sight—”

“Not quite,” the Count said. “I am well-known in naval quarters and my presence is quite acceptable. While you gentlemen will be my guests as… Russian officers.”

Wilson’s face was a study in blank bewilderment. This morning he had been a naval officer on an American warship. Now, a few short hours later, he was to be a Russian officer poking about the English shores. It all sounded very chancy — and very dangerous. He did not speak his doubts aloud since the others seemed quite happy to go along with the subterfuge. Instead he shrugged, emptied his glass, and held it out to be refilled.

“You must all be tired,” Korzhenevski said. “But I am afraid I must ask you to stay up for a short time longer.” He issued a command in Russian to one of the sailors, who saluted and left the room. A short time later he returned with two men who were carrying tape measures, chalk, and notebooks; obviously tailors. They quickly measured the three Americans, bowed, and left.

“That will be all for this evening, gentlemen,” Korzhenevski said. “Whenever you wish, you will be shown to your quarters. But perhaps, first, you would like to join me in a glass of cognac to seal this day’s momentous events.”

No one said no.

A VOYAGE FRAUGHT WITH DANGER

Soon after dawn a light tapping on the compartment door awoke General Sherman. A moment later the door opened and a mess boy brought in a steaming cup of coffee and put it on the table by the bed. Close behind him came a sailor carrying a gleaming white uniform. He smiled and said something in Russian and laid it carefully across a chair. On top of it he placed a large, white uniform cap.

“I’m sure that you are right,” Sherman said, sitting up in bed and gratefully sipping the coffee.

“Da, da!” the sailor said, and left.

It was a handsome uniform, with ornate, gold-braided shoulder boards and two rows of impressive-looking medals across the chest. And it fit perfectly. When he joined the others in the wardroom, he saw that Fox was wearing an equally imposing uniform, as was the embarrassed-looking Wilson.

The Count entered and clapped his hands with delight. “Excellent! Let me welcome you gentlemen into the Russian navy. Your presence here does us great honor. Later, after we have broken our fast, I will explain some slight differences between our naval service and your own. You will discover that we salute in a different manner and do too much heel clicking, which will not be familiar to you. But first, General Sherman — might I ask you to remove your jacket. Admirable!” He clapped his hands and a sailor led in two men bearing a large container of water, bowls, and jars. Sherman sat rigid as they draped him with towels, wet his beard and hair, even his eyebrows, then combed in a jet-black dye. With a murmured apology one of them even tinted his eyelashes with mascara. It was all done very quickly, and they were finished even as the stewards carried in the breakfast dishes; then his beard was trimmed into a more Russian shape. He admired himself in a mirror as the barbers bowed deeply and backed from the compartment.

“You look quite rakish,” Fox said, “and irresistible to the ladies.”

He indeed looked much younger, Sherman realized, for the dye had not only colored his red hair, but eliminated the strands of gray that were beginning to appear.

“Barbers and tailors available on call,” he said. “What other surprises do you have for us, Count Korzhenevski?”

“Why, there are farriers, blacksmiths, surgeons, lawyers — whatever you wish,” the Count said. “We tend to take the long view in Russia. Preparing today for tomorrow’s exigencies. Some would call these people of ours spies — and perhaps they are. But they are also reliable and patriotic Russian people who were paid well to emigrate and settle in this foreign land. They are now part of the community, here and in other countries — but they always stand ready to answer the call from the motherland when needed.”

“Do you have your agents in England, too?” Sherman asked.

“But of course. In every country where our homeland has an interest.”

“In the United States as well?” Gus asked quietly.

“You don’t really want me to answer that, do you? Enough to say that our two great countries are allied and united in this glorious mission.”

A sailor entered and saluted, then said something to the Count. He nodded, and the man left.

“All the visitors are now ashore. Let our prosperous voyage begin.” Even as he spoke, a steam whistle wailed and the decking vibrated as the engines came up to speed. “Pardon me for requesting that you remain belowdecks until we are out to sea. In the meantime — enjoy your breakfast.”

They did. Gus introduced Sherman to the joys of beluga caviar. Washed down, despite the hour, with chilled vodka. Thus began the first day of their perilous voyage.

When they finally came out on deck, the flat Belgian coastline was only a line behind them on the horizon. “We are steaming north for a bit,” the Count said. “When we get closer to the British Isles, it is important that we approach from the northeast, presumably coming from Russia. We shall sight Scotland first, then coast slowly south toward England. Now — if you will permit me, I will show you how to salute and walk in the proper Russian manner.”

They laughed a good deal as they paraded around the deck, until they could perform to Korzhenevski’s satisfaction. It was warm work and they welcomed the chilled champagne that followed.

“Next we will learn a little Russian,” the Count said. “Which you will be able to use when we meet the English. Da means ‘yes,’ nyet is ‘no,’ and spaseba means ‘thank you.’ Master these and very soon I will teach you to say ‘I do not speak English.’ Which is, ‘Prostite, no yane govoriu poangliyski.’ But we shall save that for a later time. Nevertheless, when you have done that, you will have learned all of the Russian that you will ever need during our visit here. The British are not known for their linguistic ability, so you need have no fear of being found out by any of them.”

When the Count left to attend to ship’s business, Wilson, for the second time, voiced his reservations.

“This trip, this scouting out of the British coast, is there any specific reason for our going? Are we looking for anything in particular?”

“I do not take your meaning,” Fox said, although he had a good idea what was troubling the naval officer.

“I mean no offense — but it must be admitted that at the present time our country is at peace with England. Won’t our mission be, well, at the least — provocative? And, if we are caught in the act, why, there will surely be international repercussions.”

“Everything you say is true. But in the larger sense, military intelligence must never stand still. We can never know enough about our possible enemies — and even our friends. I thought the Count phrased it very well when he said that they tended to take the long view in Russia about future relationships with other countries. They have the experience of centuries of conflict, of countries who were friends one day — and enemies the next. America has no such experience in international conflicts, so we have much to learn.”

Sherman sipped some champagne, then set the half-empty glass on the table. His expression was distant, as though he were looking at a future unseen, a time yet unknown.

“Let me tell you something about the British,” he said quietly. “A field officer must know his enemy. In the years that we have been fighting them, I have indeed come to know them. I can assure you that our success in battle has never been easy. Their soldiers are experienced and tenacious, and used to victory. If they have any weakness in the field, it is the fact that promotion of officers is not by ability but by purchase. Those with money can buy commissions of higher rank. Therefore, good, experienced officers are pushed aside and others with no experience — other than having the experience in spending a lot of money — take their places. It is a stupid arrangement and one that has cost the British dearly more than once. Yet, despite this severe handicap, they are used to victory because, although they have lost many battles, they have never lost a war. If this has bred a certain arrogance, it is understandable. They have world maps, I have seen them, where all of the countries that are part of their empire are marked in red. They say that the sun never sets on the British Empire, and that is indeed true. They are used to winning. An island race, war has not touched their shores in a very long time. There have been small incursions — like that of the Dutch, who once temporarily landed and captured a city in Cornwall. As well as our own John Paul Jones, who sacked Whitehaven during the War of 1812. These were the exceptions. Basically, they have not been successfully invaded since 1066. They expect only victory — and history has proved them right. Up until now.”

“I could not agree more,” Gus said. “Our American victories in the field and at sea have caused them great irritation. At times the outcome of battle has been a close-run thing. Many times it has only been our superiority in modern military machines and weapons that has carried the day. And we must not forget that up until the past conflict, they ruled the world’s oceans. That is no longer true. For centuries they also ruled in Ireland — and that is also no longer true. They bridle at this state of affairs and do not want to accept it.”

“That is why we are making this voyage of exploration,” Sherman said grimly. “War is hell and I know it. But I do not think those in authority in Britain are aware of it. They rule with a certain arrogance, since they are used to continual success. Remember, this is not a real democracy. The powers that are in control here rule from the top down. The ruling classes and the nobility still do not accept defeat by our upstart republic. We in America must work for peace — but we must also be prepared for war.”

“Just think about it, William,” Gus said in a quieter tone. “We do not hurt Great Britain by charting her defenses, for we have no plans for war. But we must be prepared for any exigency. That is why this trip to Greenwich was arranged. We have no interest in their naval academy — but it does lie just outside London on the river Thames. The route to the heart of England, Britain — the empire. An invasion route first used by the Romans two thousand years ago. I am not saying that we will ever mount an attack here — but we must know what is to be faced. As long as the British bulldog is quiet, we will sleep better in our beds. But — should it rouse up…” He left the sentence unfinished.

Wilson sat quiet, pondering what he had heard, then smiled and signaled for more champagne. “What you say makes strong logic. It is just that what we are doing is so unusual. As a sailor, I am used to a different kind of life, one consisting of discipline and danger…”

“You shall find that you will need a good deal of both if we are to finish this voyage successfully,” Sherman said.

“You are of course right, General. I shall put all doubts to one side and do my duty. For which I will need drawing and drafting materials.”

“If I know our friend the Count,” Fox said, “I am sure that he has laid in a stock for you. But you must not be seen making drawings.”

“I am fully aware of that. I must look and remember, then draw my plans from memory. I have done this before, when working as a surveyor, and foresee no problems.”

The warm June weather continued, even when they left the English Channel and entered the North Sea. Being small and fast, the Aurora managed to avoid being seen closely by any of the other ships plying these busy waters. The Americans sat on deck in their shirtsleeves, enjoying the sunshine as though on an ordinary holiday cruise, while Wilson honed his artistic skills making sketches of shipboard life and his fellow officers. The Count had indeed laid in an ample supply of drawing materials.

When they reached fifty-six degrees north latitude, Korzhenevski decided that they had sailed far enough in that direction and set a course due west for Scotland. The Russian flag was raised at the stern and the sailors scrubbed the decks and put a last polish on the brass while the officers enjoyed their luncheon. When they emerged on deck they were all dressed in full uniform and saluted one another smartly, clicking their heels with many a da, da.

It was midafternoon when they sighted the Scottish coast near Dundee. They altered course and coasted south easily while Korzhenevski looked at the shore through a brass telescope.

“Over there you will see the mouth of the Firth of Forth, with Edinburgh lying upstream. I have had many jolly times in that city with Scots friends, drinking far too much of their excellent whiskey.” He focused on a group of white sails scudding out of the Firth. “It looks like a race — how smashing!” He issued quick orders and the yacht moved closer to shore.

“Not a race at all,” he pronounced when the sailing ships were better seen. “Just cheery times in this salubrious weather — who is to blame them?”

As they slowly drew level and passed the smaller craft, there were friendly waves and an occasional distant cheer. Aurora answered with little toots of her whistle. One of the small sailing craft was now angled away from the others and heading out to sea in their direction. The Count focused his telescope on it, then lowered the scope and laughed aloud.

“By Jove, we are indeed in luck. She is crewed by an old shipmate from Greenwich, the Honorable Richard MacTavish.”

The Aurora slowed and stopped, rolling easily in the light seas. The little yacht came close, the man at the tiller waving enthusiastically; then he called out.

“When I saw your flag with the two-headed eagle I couldn’t believe it. It is you, isn’t it, Count Iggy?”

“In the flesh, my dear Scotty. Do come aboard and have a glass of bubbly — does wonders for the tummy!”

The boarding ladder was thrown over the side as a line from the little yacht was hauled aboard. A moment later MacTavish was scrambling over the rail and pounding the Count on the back.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Iggy. Where have you got to these last years?”

“Oh, just tootling about… you know.” Korzhenevski sounded a bit bored and a little simple. “I say — shouldn’t you bring your friends aboard as well?”

“Not friends, if truth be spoken,” MacTavish said. “Just some locals I let crew.”

“Well then, you must meet some fellow Russian officers who joined me for this little cruise.”

MacTavish took a glass of champagne as the three Americans clicked their heels and took a brace on the stern deck. The Count smiled and sipped his champagne as well.

“From left to right Lieutenant Chikhachev, Lieutenant Tyrtov, and Commander Makarov, the one with the dark beard. Unhappily, none of them speak English. Just give them a smile, that’s right. Look how happy they are.”

MacTavish got his hand pumped enthusiastically and there were plenty of das.

“As you see, not a word of English among them,” the Count drawled. “But still good chaps. You just say da back; well done! Let me top up your glass.”

MacTavish was working on his second glass of champagne when a head appeared at deck level. “I say, Dickie,” an angry voice called out, “this is a bit much.”

“On my way,” he called out, draining his glass. With many shouted farewells and protestations of eternal friendship, he climbed back down to the yacht. The Count waved after them and smiled as they darted back toward land.

“A good chap,” he said, “but not too bright. Last in the class, as I remember. Gentlemen, you did most excellently.”

“Da!” Wilson said, and they all laughed.

A puff of smoke rose from the stack as the engine started up again. Their course south along the coast toward England.

Beyond the coast that they were passing — and farther south, well inland, just two and a half miles from Birmingham city center — a tent city had sprung up in what, until recently, had been the green pastures around the noble house of Aston Hall. The camp covered an area of over ten acres of churned-up mud, still soaked from the recent rains, which was now drying slowly in the sun. Duckboards had been laid between the tents, but the mud oozing up between them rendered them almost useless. Women were moving about listlessly, some of them cooking in pots hung over the open fires, others hanging up clothes on lines stretched between the tents; children ran along the duckboards shouting to one another. There were very few men to be seen.

One of them was Thomas McGrath, who now sat on a box in the opened flap of a tent, puffing slowly on his pipe. He was a big man with immense arms and slightly graying hair. He had been a gaffer in a Birmingham tannery up until the time of his arrest. He looked around bitterly at the tents and the mud. Bad enough now — but what would it be like in the autumn when the rains came in earnest? Would they still be here then? No one had told him anything, even when they came to arrest him and seize his family. Orders, the soldiers had said. From whom — or for what reason — had never been explained. Except that they were Irish, like every other person in the concentration camp. That’s what the camps were called. They were concentrating the Irish where they could be watched. He looked up at the sound of footsteps to see Patrick McDermott walking toward him.

“How you keeping, Tom?” he asked.

“The same, Paddy, the same,” McGrath said. McDermott had worked with him in the tannery; a good man. The newcomer squatted down gingerly on the duckboards.

“I’ve got a bit of news for you,” he said. “It seems that I was over there, standing by the main gate, when the ration wagons drove in just now. Two soldiers, a driver and a guard, in each of them, just like always. But they are wearing totally different uniforms from the guards that are stationed on the gates. Sure, I said to myself, and there must be a new regiment come to look after us.”

“Now is that true, you say?” McGrath took the pipe from his mouth and knocked the dottle out on the side of the box and rose to his feet.

“With my own two eyes.”

“Well then, there is no time like the present. Let’s do it — just like we worked out. Are you ready?”

“Never readier.”

“When they come you look to the driver. I’ll be having a word with the wife first. She’ll talk to your Rose later.”

The horse-drawn carts came every day or two to distribute food. Potatoes for the most part, since the British believed that the Irish ate nothing else. The two Irishmen were waiting when the wagon came down between the row of tents, stopping where the small crowd of women waited for the food. McGrath had chosen this spot because the tents blocked any view of the soldiers at the gates. There was only this single wagon in sight, with one of the prisoners in the back passing down the potatoes. McGrath knew the man from the pub, but couldn’t remember his name.

“Let me give you a hand with that,” he said, clambering up into the wagon.

The guard, with the musket between his legs, sat facing backward next to the driver. Out of the corner of his eye McGrath saw Paddy standing by the horse.

“You, get down from there,” the guard called out, waving him off with his gun.

“He’s been ill, your honor, he’s that weak. I’ll just give him a hand.”

McGrath seized up a sack of potatoes, saw Paddy stepping forward. He swung the bag and knocked the soldier’s rifle from his grasp. The man was gape-jawed, but before he could respond, McGrath bent him over with a punch to the belly. He gasped and fell forward; McGrath’s other fist felled him with a mighty blow to the jaw.

At the same moment as McGrath swung the bag, Paddy had reached up and pulled the surprised driver from his seat down to the ground, kicking him in the side of the head as he fell into the mud.

It had taken but an instant. The man who had been unloading the potatoes stood with a bag in his hands, shocked. The women did not move but looked on silently; a child started to cry but went silent, his mother’s hand over his mouth.

“Dump most of these potatoes,” McGrath told the other man. “See that they get spread around the camp. And you know nothing.”

On the ground Paddy had stripped the unconscious soldier of his clothes and was pulling them on. He wiped some of the mud from the uniform with the man’s neckcloth. “Get some rope,” he said to the watching women. “I want him bound and gagged. The same for the other.”

McGrath was struggling into the guard’s uniform jacket; not an easy fit and impossible to button. He picked up the man’s gun and took his place on the seat, stuffing his and Paddy’s wadded-up clothes under the seat beside him. The entire action had taken less than two minutes. The women had carried the bound and unconscious soldiers into an empty tent and tied the open flap shut. The Irishman who had been unloading potatoes was gone. Paddy made a clicking sound and shook the reins. The horse plodded forward. Behind them the women and children dispersed. McDermott let out a pleased sigh.

“That was well done, me old son,” he said.

“Jayzus, I thought you had taken his head off, the punch you hit him.”

“It did the job. The gate now — and keep your gob shut if they want to talk to you.”

“Aye.”

The horse, head low, plodded slowly toward the gate. There were four green jackets on guard there, one of them a sergeant with an ample belly. He signaled and two of the soldiers started to open the gate. Paddy pulled up the horse while he waited for it to swing wide.

“You’re finished damned fast,” the sergeant said, glancing suspiciously into the cart.

“Pushed the bleedin’ fings out, that’s what,” Paddy said in an acceptable Cockney accent, for he had worked for many years in London. “Them last ones is rotten.”

“Do up that tunic or you’ll be charged,” the sergeant snapped. McGrath fumbled with the buttons. The sergeant grunted and jerked his thumb for them to proceed, then turned away, no longer interested.

Paddy drove slowly until a bend in the road and a grove of trees shielded them from sight of the camp; snapped the reins and urged the horse into a trot.

“I thought I would die when that sergeant spoke to you like that.”

“Stupid pigs!” McGrath was suddenly angry. Angry at life, the concentration camp, at the people who had seized him and brought him and his family to this desperate place. “There, that stand of trees. Pull in there and we’ll get out of these uniforms. See if there is any money in the pockets. We are going to need a few bob for the train if we want to put some miles behind us before the alarm is raised.”

INTO THE LION’S LAIR

The low-lying English coast lay directly ahead as Aurora made a slow turn to starboard. With her engine thudding quietly she steamed toward Dungeness near the mouth of the river Thames, where the Trinity House cruising cutter was established at the rendezvous for London-bound shipping. Count Korzhenevski had the nautical chart of the coastal waters spread out on the table on the forward deck. The three Americans looked on intently as he tapped it with his finger.

“Here, off Dungeness,” he said, “is where we must stop to pick up the pilot. Every morning and every evening a tender from Dover tops up the number of men there, so there are always about fourteen pilots waiting. They will send one of them out to us when we heave to and signal. A pilot is of utmost importance now, because the river estuary here is a maze of shifting sandbanks. However, before the pilot joins us, I will ask you gentlemen to enter the main cabin and remain there as long as he is aboard. But once he is on the bridge, it will be time for Commander Wilson to appear in his role as deck officer to supervise casting off from the buoy. The crew has been directed to act as if they are obeying his instructions. Once we sail, Wilson will remain on deck and act as bow lookout until we approach this spot — where the river makes a sharp turn to the right. Before we reach the turn, he will move to the starboard side of the ship just below the bridge. Once he has taken up his position there, he will be out of sight of the pilot and can direct his attention to the defenses along the riverbanks. It is a matter of public record that a few years ago Prime Minister Palmerston ordered a spate of fort building; this was during the last French invasion scare. There is a new fort here at Slough Point, farther upstream at Cliffe Creek and Shornmead as well. But here is the place that you will really examine.”

The Count tapped his fingertip on the chart again and they leaned forward to look at the indicated spot on the riverbank. “There is a small defensive position at the water’s edge called Coalhouse Fort. The last time I passed this way it was unmanned and the guns were gone. That may have changed. But most important of all is what is around this next bend in the river, where the Thames turns sharply to starboard. The river narrows at this point, and right at the bend, dominating the river, is the most dangerous armed position of Tilbury Fort. There are many gun emplacements in it, as well as extensive walls, moats, and other defenses. On the other bank, just opposite Tilbury Fort, there is a new fort and gun emplacements here in Gravesend. Once past these forts, the Thames becomes very narrow and built up along both shores; consequently, it is of no military interest. Therefore, once we are past the fort, the commander should join his comrades in the cabin and transcribe what he has observed of the river defenses. The curtains will be drawn, because very soon after that we will be tying up at Greenwich. Is this all clear?”

“Very much so,” Sherman said. “What is not clear is what will happen after we arrive in Greenwich.”

“That is in the hands of the gods, my dear general. My classmate Commander Mark Johnstone is on the teaching staff there, and before we left Ostend, I sent him a cable about our imminent arrival. I hope that our stay will be a brief one, but we will just have to wait and see. On a previous visit I had him aboard for a little banquet and a few bottles of champagne. We will just have to see what happens this time. But the long and the short of it is that we must stop at Greenwich. After all, our presence on the river is predicated upon a visit to the Naval Academy, and that we must do.”

As agreed, Sherman and Fox stayed belowdecks and out of sight. Very soon after Aurora had tied up to a buoy and had signaled, a boat drew away from the waiting cutter and headed their way. They had a quick glimpse of the pea-jacketed figure sitting in the stern, then saw no more, for the steward closed the curtains as the boat approached. There were voices on deck and the stamp of feet as the Count showed the pilot to the bridge and stayed with him there.

The pilot had gray hair and a scraggly beard; his clothing smelled strongly of fish. Unhappily, the bridge was too small for Korzhenevski to get far from the man. He closed the door and put his back against it. The pilot took a newspaper from his pocket and offered it to the Count. “Just arrived,” he said. “Only two bob and it’s yours.”

Korzhenevski nodded and paid two shillings for the overpriced newspaper; he knew that this was a harmless bit of larceny that the pilots indulged in. Sailors who had been weeks at sea would be curious about recent events. Pocketing the coins, the pilot then peered through the front ports and turned to the helmsman.

“Don’t get this ship above five knots,” he said. The man ignored him.

“The helmsman, he don’t speak English?” the pilot asked suspiciously.

“No more than you do Russian,” the Count said, forcing himself to ignore the man’s stupidity. “I will translate.”

“Slow ahead. Five knots maximum speed. That’s the East Margate buoy ahead. Keep it to port for the Princess Channel or we will be onto the Margate Sands.”

The Count called down to the deckhands and they let go one end of the line through the eye of the buoy and pulled it aboard. Wilson in his role of deck officer pointed and tried to look as though he were in command. Gathering speed, the Aurora puffed slowly away from her mooring and out into the channel toward the mouth of the Thames.

The tide was on the ebb and the downstream current was very strong. The riverbanks moved slowly by; green fields on both sides, with the occasional village beyond them. When Wilson saw the turn in the river appearing ahead, he walked casually around the deck to position himself out of sight of the bridge.

The Count had been wrong; Coalhouse Fort was not deserted, but boasted a new battery of big guns. Wilson counted them and made a mental note.

Then they were coming up on Tilbury Fort and he gasped at the size of it. It was built on the spit of land just where the river narrowed, and it dominated the river — and could target any vessel coming upstream. It was star-shaped, with high, grim bastions looming above the water. Gun muzzles studded these defenses; more muzzles were visible behind the gunlines at the water’s edge. Wilson stared at the fort until it vanished behind them, then stepped into the main cabin and opened his drawing pad. General Sherman lowered his binoculars and turned from the porthole.

“Impressive,” he said.

“Disastrous,” Wilson answered, quickly sketching in the lines of the fort. “Any ship, no matter how armored, will never get past her unharmed. I can truthfully say that as long as that fort is there, London is safe from any invasion by sea.”

“Perhaps the fort could be taken from the land side.”

“Hardly. There is an inner and an outer moat — with gun positions in between them, a redan as well, then the brick bastions of the fort itself. They can probably flood the marshland beyond if they have to. I would say that this fort is next to impregnable — except possibly by a long siege—”

“Which is of course out of the question,” Sherman said, watching the outlines of the fort take shape on the paper. He touched the drawing, tapping the west gunline on the riverbank. “Twelve heavy guns here; I counted them. From the size of their muzzles they could be hundred-pounders.”

Wilson was still hard at work on his drawings when the engine slowed then stopped. Aurora bumped lightly against the fenders of the seawall as they tied up. There were shouted commands and the sound of running feet on deck. The Count came in and went to Wilson to look at his drawings. “Most excellent,” he said. “This voyage is starting very auspiciously. But the same is, unhappily, not true of the rest of the world.”

He took a newspaper from his jacket pocket and opened it on the table. “The pilot sold me this overpriced copy of The Times. This item will be of interest to us all.”

“What is it about?” Sherman asked, looking at the lengthy article.

“I read it with great attention while we were coming upriver. It seems that Prime Minister Palmerston has accused your countrymen of dumping American cotton on the European market at ruinous prices, thereby undercutting the British cotton trade.”

“There is nothing new in this,” Fox said. “The British have been going to the Empire countries for cotton ever since the War Between the States began. Mostly Egypt and India. But their cotton is inferior to the American variety and more expensive to produce. Therefore, Yankee traders have been selling cotton to the French and German mills. The British do not like this. We have been here before.”

“I hope you are right. But in his speech Palmerston threatens the American trade if it continues in this fashion.”

“Any specific threats?” Sherman asked.

“Not really. But he is a man to be watched.”

“He is indeed,” Fox said, seating himself with the newspaper and giving it his close attention.

Korzhenevski crossed the room and took a sheet of crested notepaper from the sideboard. He wrote a quick note and closed it with a wax seal.

“Simenov has been here with me before, so he can find his way to the college. He’ll deliver this note to Johnstone and wait for an answer. I’m inviting him for dinner tonight. If he accepts, we might very well be out of here tomorrow. We’ll decide what to do as soon as Johnstone leaves. I’m also taking the precaution of sending a sailor with Simenov. He will be carrying a bottle of champagne. Harbinger of joys to come! Might I suggest, Commander, that you continue your engineering pursuits in your cabin? Thank you.”

Fox seemed more concerned with the newspaper than with his champagne, reading not only the article that had attracted the Count’s attention but all the other news as well. A distant look entered into Sherman’s eyes, one that Korzhenevski noticed.

“Is something disturbing you, General?”

“Something is, you are right. Is it really necessary for a ship to be guided by a pilot to proceed up the Thames?”

“Not only necessary but essential. The sands here are in constant motion, and it takes a pilot skilled in local knowledge to find the correct channel.”

“Does every ship need a pilot?”

“Not necessarily. On a clear day a small group of ships could follow the first one with the pilot in line astern.” The Count drank some champagne and easily followed Sherman’s thoughts. “You are right, this is a very serious concern. I suggest that you leave that matter to me for the time being. I am sure that something can be done.”

There was a knock on Wilson’s cabin door; Sherman, standing behind Wilson and Fox, looked up from the drawings when he heard the Count’s voice.

“One moment,” said Sherman. He went over and unlocked the door.

“Most industrious,” Korzhenevski said, looking at the growing sheaf of drawings. “I am pleased that our little voyage has begun so well. Now — I would appreciate it if you would turn over all of the plans, as well as the drawing instruments.”

“You have a reason?” Sherman asked, frowning.

“A very good one, my dear general. We are now in the heartland of a country which, while not an enemy country, would still object to the presence of foreign observers inside their military establishments. I am sure that Mr. Fox here will agree that the authorities would not take kindly to the presence of what they would surely see as spies in their midst. Commander Johnstone will be coming aboard soon, and our little ship must be Russian to the core. There are English as well as Russian books in my cabin — but that is to be expected. Mr. Fox, might I ask you to undertake a delicate task for me?”

“And that is?”

“Would you — I do not dare say ‘search’ — would you see to it that none of you possess any English documents? Or anything else — such as clothing labels — that might identify you as Americans.”

“That is a most reasonable request.”

His mien was most serious; Sherman nodded grim agreement. If they were discovered, it would be a severe and momentous disaster.

Dinner was a time of great stress. Commander Johnstone was no empty-headed aristocrat like the Honorable Richard MacTavish. He was a professor of navigation, well versed in astronomy and mathematics, and he shrewdly examined the three disguised officers when he was introduced to them. Johnstone only sipped his champagne as he and the Count became involved in a technical discussion of Russian and British naval merits. When the meal was finally finished and the port passed around the table, the Count gave them blessed relief.

“I’m afraid that Chikhachev here must relieve Simenov on the bridge — while Tyrtov and Makarov have their duties to perform.”

“A pleasure to meet you gentlemen,” Johnstone said; there was much heel clicking in return. As they filed out, Johnstone spoke to the Count. “You must write down their names for me for the invitations. Your arrival at this time was most fortuitous. There will be a formal dinner at the college tomorrow, celebrating the Queen’s birthday. You — and they — will be our honored guests.”

Sherman closed the door on the English officer’s voice and muttered a savage oath. Fox nodded agreement as they went down the passageway.

“Dangerous. Very dangerous indeed,” Fox said darkly.

Count Korzhenevski summoned them to the wardroom as soon as his guest had departed.

“This is going to be a situation where we must tread carefully,” he said.

“Any way of avoiding it?” Sherman asked.

“I am afraid not. But we can better the odds. Commander Wilson, for a number of reasons, should stay aboard. Lieutenant Simenov will abandon the engine room and go in his place. Mr. Fox is skilled in these matters and will play his role well. So it will be up to you, General Sherman, to be an actor in a game that is far removed from your career in the field.”

“I do not understand.”

“Let me clarify. If I am correct, when you as an officer are involved in combat, you receive reports, make decisions, and act upon them. It is legend that in the thick of battle you are the most cool, the most courageous of men. Now you must summon up your intelligence to face a different kind of battle. You must do the part of a middle-aged Russian naval officer — who may well have faced some of your fellow diners in battle. You don’t like them, perhaps you are suspicious of their true intent in having you there. We Russians can be very gloomy and suspicious — and that is how you must feel. Not displaying these emotions at all times, but feeling them. Do you understand?”

“I think that I do. It is something like being in a play, acting a role.”

“Perfectly expressed,” Fox said happily. “I think that tomorrow you will do fine, just fine.”

The meal, while a strain, went as well as could be expected. They were seated with the junior officers, far from the high table with its admirals and even a marine general. Toasts were drunk to the Queen, something the Americans had mixed feelings about. It was noisy and hot, which made it very easy to drink too much, so caution had to be shown. Sherman was seated across from a veteran naval captain who had many decorations and much gold bullion on his uniform. After his first terse nod of greeting, the captain had ignored the Russians and attended to the eating and drinking. Now, very much in his cups, he began to take a firm dislike to Sherman.

“You speak English, Russki? Do you know what I am saying?”

He raised his voice as though volume would increase comprehension.

“Nyet, nyet,” Sherman said, then turned away and sipped from his wineglass.

“I’ll bet you do. Sitting there and eavesdropping on your betters.”

Fox saw what was happening and tried to defuse the situation. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” Fox said. “Mon compagnon ne parle pas anglais. Parlez-vous français? ”

“And none of that frog talk either. Your lot should not be here. We whipped you like curs in the Crimea, now you come crawling around like spies…”

Korzhenevski, farther down the table, stood up quickly and barked what sounded like an order in Russian. Lieutenant Simenov pushed his chair back from the table and jumped to his feet; Fox and Sherman saw what was happening and stood as well.

“I am afraid that our presence here is an embarrassment and that we must leave,” the Count said.

“You’ll leave when you are damn well told to leave,” the captain shouted, climbing unsteadily to his feet.

It was Commander Johnstone who appeared suddenly and tried hard to calm the situation.

“This is not the time nor place for this—”

“I agree, Mark,” Korzhenevski said, pointing his thumb toward the door. “It would be wisest, though, if my officers and I just left. Thank you for your kindness.”

They beat a quick retreat, anxious to be clear of the situation, relieved when the door closed behind them to cut off the captain’s drunken shouts.

“That was not good,” Korzhenevski said as soon as they were out of the building. “There is still much bad feeling here about the Crimea, and this sort of thing only stirs up old hatreds. We don’t dare sail tonight, much as I would like to. Too suspicious. But we will start back downriver in the morning as soon as I can get a pilot.”

No one slept well that night. At dawn, one by one, they assembled in the main cabin, where the steward had set out a steaming pot of fresh coffee.

“I shall return with the pilot as soon as is possible,” the Count said. He put down his cup and slapped his side pocket, which clanked heavily. “I am prepared to bribe my way if I must. A continental custom which has not yet caught on in this country. Though people do learn very quickly at the sight of a gold coin. Lieutenant Simenov is watch officer, which means that the rest of you can stay out of sight.”

Less than an hour later Fox had just finished shaving and was pulling on his jacket when he heard the shouting at the gangway. He hurried on deck to witness an angry encounter. An English army officer had climbed the gangway to the deck — with five armed soldiers behind him. Simenov was blocking his way and shouting at him angrily in Russian.

“Da!” Fox called out, all he could think of at the moment. Simenov turned and called out to him. Fox nodded sagely and turned to the angry officer.

“Excusez-moi, mais nous ne parlons pas anglais. Est-ce que vous connaissez français?”

“No bloody frog — nor bloody Russian either. You are in England now, and if you don’t speak English you are not welcome. This is my authority!” The officer waved a sheet of paper under Fox’s nose. “An English officer has filed a complaint against certain officers of this ship. He says that you are spies. I want you to know that this is a military establishment and charges of this kind are taken very seriously. This is my warrant to search this ship.”

Fox accepted the sheet of paper, shook his head with lack of comprehension, and passed the warrant back.

“Follow me,” the officer called out, and the armed soldiers clumped up the gangway. Simenov barred their way.

“Nyet!” Fox shouted, and waved the Russian officer aside. Simenov started to protest — then realized the futility and danger of what he was doing. Reluctantly, he stepped back.

“Search the ship,” the officer said as he led the soldiers below. Fox stayed close behind him. The first door at the foot of the gangway was General Sherman’s. It was unlocked. The officer threw it open and marched in. Sherman looked up from the chair where he was seated smoking a cigar.

And reading a book!

“I’ll take that,” the English officer said, taking it from his hand.

Fox leaned close. Should he attack the man? Would the crew help them to seize the soldiers? Was there anything that could be done?

The officer held the book up and the gold-stamped Cyrillic lettering could be seen on the cover. He flipped through the pages of Russian print, then handed the book back to Sherman, who nodded gravely as he drew heavily on his cigar.

“We found something, Captain,” one of the soldiers said, looking in from the gangway. Fox was sure that his pounding heart would burst in his chest. He stumbled after them as the soldier led the way to Korzhenevski’s cabin, then pointed at the book rack on the wall. The officer leaned forward and read aloud.

“Bowditch on Navigation. Disraeli — Shakespeare.” He turned away. “I was told that the Count speaks English, so he must read it as well. Keep searching.”

The search was thorough, but the Aurora was not a very big ship and it did not take very long. The army captain was just leading the soldiers back on deck when Korzhenevski came up the gangway, followed by the same pilot who had brought them upriver. His voice was intense with anger as he faced the officer. “What is the meaning of this?” he snapped, so forcefully the man took a step backward as he held out the search warrant.

“I have my orders. A complaint has been filed—”

The Count tore it from his fingers, glanced through it — then hurled it onto the deck.

“Leave my ship at once. I am here at the invitation of officers in the Naval Academy. I have friends in your English court. This matter will be ended to my satisfaction — not yours. Leave!”

The officer beat a hasty retreat, his men coming after him. Korzhenevski shouted a brief command to Simenov, who nodded and called down the companionway. There was a rush of sailors on deck. The Aurora was being cast off just as the engine turned over. The Count stayed on the bridge with the pilot as the boat drew away from the shore, helped swiftly downriver by the outgoing tide.

Not until the pilot was safely off the ship at Gravesend did Korzhenevski join the Americans in the wardroom.

“A very close run thing,” he said after Fox had briefed him. “Luck was on our side.”

“I think it was more your planning than any luck,” Sherman said. “If they had found any evidence to confirm their suspicions, we would not be sailing safely away right now.”

“Thank you, General, you are most kind.”

Korzhenevski crossed to the bulkhead, where the barometer and compass were mounted on a mahogany plaque. He felt under the lower edge and touched something there. The plaque swung wide to reveal a deep storage space. He reached in and took out the bundle of drawings and handed them to Wilson.

“You will want to work on these while we are at sea. But not before you all join me in a medicinal cognac. It is early, I know, but I think it is very much called for.”

AN OUTRAGEOUS ACT

It had been a fast passage and Captain James D. Bulloch was quite pleased. Now, with a following west wind and all the sails drawing well, he was passing along the Dutch coast with the Frisian Islands to starboard. They should be in the Deutsche Bucht soon, which meant that the Parker Cook would be able to tie up in Wilhelmshaven before dark. Her holds were filled with the best Mississippi cotton and would fetch a good price. Captain Bulloch was indeed a happy man.

This was a busy part of the Atlantic. Farther north the sails of two other ships were visible, while closer to shore there were a number of small fishing boats. Almost due ahead was the smear of smoke from a steamship, growing larger as the ship approached. Soon the black upperworks of a naval vessel could be seen.

“German?” the captain asked.

“Can’t rightly tell, sir,” First Officer Price said. He was on the bridge wing peering intently through a telescope. “Wait — I had a glimpse of the flag at her stern — not German, yes, I believe that she is British.”

“A long way from home. What business does she have in these waters?”

He had his answer soon enough. The warship made a wide turn until she was running close to the Parker Cook and matching her course and speed. An officer on her bridge appeared with a megaphone.

“Heave to,” he called out. “We wish to examine your papers.”

“Damn their eyes!” Captain Bulloch said. “Let me have the megaphone.” He stalked over to the rail and shouted his angry reply.

“This is the United States ship Parker Cook sailing on the high seas. You have no jurisdiction here…”

His answer was not long in coming. Even as he finished speaking the bow cannon on the warship blossomed with fire and a column of water leaped high some yards ahead of the bow.

“Heave to.”

The captain had no choice. Once the sails were lowered, the ship lost way, wallowing in the waves. A boat was quickly and efficiently lowered from the warship. The two vessels were close enough for Captain Bulloch to read the ship’s name.

“HMS Devastation. Stupid name.”

The Americans could only look on numbly as the boat approached. A uniformed officer — followed by six armed marines — climbed to the deck to face the angry captain.

“This is piracy! You have no right—”

“The right of force majeure,” the officer said disdainfully, waving toward the heavily armed warship. “I will now examine your ship’s papers.”

“You shall not!”

“What is your cargo?” The officer offhandedly loosened his sword in its scabbard as he spoke; this was not lost on the captain.

“Cotton,” he said. “American cotton on its way to Germany, and no concern of yours.”

“I beg to differ. If you were aware of world affairs, you would know that due to unfair trading practices, Great Britain has banned the sale of American cotton to Germany and France. Your cargo is therefore declared contraband and will be seized and taken to a British port.”

“I must protest!”

“So noted. Now order your crew on deck. A prize crew will man this ship and take her into port.”

Captain Bulloch cursed impotently. He was no longer a happy man.

The fine weather petered out as one went north; the Midlands glistened under a steady, drumming rain; Scotland as well. But Thomas McGrath and Paddy McDermott walked out into the teeming Glasgow rain with immense feelings of relief. The train trip from Birmingham had been long, slow, and almost unbearably tense. McGrath, with his Cockney accent, had bought the two third-class tickets and they had boarded the train just as it was leaving. They had sat in silence all the way to Scotland, fearful that their Irish voices would arouse suspicion. The Irish were looked at with distrust in Great Britain these days.

“You say you’ve been here before, Paddy?” McGrath asked.

“Aye, for a year, after I came over from Belfast.”

“Many Irish here?”

“For sure. But not our kind.”

“Proddies?”

“To a man.”

“Could you pass as one?”

“Jayzus! Why would I want to do a thing like that?”

“Well, you sound like one, right enough.”

“To you mebbe. But as soon as they heard my name and where I lived, they would know right enough I’m a Taigh.”

“What if you gave them a different name, a different address?”

“Well — might work. But not for long.”

“It doesn’t have to be for long. We have to find an Irish bar near the fishing ships. They’ll be going out to sea, fishing the same grounds as the Irish do. We’ve got to find a way to use that contact, get you, or a message, across to the other side. Say something about a death in the family, a funeral you have to attend, anything. Offer them money.”

“And where would I get the brass? We’re that skint. Cosh someone mebbe?”

“If it comes to that, why not?” McGrath said grimly. “Word about the concentration camps has got to reach Ireland.”

Through the ceaseless rain the lights of a pub could be seen ahead, beside the Clyde. Heads down, they went toward it. Paddy glanced up at the signboard above the front entrance.

“McCutcheon’s,” he said. “I’ve been here. It’s about as Irish as you can get.”

“I hope so,” McGrath said, his voice betraying a native suspicion. “But let me talk until we are absolutely sure.”

His suspicion was well founded. They sipped silently at their pints and listened to the voices around them with growing concern. They drank quickly and left the dregs in the their glasses, went back into the rainy night.

“Not an Irishman among them,” Paddy said. “Scots to a man.”

“It’s the English,” McGrath said darkly. “Protestant or Catholic — they can’t tell them apart. A Paddy is just a Paddy to them.”

“What do we do?”

“Get some money and get down to the coast. Fishing’s a hard life. We’ll just have to find a fisherman in need of a few bob to take a passenger or two. That’s what we have to do.”

Parliament was in session, and a very boisterous session it was proving to be. It was prime minister’s question time and Benjamin Disraeli, the leader of the opposition, was vying with many others for the attention of the speaker. Once recognized, he climbed to his feet, looked ruefully at Lord Palmerston, and shook his head.

“Would the house agree with the incredulity that the Prime Minister’s words have stirred in my breast? Are we really to believe that Britain is best served by stopping ships at sea, searching and seizing them? Does not memory of 1812 raise certain uncomfortable memories? A useless war started at a time of great peril to this country. Started, if memory serves me correctly, by British men-of-war stopping American ships at sea and pressing their seamen into our service. America would not abide that practice then, and I doubt if they will do so now. The Prime Minister’s reckless policies have led this country into two disastrous wars. Must we now look forward to a third?”

There were shouts of agreement from the floor — mixed with boos and cries of anger. Palmerston rose slowly to his feet, then spoke when the barracking had died down.

“Does the honorable gentleman intend that as a question — or just an exercise in demagoguery? International trade is the heart’s blood of the Empire. While it flows we all profit and live in harmony. Cotton is as essential to the fields of India as it is to the mills of Manchester. I would be remiss if I did not take action against those who threaten that trade — and the Americans are doing just that. The coins in your pocket and the clothes on your back are the profits of international trade. Threaten that and you threaten the Empire, you threaten our very existence as a world power. Britain will rule the seas today and in the foreseeable future — just as she has ruled in the past. The sea-lanes of the world shall not be the pathway of American expansionism. The enemy is at the door, and I for one shall not let them in. Perilous times need positive policies.”

“Like the policy of seizing and imprisoning certain sections of our society?” Disraeli said.

Palmerston was furious. “I have said it before, and repeat it here again — matters of military policy will not be discussed in this house, in public, in the presence of the press. If the honorable leader of the opposition has a legitimate question about matters of government policy — why, the door at Number Ten is always open to him. What I cannot, will not, abide is any mention of these matters in public. Do I make myself clear?”

Disraeli dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. Palmerston would not be drawn out on the matter of the Irish. What was happening was known even to the press, who dared not print it and risk the Prime Minister’s wrath. But Disraeli would keep picking away at the opposition’s dangerous policies. Make them known to the voters, give them something to worry about. An early election might easily see a change of government.

Benjamin Disraeli was looking forward to that day.

TEMPTING FATE

General Sherman came up on deck of the Aurora soon after they had dropped the pilot off at the cutter off Dungeness, when the little yacht had steamed well clear of the shoal waters at the mouth of the Thames. It had been warm and close below, and he now savored the fresh sea air with pleasure. A short while later Fox and Korzhenevski joined him.

“That was too closely run for me,” Fox said. “I thought I was no stranger to fear, yet I am forced to admit that I am still quaking inside. I think that it was something about being so defenseless while being surrounded by one’s enemies. I realize all too clearly now that it is one thing to issue orders to field agents — and another thing altogether to do the job yourself. A most humbling experience. I respected my agents before, but now I have nothing but outright admiration for those who face this kind of danger on a daily basis.”

The Count nodded in agreement; Sherman merely shrugged. “What is past is done. Battles cannot be refought.”

Korzhenevski smiled. “I envy you your calm, General. To a man of war the affair at Greenwich must have been no more than an amusing incident.”

“Quite the opposite. I found it most disconcerting to feel so helpless while surrounded by the enemy. I think I prefer the battlefield.”

“I sincerely regret putting you in such danger,” the Count said. “I will plan better in the future and work hard to avoid such encounters.”

“Then what do you think we should do next?” Sherman asked.

“That is for you to tell me. But you should know that at this moment we are approaching a very sensitive part of Britain. Not too far from here, on the south coast of England, are the main naval ports of Southampton and Plymouth. Almost all of the British fleet is based at one or the other of them. I am sure there will be matters of great interest at those two ports.”

“Must we risk detection by sailing into military ports?” Fox asked, worried. “I am afraid that last night’s disturbing proximity to the enemy was more than enough for me for the time being.”

“I am tempted to agree with Gus,” Sherman said. “I see no reason to put our heads into the lion’s jaws yet again.”

The Count bowed and clicked his heels. “I acknowledge your superior wisdom and withdraw any suggestion of a visit to either of these seaports. The fact is that I have other agents in England, people who are above suspicion, who can look in on them and chart their ship movements if they are so ordered. Please put the entire matter from your minds.”

Sherman nodded agreement. “Being naval officers, you gentlemen naturally look to the sea and matters maritime. For me it is the land and the terrain that is most important. I would be pleased if we could take that into consideration. I would like to know a good bit more about the English fortresses, countryside, and railroads—”

“But of course!” the Count called out, clapping his hands with pleasure. “I have Russian charts below, but they begin at the coastline and reveal little or nothing of the country’s interior. My general — we must get you a copy of a Bradshaw.”

“I’m afraid that I don’t understand…”

“But I do,” Fox said. “I have one in my library in Washington City — which of course will be of no help to us here. A Bradshaw is an English publication that contains timetables of all the trains that run in the British Isles.”

“I would certainly be pleased to have one.”

“And that you shall,” the Count said. “I had planned a stop at Dover for fresh supplies from the ship’s chandlers there. While that is being done I shall visit a local bookshop. Since Dover is the main port of entry from the continent, they will certainly have this invaluable guide for sale there.”

The good weather still held, so Korzhenevski ordered luncheon to be served on deck. They did not wait for Wilson, who was still deeply involved in his charts and drawings. They had cold beetroot soup that the Count referred to as borscht, which they greatly enjoyed. Along with the ever-flowing champagne. By the time they had finished, they were already anchored outside Dover Harbor. The Count excused himself and took the boat ashore to arrange for the provisions. Sherman and Fox enjoyed a cheroot on deck while awaiting his return.

“I want no more meetings with the British military,” Sherman said. “The risk is too great.”

“I could not agree more.”

“But that does not mean we cannot go ashore. As long as we keep our mouths shut, the danger should be minimal. There are many things I would like to see before this visit is terminated.”

Fox nodded agreement. “I agree completely. We will not have this opportunity for exploration a second time.”

When the boat returned and the Count climbed on deck, he was brandishing a thick, red-bound volume. “Bradshaw!” he said triumphantly. He carried a thick envelope as well. “And detailed maps of Britain.”

“My thanks,” Sherman said, weighing the book in his hands. “If I could also have your British charts, I will retire to my cabin.”

The Aurora was coasting down the English Channel as evening fell. This was the time of day when the Russians, like the British, enjoyed their tea. The Americans were happy to conform to this pleasant custom.

“I’m just about done with the drawings,” Commander Wilson said as he stirred sugar into his cup.

“Good news indeed,” Fox said. “We must get some more work for you to do.”

“See if you can’t avoid another search of the ship. I’m still shuddering from the last little adventure. I would rather face an enemy broadside at sea than go through that again.”

They turned to greet General Sherman when he came in; he had been closeted in his cabin for most of the day. He nodded abstractedly, then took a cup from the servant who stood by the samovar. He remained standing and sipped at it in silence, his gaze miles away. When he finished the tea and put the cup down, he turned to face the others. The abstracted look was gone and a smile of satisfaction had taken its place.

“Gentlemen. If war should come to this part of the world, I would like you to know that I have a plan. Not complete in detail yet, but in overall design it is completely clear to me.”

“Do tell us!” Fox said excitedly.

“In due time, Mr. Fox, in due time.”

It was his anger at the unfairness, the imprisonment of the women and the wee ones, that kept Thomas McGrath seething. He had asked nothing from the world except the chance to earn an honest living. He had done that, worked hard, earned enough to raise a family. For what purpose? For all of them to be bunged up in a foul camp. To what end? He had done nothing to anyone to have caused him to suffer this disgusting fate. Be honest and hardworking — and look where you ended up. He had never before been tempted by violence or crime, for these were alien to his nature. Now he was actively considering both. The end was worth it — Whatever the means. Ireland must be told about the concentration camps.

Sauchiehall Street was well lit, with lamps outside the elegant shops and restaurants. What was to be done? He had seen two peelers already — seen them first before they had spotted him. The rain had died down to a light drizzle, but he was still soaked through. He drew back into a doorway as a light suddenly lit up the pavement. A man in evening dress came down the steps from a restaurant — stepped to the curb and signaled to one of the passing cabs. An opportunity? McGrath could not tell. He walked past the cab as the man entered it, saying something to the driver. Who clicked at his horse and flicked the reins. The cab pulled away slowly.

There were other cabs about, and pedestrians crossing the street. Without walking too fast, McGrath was able to keep pace with the cab, seeing it turn into a darkened street ahead. When he rounded the corner he began to run.

The horse was old and in no hurry; the driver did not use his whip. The cab stopped not too far ahead. McGrath was only feet away when the man finished paying off the driver and turned toward the steps of a finely built house.

“Money,” McGrath said, seizing the man by the arm. “Give me all the money that you have.”

“I’ll give you this!” the man cried out, laying his stick across the side of the Irishman’s head. He was young and fit, and the blow drew blood. It also drew savage reprisals. A hard fist struck him in the chest, driving the air from his lungs, dropping him to the wet pavement.

McGrath went quickly through the fallen man’s pockets, found his billfold inside his jacket pocket. It had taken but moments; he had not been seen. The cab was just turning the corner and vanishing out of sight. McGrath went swiftly away in the opposite direction.

He was late for their meeting, and Paddy McDermott was already there waiting in the darkened doorway. He stepped out when he heard McGrath approaching.

“I thought you weren’t coming…”

“I’m here all right. How did it go?”

“Not quite like you said. There were no Irish in any of the bars I visited, none at all. The Brits have swupt them all up — Prods and Taighs both.”

“By Jayzus — don’t they know what loyalists are?”

“It doesn’t look like it. But I went down to the harbor, like you said, and the Scottish fishermen are that angry about it all. They wonder if they’ll be next. When they heard my accent they asked if I was on the run. I told them aye and they believed me. It seems that the fishermen here and those from Ulster, they both fish the same banks. I think they do a bit of smuggling for each other, but I didn’t want to ask too many questions. They’ll take me over in the morning, in time for the funeral I told them about. But it will cost us dear. A tenner to get there, then another ten pounds for the others to get me ashore. We don’t have that kind of money.”

“Well, let us say that there are those that do,” McGrath said, taking the roll of banknotes from his pocket. “Get there, Paddy. Get to Ireland and tell them what is happening here. Dublin must know.”

IRELAND ENRAGED

President Abraham Lincoln looked up from the papers he was signing when his secretary, John Nicolay, came in.

“Let me finish these, John, then you will have my full attention. There seem to be more of them every day.”

After blotting his signature, he put the sheaf of papers into a pigeonhole of his desk, leaned back in his chair, and sighed with relief. “Now — what can I do for you?”

“It’s Secretary of War Stanton. He would like to speak with you on a matter of some urgency. And he has General Meagher with him.”

“Ireland,” Lincoln said as he shook his head wearily. “That poor country still continues to suffer after all her tribulations.” He stood and stretched. “I’ve had enough of the office for now. Will you be so kind as to tell them to meet me in the Cabinet Room?”

The President wiped the nib of his pen, then closed the inkwell. He had done enough paperwork for the day. He went down the hall and let himself into the Cabinet Room. The two men standing by the window turned to face him when he came in.

“Gentlemen, please seat yourselves.”

“Thank you for seeing us,” Meagher said.

“Is it Ireland again?”

“Unhappily it is, sir. I’ve had the most worrying report.”

“As have I,” Stanton said in equally gloomy tones. “Another vessel seized on the high seas. A cotton ship on her way to Germany with her cargo. She was taken to England, where her master and officers were released. But her unhappy crew was pressed into the British navy. The officers had to return by way of France, which is why we have just heard about the incident now.”

“Then it is 1812 all over again?”

“It is indeed.”

Would it be war again — for the same reason? Without realizing, the President sighed heavily and pressed his hand to his sore forehead.

“I have reports as well,” Meagher said. “We know that the English have been rounding up and taking away people of Irish descent for some months now, but we had no idea what was happening to them. No one hears from them — it is as though they have vanished. But now a message has reached us and its authenticity has been vouched for. The authorities have set up camps, that they have; concentration camps they call them. Two men escaped from the camp near Birmingham and one of them made his way to Belfast. They say that not only men, but also women and children, are locked up in these vile places. The conditions in the camps are appalling. No one has been charged with any crime — they are just held against their will. This is more than a crime against individuals — it is a crime against a race!”

Lincoln listened in silence, staring out of the window at the growing darkness, felt the darkness growing in himself as well. “We must do something about this — though for the life of me I cannot think what. I must call a cabinet meeting. Tomorrow morning. Perhaps cooler and wiser heads will have some answers. I suppose a government protest is in order…”

Stanton shook his head. “They’ll ignore it just the way they have ignored all the other ones.” Then, the thoughts obviously linked, he asked, “Is there any word from General Sherman yet?”

“None. And how I wish that there were. During the past years of war I have come to depend upon him. This country owes him an immense debt. Without any doubt he is the man to rely on in a national emergency. I am concerned with his safety because I am sure he is involved with some desperate matter. I just wonder where he is now.”

Across the ocean, on the shores of the country that so tried the President and his men, Sherman was staring through a spyglass at a peninsula jutting out from the rapidly approaching coast.

“It’s called the Lizard,” Count Korzhenevski said. “A strange name — and a very old one. No one knows why the peninsula is so named. But on the modern charts it does look like a lizard — which I doubt the people who named her could have known. Bit of a mystery. The very tip is called Land’s End — which it indeed is. The most westernmost place in Britain. That is where Penzance is.”

Sherman turned his telescope to focus on the town. “The Great Western Railway line terminates there.”

“It does indeed.”

“I would like to go ashore and visit the place. Or would that be too risky?”

“It would be a piece of cake, old boy, as Count Iggy might say. This will not be entering a military establishment, visiting the lion in its lair, so to speak. This is a quiet, sleepy little town. With a passable basin where we can tie up among the other yachts. A stroll ashore would be very much in order, drink some warm British beer, that sort of thing. As long as I am the only one who speaks to the natives, there should be no danger.”

“Then let us do it,” Sherman said strongly.

The sun shone warmly on the slate roofs of Penzance. A steam ferry was just emerging from the harbor as they approached, bound for the Scilly Isles. Clad in yachting outfits, the Count and the three American officers were rowed ashore. Korzhenevski had been right: No attention was paid to their arrival. A fisherman, mending nets on the shore, looked up as they passed. He touched a worn knuckle to his forehead and went back to his work. It was a Sunday, and others in their best clothes strolled along the shore. It was a pleasant day’s outing.

There, just ahead of them, was the bulk of the train station. Sherman looked around to be sure he could not be overheard, then spoke softly to the Count.

“Is there any reason we can’t go in there?”

“None. I will make some inquiries in the booking office while you gentlemen stand and wait for me.”

“And look around,” Commander Wilson said, smiling. Since they had come ashore, he had been examining everything with a keen surveyor’s eye.

They went up the few steps and entered the station. A train was just leaving, and like many others, they watched as the carriage doors were slammed shut and the guard blew his whistle. The stationmaster, proudly uniformed and sporting a gold watch chain across his waistcoat, waved his flag to the driver. Blasting out a burst of steam, the engine’s whistle blew, and puffing out clouds of smoke, the train drew out of the station.

“Gentlemen,” the Count said loudly, “I do believe there is a refreshment bar over there. It is a warm day and I think that we would all enjoy a glass of ale.”

They sat around a table in silence as the glasses were brought to them. They drank slowly, eyes glancing about at the busy scene, finished their drinks, and proceeded at the same lazy pace back to the waiting boat.

“I must make some drawings,” Wilson said as soon as they were back on board. “Just quick sketches while memory is still fresh.”

“By all means,” Korzhenevski said. “There will be ample time to put the papers back into the safe if any other vessels approach us. That was a most satisfactory visit, was it not, gentlemen?”

“It was indeed,” Sherman said. “But I would like to see more.”

“And what would that be?”

“A little train trip, Count. I would like you to accompany me on a visit to Plymouth.”

Korzhenevski found his mouth gaping and closed it sharply. It was Fox who protested.

“General Sherman — are you being realistic? Plymouth is a large naval base, patrolled and well guarded. It would be folly to attempt to enter it.”

“I am well aware of that — but I have no intention of going anywhere near the military. Let me show you what I have in mind. Count, if you would be so kind as to get the charts from your safe, I will be happy to explain my thoughts to you.”

Sherman spread the charts and maps out on the table and the others leaned close. Even Wilson left his drawing to see what was happening. The general ran his finger along the Cornish coast, where he penciled in a line just inland.

“This is the route of the Great Western Railway, a masterpiece of construction built by the great engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunei. Before the railroad was constructed, there were no roads the length of this mountainous county. Which means that all communication had to be by sea. Not only did Brunei build a railroad through this difficult terrain, but he also constructed, here at Saltash, a great bridge spanning the river Tamar. Just six years ago — I recall reading about it with great interest at the time. It was held as a truism by many people that the river was too wide to bridge. By ordinary means of construction, it surely was. But this great engineer pioneered a completely new method of construction that replaced the ferry, and linked Cornwall by rail to the rest of Britain for the first time. And here, on the other side of the river, is the city of Plymouth. It is my plan to take the train to Plymouth and return on the next train back to Penzance. I have no intention of going anywhere near the naval station.”

Fox looked at him shrewdly. “Does this trip have anything to do with the plans that you mentioned a few days ago?”

“Perhaps. Let us just say that I need much information about this country before I can think about finalizing my intentions. But I will need your aid, Count.”

“You have it, surely you have it.” He paced the cabin, deep in thought. “But we must make careful preparations if this rather — should I say adventurous? — plan can succeed. Your hair and beard will need re-dyeing if they are not to arouse suspicion. I will take a trip ashore in the morning to buy us suitable clothes, though God knows what gentlemen’s attire I will find here. Then I must buy tickets — first-class tickets — and I assume you have looked closely at your Bradshaw and have worked out a schedule?”

“I have.” Sherman took a slip of paper from his jacket pocket and passed it over. “These are the trains we will take. With proper preparations I feel that this trip will be a successful one.”

“Well then!” the Count said, clapping his hands happily. “We must have some champagne and drink to a prosperous journey.”

A SECRET REVEALED

General Ramsey, head of the United States Army Ordnance Department, had traveled down from Washington City to Newport News, Virginia, on the previous afternoon. He had enjoyed a good meal and a pipe in the bar afterward, then passed a pleasant night in the hotel. He was happy to be away from the endless labors of his position in the War Department for at least a few hours. Now, well relaxed, he was having a coffee in the station cafe when he saw a plump man pause at the entrance and look around. Ramsey stood so that the newcomer could see his uniform. The man hurried over.

“You are General Ramsey, sir? I received your message and I am most sorry to be tardy.”

“Not at all, Mr. Davis.” Ramsey took his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. “I have been informed that the train is running late, so we have plenty of time. Please join me. The coffee here is, if not wonderful, at least drinkable. You are, as I understand it, John Ericsson’s works manager?”

“I have that pleasure.”

“Then perhaps you can enlighten me about your employer’s message. He simply asked that I appear here today with at least one general officer, an officer who has had field experience. That is why I contacted General Grant, who will be arriving on the next train. But I am most curious as to the meaning of this invitation. Could you enlighten me?”

Davis mopped his sweating forehead with a red bandanna. “I wish that I could, General. But none of us are permitted to speak a word about our work when we are outside of the foundry. I hope that you understand…”

Ramsey frowned, then reluctantly nodded his head. “I am afraid that I do. A great deal of my work is secret as well. Listen — is that a train whistle?”

“I believe that it is.”

“Well then — let us meet General Grant on the platform.”

Grant was the first person off the train. The conductor reached to help him, but he waved the man away. He went slowly, holding on to the exit rail with his left hand, his right arm in a black silk sling. Ramsey stepped forward to greet him.

“I hope I did the right thing by asking you to be here, Ulysses. I was assured that you were on the road to recovery.”

“Very much so — and damn bored with all the sitting around. This little trip will do me worlds of good. If you want to know, your telegram was a gift from the gods. But did I detect an air of mystery in your request?”

“You did, General, you certainly did. But it is all a mystery to me as well. This is Garret Davis, Mr. Ericsson’s works manager. He is also very secretive in the matter.”

“I am most sorry, gentlemen,” Davis said with a weak smile. “But I have specific orders. If you would please come this way — there is a carriage waiting.”

It was a short drive from the station to Ericsson’s shipyard. A high wall surrounded the yard itself and there was an armed soldier guarding the gate. He recognized Davis, saluted the officers, then called out for the gate to be opened. They climbed down from the carriage in front of the main building. Davis moderated his pace to accommodate Grant as they entered the building.

Ericsson himself came out to greet them. “General Ramsey, we have met before. And it is my pleasure now to meet with the very famous General Grant.”

“Excuse me if I don’t shake hands, sir,” said Grant, nodding at his immobilized right arm. “Now permit me to be blunt; I wish to know why we have been summoned here.”

“It will be with great satisfaction that I tell you — indeed show you. If you will follow Mr. Davis.” The Swedish engineer explained as they walked. “I assume that both you gentlemen are acquainted with the steam engine? Of course, you will have traveled on trains, been many times on steamships. So then you will know just how large steam engines must be. This immense size has worried me in the construction of the new ironclads. These new ships are far bigger than my first Monitor, which means that to supply steam to engines that rotate the gun turrets, I must run steam lines about the ship. The lines are very hot and dangerous and therefore require thick insulation. Not only that, but they can be easily broken, and they are unsatisfactory in general. But if I generate steam for each turret engine, I will have created a mechanical monstrosity, with engines and boilers throughout my ship. I am sure that you see my problem. No, I thought, there must be a better solution.”

“Smaller, more self-contained engines to move the turrets?” Ramsey said.

“The very truth! I see that you are an engineer as well as a military man, General. That is indeed what I needed. Since an engine of this type does not exist, I, of necessity, had to invent one myself. This way, please.”

Davis showed them into a large workshop that was well lit by an immense skylight. Ericsson pointed to the squat metal bulk of a black machine. It was about the size of a large steamer trunk.

“My Carnot engine,” he said proudly. “I am sure that you gentlemen know the Carnot cycle. No? Pity. The world should understand this cycle because it is the explanation behind all the forces of energy and propulsion. An ideal cycle consists of four reversible changes in the physical condition of a substance, most useful in thermodynamic theory. We must start with specified values of the variable temperature, specific volume, and pressure the substance undergoes in succession—”

“Excuse me Mr. Ericsson,” General Grant interrupted. “Is that Swedish you are talking?”

“Svensk? Nej. I am speaking English.”

“Well, it could be Swedish as far as I am concerned. I can’t understand a word that you said.”

“Perhaps — if you were less technical,” Ramsey said. “In layman’s language.”

Ericsson drew himself up, anger in his eyes, muttering to himself. With an effort he spoke again.

“All right, then, at its most simple. A quantity of heat is taken from a hot source and some of it is transferred to a colder location — while the balance is transformed into mechanical work. This is how a steam engine works. But the Carnot cycle can be applied to a different machine. That machine is what you see here. My Carnot engine has two cylinders, and is much more compact than any steam engine which must rely on an exterior source of steam to run. Here, using a very volatile liquid I have refined from kerosene, I have succeeded in causing combustion within the cylinders themselves.”

Grant hadn’t the slightest idea what the man was talking about, but Ramsey was nodding agreement. Ericsson signaled to a mechanic who was oiling the engine with a long-spouted can. The man put the can down and seized the handle of a crank that was fixed to the front of the machine. He turned it, faster and faster, then reached over and pulled a lever. The engine burst into life with a thunderous roar, then it poured out a cloud of noxious smoke. Ericsson ignored the smoke, fanning it away from his face, as he pointed to the rear end of the machine at a rapidly rotating fitting. “Power, gentlemen,” he shouted above the din. “Power to rotate the heaviest turret in the biggest ship. And the end of the deadly steam lines.” He reached to pull the control lever back and the roar died away.

“Very convincing,” Ramsey said. Grant was less than impressed, but kept his silence. Davis, who left the workshop before the demonstration had begun, had returned with another man, well dressed, small, and rotund.

“Why, Mr. Parrott,” General Ramsey said, smiling broadly, “how very good it is to see you again. General Grant, this is William Parker Parrott, the eminent gunsmith.”

This General Grant could understand. “Mr. Parrott, this is indeed a pleasure. I believe that your weapons are the best in the world. God knows that I have fought and won many a battle with them.”

Parrott beamed with delight. “I shall treasure those words, General. Now let me show you why I asked Mr. Ericsson to invite you and General Ramsey here. Or rather why Mr. Ericsson and I have collaborated on an invention. It all began when Mr. Ericsson was visiting my office some time ago and saw on my wall a British patent application for a totally impossible invention.”

“As it was then designed,” Ericsson said. “But improving on the original is not impossible to men of genius — which is a distinction that Parrott and I share.” The inventor was never the one to hide his light under a bushel. “When I had finished my Carnot engine, I thought at once of the patent for the impractical steam wagon. Now, I said to myself, now it can be built. And between us we have done just that.”

He led them across the room to a bulky form draped with canvas. With a dramatic gesture he pulled away the cover. “There, gentlemen, a practical engine wagon.”

It was such a novel machine, so strange to the eye, that they could not take it in all at once. It appeared to be a triangular platform of sorts with spiked wheels on its two front corners, a single wheel at the back. The stocky black engine sat sideways across the device. A cogged wheel was fixed to the engine’s shaft. This, in turn, transmitted power to a heavy chainlike device, which, in turn, rotated another cogwheel on the shaft connecting the two front wheels. Behind the engine was a small seat facing some gauges and a tiller that was connected to the steerable rear wheel. The mechanic started the engine and stepped back. Parrott climbed proudly into the seat, worked some levers — and the machine rolled slowly forward. Using the tiller to move the rear wheel, he trundled slowly about the workshop, making a complete circle before he returned to the starting place and turned off the engine. Even Grant was impressed with the demonstration.

“Remarkable!” Ramsey said. “Strong enough to tow a heavy gun over rough terrain.”

“Yes, it can do that,” Ericsson said with a smile. “But it can do even more.” He signaled to the door, where two men were waiting. They went out and returned with a wheeled Gatling gun. With practiced movements they placed a ramp before the machine and rolled the gun up onto the platform between the front wheels.

“So you see, gentlemen, with a single addition the powered wagon becomes a mobile battery.”

Grant was still puzzling out the precise meaning of this new machine when Ramsey, who dealt with ordnance on a daily basis, gasped with sudden comprehension.

“A mobile battery — no, not one — but a squadron of them! They could take the battle to the enemy, decimate him.

“Your engine will bring the guns swiftly into battle. Firepower that no army can stand against. Why — I think that this invention will change the face of warfare forever.”

IN THE ENEMY’S HEARTLAND

“All aboard. All aboard, if you please,” the guard said, nodding at the two well-dressed gentlemen. They had dark silk hats, expensive suits, gold cuff links; he knew the gentry when he saw them.

“And where is first class?” the Count asked.

“This entire carriage, sir, thanking you.”

Korzhenevski led the way down the corridor and slid open the door of an empty compartment. They sat at the window facing each other. General Sherman patted the upholstered seats.

“Cut-glass mirrors and brass fittings,” he said. “The English sure know how to take care of themselves.”

Korzhenevski nodded in agreement. “They do enjoy their luxuries and little indulgences. But only at the top, I am afraid. If you looked into a third-class carriage on this train, you would not be that impressed. In all truth, I do believe that this country, at many times, reminds me of Mother Russia. The nobility and the very rich at the summit, then below them a modicum of the middle classes to keep things running. Then the serfs — they would be the working classes here — at the very bottom. Poverty-stricken, deprived, ill.”

“Why, Count — you almost sound like a republican.”

Korzhenevski smiled wryly. “Perhaps I am. If there will be any changes to my country, they will certainly have to come from the top. The bourgeoisie and the mushiks don’t want to change their lot, while the serfs are powerless.”

Sherman looked out of the window, lost in thought, as the train got under way. It rattled along the shore for a few miles, until the tracks turned inland. The train was not fast, but still it was a pleasant journey through the green countryside, past the farms and forests, with the occasional stop at a town along the way. Sherman had a small leatherbound notebook in which he made careful notes, his eyes never leaving the window. They stopped at a larger station, on the hill above a pretty city that was set against the ocean.

“Falmouth,” the Count said. “There is a very good harbor here — you can see a bit of it there, above the rooftops.”

Sherman looked out through the glass of the compartment’s door, then through the corridor window beyond. An officer in naval uniform appeared there, taking hold of the door handle and sliding it open. Sherman looked away as he put the notebook into his inside jacket pocket. The Count stared straight ahead, just glimpsing the newcomer out of the corner of his eye. They of course did not speak to one another since they had not been introduced. After the train had pulled out of the station, Korzhenevski pointed at some buildings outside the window, then said something to Sherman in Russian.

“Da,” Sherman said, and continued looking out of the window. Long minutes passed in silence after that, until the newcomer put his fist before his face and coughed lightly. Neither man by the window turned to look at him. Then he coughed again and leaned forward.

“I say, I hope I’m not making a fool of myself, but I would swear, that is, I think that I heard you speak Russian…”

The Count turned a cold face toward the man, who had the good grace to blush deeply.

“If I am wrong, sir, I do apologize. But I think that I know you from Greenwich; you were years ahead of me, quite famous. A count; your name, I am afraid I do not remember. I am sorry that I spoke out—”

“Count Korzhenevski. You do have a good memory. But I’m afraid that I don’t recall—”

“I say — no need to apologize. I don’t believe we ever formally met. Lieutenant Archibald Fowler at your service.”

“What a pleasant surprise, Archie. And I see that you are still in the service.”

“Rather. Stationed aboard the old Defender in Plymouth. Just popped down to see some cousins in Falmouth for a few days.”

“How pleasant. This is my friend Boris Makarov. I’m afraid he speaks no English.”

“My pleasure.”

“Do svedanya,” Sherman answered with a bow of his head.

“I shall dine out on this for years,” Fowler said enthusiastically. “How we envied you and your friends, the parties, the champagne — yet you were always there, hard at work, on Monday mornings.”

“We were young and enthusiastic and, I must say, quite strong, to carry on as we did.”

“We did have some smashing times, didn’t we? So what brings you to Cornwall now?”

An innocent enough question — or was it? Korzhenevski racked his brain for an answer, bought some time. “For me it is always a pleasure to visit your lovely country, to see old friends.”

“Indeed.”

“But not this time,” the Count said with sudden inspiration. “Makarov here is a professor of engineering at the Moscow Institute. Since we were passing this way, he begged me to accompany him. Otherwise he could not make this trip.”

“Trip?” Fowler asked, puzzled.

“Yes. To see the world-famous Tamar Bridge, built by your Mr. Brunei.”

“A wonder! I can easily understand his enthusiasm. We used to go out in carriages and picnic on the cliffs above while we watched it go up. Laid bets it couldn’t be done. Made a few quid myself, you know. Unspannable, they said. But old Brunei built these ruddy great piers, solid stone. Then the bridge sections, built on land and brought out on barges, then lifted up to the top of the piers. You’ll see for yourself, we should be crossing it soon — right after Saltash.”

At slow speed the train moved out onto the bridge, under the immense tubular arches. “There, look at that!” Archie said with great enthusiasm. “Arches, strong under pressure. And next to them the suspension cables, equally strong under tension. So the way they are built, the forces cancel out at the ends of the sections; therefore, all of the weight is directed straight down onto the piers. Built in this manner, they could each be lifted as a single unit. A wonder of the world.”

“It is indeed.”

“Da, da,” Sherman added, much taken in by the sight.

The train pulled into Plymouth a few minutes later and they alighted.

“Can I show you around our ship? It would be a great pleasure,” Archie said. The Count shook his head. “If we but could. However we must return on the next train; we only had these few hours.”

“Next time, then. Well, you know where I am. And I want you to know that an old friend from Greenwich is always welcome.”

They shook hands and parted, the lieutenant leaving the station.

“What a bourgeois bore,” the Count said, looking distastefully at the naval officer’s retreating back. “Old friend indeed! Oh, how that jumped-up creature must have envied his elders and betters.”

Sherman and the Count had to find their train. As they climbed the stairs to cross over to the down track, the Count patted his forehead with his kerchief.

“I’m afraid I can’t keep as cool as you under fire, General. I hope this little trip was worth the effort.”

“Far more than you can realize. After we return to your ship, I would like to ask you to do me one last favor, if you will.”

“I am completely at your service.”

“Then — could we possibly make a visit to the river Mersey?”

“We could. To Liverpool?”

“To Liverpool indeed. After that, I am sure that you will be happy to hear our little adventure will be at an end.”

“Boshe moi!” the Count sighed loudly. “Which means something like ‘God bless.’ It is what Russians say at moments of great stress — or stress relieved. Come, let us not miss our train.”

President Abraham Lincoln was not happy. The cabinet meeting was not only not producing an answer to the country’s problems — but it was fast becoming a chaos of contrasting opinions.

“There is a limit beyond which we cannot and will not go,” Salmon P. Chase, Secretary of the Treasury, said in a firm and unyielding voice. “During the war, yes, people would put up with high levels of taxation, as well as a certain amount of physical discomfort and sacrifice. But the war is long over and they have come to expect some return for their efforts, some creature comforts. I cannot and will not agree to raising taxes once again.”

“I don’t think that you have heard me clearly, Mr. Chase,” Gideon Welles said with cold fury. “As Secretary of the Navy, it is my assignment to follow the dictates of Congress. In their wisdom, the Congress has ordered an expansion of the navy to follow the world trend. When other countries arm we must follow suit to ensure this country’s first line of defense. Naval strength today means ironclads. Now they are bigger, faster, stronger, better armed, and better armored. And all of that costs money. Have I made myself clear?”

Before the infuriated Chase could speak again, Edwin M. Stanton, the Secretary of War, broke in.

“At this point I must remind you all that it costs a million and a half dollars a day to keep two hundred thousand well-trained troops in the field. Like the navy, I have been instructed by Congress to build and maintain that army—”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Lincoln said, raising his voice to silence the squabbling, “I feel that we are arguing at cross purposes here. That you all have valid points to make, I do not doubt. But I called this meeting today to seek your advice and joint wisdom in facing up to our current and major problem: The intransigence of the British and their flouting of international relationships on a massive scale against our country. That is the intelligence I now desperately need. I beg of you, abandon your differences and speak only to this point, if you please.”

The men seated around the long table fell silent. So silent, in fact, that the hum of a bumblebee could be clearly heard as it flew in through an open window. It thudded angrily against the glass pane before it could find the way to exit. In this silence the low voice of William H. Seward could be plainly heard.

“As Secretary of State, it is my duty to answer the President’s request. My department has not been idle. Abroad, ambassadors and civil servants have been attempting to get other countries to join us in protest against the British. In this I am forced to admit failure. Many of the European countries, large enough and strong enough to impress the British with their views, are linked to the British royal family, while smaller countries are left unheard. Regretfully, there is frankly little more that we can do.”

“I can but advise your representatives to try harder,” Judah P. Benjamin said. After being defeated in the presidential election, he had graciously agreed to return to his cabinet post as Secretary for the South. “Every day I receive more and more complaints from the cotton planters. They cannot depend on the domestic market alone, but must look overseas to ensure their profits. The British seizure of so many cotton ships is driving them to bankruptcy.”

There were nods of understanding at this unhappy state. Then, before anyone else could speak, the door opened and John Hay, Secretary to the President, slipped in. He spoke softly to Lincoln, who nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “Tarry a moment, John, while I put this to the cabinet. Gentlemen, it has been brought to my attention that the President of Ireland is waiting below with the Irish ambassador. He contacted me last night, soon after his arrival, and requested a meeting. I informed him about this cabinet session and asked him to join us. I hope you will agree that what he has to say is of the utmost importance to you all assembled here.”

“It is indeed,” Seward said. “We must have him in.”

Hay went out and the cabinet waited in silence until he returned. When he came back he ushered in two men in dark morning suits. Their mien echoed the color of their garb, for their faces expressed nothing but unhappiness — bordering on despair.

“President Rossa,” John Hay said, and the President nodded. “With him is Ambassador O’Brin.”

“This is a great pleasure,” Lincoln said. “John, do bring over those chairs. Jeremiah, when I saw you last it was during a time of great difficulty.”

“Unhappily, Abraham, the difficulties are still there — and if anything, they have grown, until I fear that my poor country is at the mercy of some biblical plague.”

“And I can put a name to that plague,” the Irish ambassador said. “I beg you, excuse me for speaking out like that, but the words are forced from my soul. The British — they are the plague that is destroying our poor country.”

“They are indeed,” Rossa said, nodding agreement. “How fondly I remember those halcyon days when President Lincoln attended my inauguration. What hope was in the air! We had just suffered the agonies of war, but none of us regretted the sacrifice. Ireland was free, free after all those centuries of oppression. You could taste the freedom in the air, hear it in the sound of the church bells. We were at last a single country, from Belfast in the north to Cork in the south. United and free to shape our own destiny.”

Rossa looked around at the listening cabinet members, his eyes deep-set and smeared dark with despair.

“How quickly it was all to end. Instead of rebuilding and reuniting Ireland, we are being forced once more to defend her. Our fishermen see their boats burned. Our seaside towns and cities are attacked and pillaged. While Irish men and women — and children! — are seized from their homes in England and imprisoned in the vileness of the concentration camps. What can be done? What can be done?”

“President Rossa — we have been asking ourselves the same question,” Seward said. “I feel that my department of state is failing the American people. Despite our efforts at finding a peaceful conclusion, our cotton ships are still being seized at sea.”

“Perhaps there is only one answer,” Rossa said in a voice laden with despair. “Perhaps there is indeed no peaceful solution. Perhaps we must do again the terrible and the threatening. I see no other possible conclusion, given the facts as we know them.” He drew himself up and looked around at the assembled cabinet.

“Perhaps we must do as we did — as you did — before. Call on the British one last time to cease and desist their maraudings. Put the weight of history upon them. Tell them they must stop at once. For if they do not, we will come to but one conclusion. That they have declared war upon us. If that is what they decide — so be it. We are a smaller country and a weaker one. But there is not a single person in our land who will not agree that if we are forced to the decision, the Republic of Ireland will declare war upon Great Britain.

“If we do that, will you, the country of democracy and freedom, join us in this noble endeavor?

“Will you join us in a just war against Great Britain?”

TRAPPED!

The Aurora sighted the bar light vessel first as they entered Liverpool Bay. In the early afternoon they continued on through the jumble of tide-ripped water that marked the entrance to the Mersey estuary. A summer storm had been building up all day. Blowing in from the Atlantic, it had grown in strength while it was crossing Ireland, and was now churning up the Irish Sea. Count Korzhenevski and General Sherman were on deck, wearing oilskins to give them some protection from the driving rain. The low-lying shore on both sides of the river was barely visible through the mist and rain.

“Should we drop anchor and wait for the storm to clear?” the Count asked.

“Only if you feel it necessary. I don’t want to stay in this area very long. I just want to see the approaches to Liverpool and its relation to the river.”

“That will be easy enough to do, rain or no. We have come this far and we are reaching the end of our mission. Yes, let us do it — then leave these waters. I am sure that we will all be immensely relieved once we are done with all this.”

“I am in complete agreement. We shall press on.”

The wind abated somewhat when they left the open sea for the shallower waters of the landlocked estuary, but the rain continued to fall relentlessly. Despite this they could easily find their way. The channel was well marked by buoys, and with the incoming tide behind them, the little steam yacht made very good time. They passed smaller fishing boats under full sail, then an immense side-wheel freighter thrashing its way downriver to the sea. By late afternoon the church towers of Liverpool were visible ahead. The Aurora swung closer to the riverbank as the first docks loomed up out of the rain. In the lounge belowdecks, driven there by the rain, Commander Wilson sketched the shoreline as best he could, looking out through a porthole and muttering imprecations at the filthy weather.

The river was narrowing and the little ship stayed in the channel in the center, letting the incoming tide carry them upstream.

“I think that dock we passed back there appears to be the final one,” Sherman said.

“I am sure of it. Any vessel with a draft deeper than ours would be grounding itself about now.”

“Good. I think that we have seen enough — and I don’t want to place our faithful vessel in any more danger. We can go back if you wish to.”

“Wish to! I yearn to.” The Count shouted orders up to the bridge and the bow began to swing about. Despite having to breast the incoming tide, they went downriver at a steady pace. They were making good progress when Sherman and the Count went below. As they shook themselves out of their oilskins, the Count called out to the steward, who, moments later, came in with glasses and a bottle of cognac on a tray. The Count poured, then handed one brimming glass to the general.

“Shall we drink to a mission successfully accomplished?”

“A noble idea. Then we can change into some dry clothing.”

The deck door opened to admit a spray of rain, and the deck officer, Lieutenant Chikhachev, pushed in. He said something in rapid Russian and the Count cursed out loud and began to pull his oilskins on.

“There is a large ship ahead, coming upstream toward us,” he said.

“We’ve seen others,” Sherman said.

“But none like this. It has guns. It is a ship of war.”

Sherman dressed hurriedly and joined him on deck. The rain was ceasing and the ironclad could be clearly seen coming upstream toward Liverpool. The two-gun turret in the bow was pointed ominously in their direction.

The Count called out a command in Russian. “I ordered us closer to the shore,” he said, translating. “I want to give them as much room as possible.”

“I’m sure it is just a chance meeting,” Sherman said.

As he finished speaking, the gun turret slowly swung in their direction, and for the first time they could see the ship’s name clearly.

“Defender!” Sherman said. “Wasn’t that the name of the ship in Plymouth — the one that the officer in the train said he was stationed on?”

The Count had no time to answer him — but his shouted commands were answer enough. Clouds of smoke poured from the yacht’s funnel as the engine raced up to full speed. At the same time they heeled sharply as they came about in the tightest turn possible. Then their stern was to the battleship and they were at full steam back up the river.

“It was that damnable little swine, Archie Fowler,” Korzhenevski growled out angrily. “We should have killed him when we were alone with him on the train.”

“I am afraid I do not understand why.”

“In hindsight it is all too transparently clear. After leaving us, he returned to his ship — where he bragged about meeting me. You could tell that he is a great snob. Someone there was at the dinner in Greenwich — or had heard about it. Whatever it was, we know that the British have no love for the Russians and would certainly resent our snooping around their shores. Once their suspicions were aroused, the Aurora would certainly have been easy enough to follow, since we have made no secret of our presence in these waters—”

He broke off as one of the guns in the forward turret of the ironclad fired. An instant later a great tower of water sprang up off their starboard bow. Then the second gun fired and a shell hit the water to port.

“Bracketed!” Sherman called out. “I’m glad they have no third gun.”

The distance between the two ships grew larger, since the smaller vessel had reached its top speed more quickly. But Defender’s engines were soon turning over at their maximum, and while she did not gain on them, she did not fall farther astern.

“They’ve stopped firing,” Sherman said.

“They don’t have to shoot. There is no way we can escape them. We are in a bottle and they are the cork.”

“What can we do?”

“Very little for the moment other than stay ahead of them.” The Count looked up at the darkening sky and the driving rain. “The tide will turn in about an hour; that will be high water.”

“And then…”

“We will be in the hands of the gods,” the Count said with dark Russian fatalism.

They plowed upriver, with their black iron nemesis steaming up steadily behind them. Liverpool swam out of the rain to port and moved swiftly by. Then they passed the last dock and the river narrowed.

“They’re slowing, dropping back!” Sherman called out.

“They must — they can’t risk running aground. And they know well enough that they have us in a trap.”

HMS Defender surged to a stop in the river. They watched her grow smaller until a bend in the Mersey cut her off from sight.

“Do we stop, too?” Sherman asked.

“No. We keep going. They might send boats after us. They could also contact the shore, have the army come trap us. And this is a trap.” The Count looked up at the sky, then at his watch. “It won’t be dark for hours yet. Damn these long summer nights.” He hammered his fist angrily on the rail. “We must do something, not just stand and shiver like a rabbit in a snare.” He looked down at the muddy river water, then at his watch again. “We’ll wait until the tide turns, no longer than that. It won’t be too long now. Then we will act.”

“What can we do?”

The Count smiled widely, almost baring his teeth. “Why then, my dear general, we head downstream at top speed. That, and the outgoing tide, will mean that we will be exposed to their gunfire for the smallest amount of time. Hopefully we can get by the enemy ship and show her our tail. After that we must trust only to chance and, hopefully, we will have an inordinate amount of luck! If you are a religious man, you might pray for divine intercession. God knows we could use it.”

The Aurora continued slowly upriver until the Count became concerned about the Mersey’s depth; they dropped anchor.

By this time Fox and Wilson were on deck as well, ignoring the rain, and Sherman explained what was happening. Little was said — little could be said. They were safe for the moment. The Count went to the bow and stood, staring down at the river, looking at the debris floating by.

“It will be some time before the tide changes. Let us get out of the rain and into some dry clothes.”

In his cabin General Sherman pulled off his clothing and toweled himself dry. He dressed again, scarcely aware of what he was doing because he was deep in thought. This was a dangerous situation. When he rejoined the others in the main cabin, the Count was just doling out what appeared to be water tumblers of brandy. Sherman accepted one and sipped at it.

“I suppose that there is nothing we can do, other than wait for the tide to turn.”

“Nothing,” the Count said grimly, draining half of his glass. “If anyone, other than myself, could pass as an Englishman, I would put him ashore with all the maps and charts and have him take them to a neutral country. But there is no one — and I cannot bring myself to desert my ship.”

“Should we destroy the charts?” Sherman asked.

The Count shook his head. “I think not. If the ship goes down — they go down with her. And if we do succeed in escaping — why, they will make all of our trials worth the while.” He finished his glass and put it down; the strong spirits did not seem to affect him in any way.

“Is the game worth the candle?” Wilson asked, depressed.

“It is!” Fox said, most firmly. “When this information is brought home, it will be beyond price — that I can assure you. Modern warfare has come to depend on military intelligence. Modern armies don’t just move forward until they meet the enemy, then do battle. Such tactics went out with Napoleon. General Sherman will tell you. The telegraph brings swift information to the general in the field. Trains bring the munitions and materials for support. Without informed intelligence the warring army is blind.”

“Mr. Fox is correct,” the Count said. “The game, my dear Wilson, is worth the candle.” He glanced up at the clock mounted on the bulkhead. “The tide should be turning soon.”

Unhappy at staying below, the Americans followed him up on deck. The rain had settled down to a steady drizzle. The Count walked to the rail and looked down at the river. Most of the drifting debris was just bobbing about now. Then, ever so slowly, a change began to take place. Instead of staying still, the leaves and branches began to drift downstream, faster and faster. The Count nodded with satisfaction and called an order out to the bridge. The anchor was raised and the engine came to life; the propeller began to turn.

“Gentleman, the die is cast. Only fate knows what will happen to us now.”

Smoke poured out the funnel as they worked up speed, moving so fast that the ship heeled over when they went around the first bend in the river. Faster and faster Aurora raced downstream toward her destiny.

Around the next bend they surged…

And there was Defender blocking the reach before them.

A CONVOY IN DANGER

“I’m sorry, Captain, but they are not answering my signals.”

A number of abrasive answers sprang to mind, but Captain Raphael Semmes controlled his tongue and just nodded. This shambles of a convoy could not be blamed on the signalman. Ever since they had left Mobile Bay, it had been one damned thing after another. Signaling was probably the worst part of the difficulty; the cotton ships misread his signals or ignored them. Or they asked them to be repeated over and over again. Not that their assignments were that complex. He simply wanted them to stay together, and not stray or fall behind.

And every dawn it was the same — they were all over the Atlantic, some even hull down on the horizon. So he had to round them up yet once again, signaling with angry hoots on USS Virginia’s steam whistle to get their attention. Herding them back into their stations, like a shepherd with wayward, stupid sheep.

And there was Dixie Belle again, the eternal miscreant. Fallen behind and ignoring all of his attempts at communication. The worst part was that she was a steamship, the only one in the five-ship convoy. A powered vessel that should be relied upon to keep position. While the white-sailed cotton clippers rode easily before the westerly wind, day after day the steamship kept falling behind. His biggest concern was always Dixie Belle.

“Hard aport, slow ahead,” he ordered the helmsman. “We’re going after her.”

Virginia’s wake cut a wide swath in the sea as she turned in her tracks and headed back toward the errant ship. This was a bad place for the convoy to start coming apart. The French coast was less than a hundred miles ahead — making this the hunting ground of the British war craft. They had seized too many American cotton ships here, which had necessitated the need for guarded convoys. Which were only as strong as their weakest link. His ironclad warship could offer protection only if the convoy stayed together.

Virginia turned again, this time to match the other ship’s course, slowed to stay abreast of her. Semmes raised the megaphone as they closed to within hailing distance — and strongly resisted the temptation to execrate the captain for ignoring his signals; this would be but wasted energy.

“Why have you slowed down?” he called out instead. He had to repeat his words when the other captain finally appeared on deck.

“A shaft bearing running hot. I’m going to have to stop the engine to replace it.”

Why was it running hot? Because of the lazy incompetence of an oiler, that was why. It took all Semmes’s strength of will not to curse the captain out for his crew’s slackness; this would avail nothing.

“How long will repairs take?”

He could see a consultation on deck, then the other man raised his megaphone again. “Two, mebbe three hours.”

“Get on with it then.”

Captain Semmes hurled the megaphone down on the deck, cursing like a trooper. The helmsman and the signalman exchanged wary nods of agreement behind the captain’s back. They all felt as he did — nothing but contempt for the merchantmen they convoyed. Better a swift passage — or even a battle at sea; anything but this.

Semmes was in a quandary. Should he take his other four charges into port and leave the miserable Dixie Belle to her fate? It was very tempting. The thought of her being snapped up by a British man-of-war was indeed attractive. But that was not his role. His assignment was to protect them all. But if the other ships stopped to wait for the errant vessel, there would be endless complaints over lost time at sea, late arrival at port, possibly an investigation.

Yet he had no other recourse. As they caught up with his charges again, he spoke to the signalman.

“Send the signal to heave to.”

Of course it did not happen at once. There were some angry queries; others completely ignored him. He sent the signal again, then swept down on them at full speed, cutting under their bows; that got their attention. One of them still hadn’t stopped, the Biloxi; her captain was the most recalcitrant of the lot. Virginia went in pursuit, the whistle screeching. Semmes had only a quick glimpse back at the Dixie Belle, now some miles away.

The captain of the Biloxi did not want to heave to and was eager to go on by himself. Semmes, who quickly tired of the shouted exchange between their ships, sent an order to the bow turret to put an explosive shell into the sea ahead of the cotton ship. As always, this worked wonders and he saw her sails flap loosely as she went about.

“Captain,” the lookout called down. “Smoke on the horizon, off the port bow.”

“Damnation!” Semmes swore, raising his glasses. Yes, there it was, moving in the direction of the stranded Dixie Belle. “Full ahead,” he ordered as they started back toward the stopped ship.

The two steamships were on closing courses and rapidly approaching each other, their towering plumes of smoke marking their speed. The other was hull up now, a black hull — and yes, those were gun turrets. British surely, no warship of any other country would be prowling about out here.

It was a closely run thing. Virginia curved between Dixie Belle and the other ship, stopped engines.

“She’s flying the white ensign, sir,” the lookout called down.

“She is indeed,” Semmes said, smiling happily. Ships at sea, antagonists at sea. This was the life he relished — that he really enjoyed. During the war, when he had carried cotton from the South to England, he was happy for every moment of every voyage. He had been much pursued when running the blockade with cotton cargoes but never caught.

“Now let us see what you are going to do, my fine English friend. This is not another chance to bully an unarmed merchantman. You are up against the pride of the American navy. Go ahead. Get off a shell. Give me some excuse to blast you out of the water.”

The turrets on the other warship were turning his way. Semmes was still smiling. But it was the cold grimace of a man ready for anything.

North of the antagonistic ironclads, close to where the river Mersey joined the Irish Sea, a confrontation of a totally different kind was taking place. This was no battle of the giants, but it might appear to an onlooker that the smaller ship was attacking the larger. Aurora came around the bend in the river with her engine turning at top revolutions. The sweating, soot-smeared stokers sent shovelful after shovelful of coal into the furnace. Lieutenant Simenov in the engine room looked at the pressure gauge — then quickly away. It was moving steadily toward the red; he had never had the pressure this high before. Yet the Count had asked for maximum speed — and that is what he would get.

On the bridge Korzhenevski was just as cool as a naval officer should be. “Look,” he said. “Her bow is still pointing upstream. She will have to turn to follow us.”

“If we get by her,” Sherman said grimly. “Won’t her guns bear on us as we go past?”

“They will if I make a mistake,” the Count said. Then he spoke into the communication tube to the engine room in Russian. “Half speed,” he said.

Sherman’s eyes widened at this, but he said nothing. He depended on the Russian’s professionalism now. Korzhenevski took a quick glance at him and smiled.

“I’m not mad, General, not quite yet. I’m watching her bows, waiting for them to turn — yes, there they go. Hold the speed. She’s turning to starboard, so we’ll pass her on that flank.” He snapped a command in Russian to the helmsman. “We’ll stay as close to her bow as we can. That way she won’t be able to depress her forward guns to reach us — and the rest of them will not bear until we are past.”

It was a difficult maneuver, and had to be conducted with extreme precision. Too slow, or too fast, and the guns would be able to fire on them.

“Now — full speed!”

HMS Defender’s, length was almost the same as the width of the river at this point. Her bow was in danger of striking the bank. Aurora had to get through the rapidly closing gap. The foam roiled from Defender’s propeller as she went hard astern. The Count laughed happily.

“Her captain is not thinking fast enough for this emergency. He should have let her touch the bank, plugged up our escape hole. If he had done that, his ship would suffer no grave injury — but we certainly would if we had hit her ironclad bow — there! — we are through. Top speed now.”

The little yacht surged downstream. The British battleship was now almost halted across the river. She was starting to turn again, but very slowly. Aurora hurtled on — and into sight of the warship’s guns.

One after another, as they came to bear, they fired. Columns of water rose up before her and well beyond her.

“They can’t depress the guns low enough to hit us yet. They should have waited. Now they must reload.”

The Count was jubilant; Sherman cold as ever under fire. Smoke roiled up from Aurora’s stack as they tore down the river at top speed. The guns began to fire again, but their aim was wildly erratic with the opening distance and the ship turning at the same time.

There was a sudden tremendous explosion in the rear of the cabin deck, fire and smoke. Someone screamed over and over. Luck could take them just so far.

“I’ll take care of that,” Sherman said, moving swiftly toward the stairway.

The shell had hit the rear of the main cabin, tearing a great hole in the wall. One of the stewards was lying on the floor, soaked in blood, still screaming. Fox was bent over him with the tablecloth he had torn from the endboard, trying to bind up the man’s wounds. A crewman appeared with a bucket of water and threw it on the smoldering fire. Through the opening in the wall more explosions were visible in the river.

Then the shelling stopped.

The Count appeared, took in the scene with a single glance. “There has been no major damage to the hull. Poor Dimitri is our only casualty. And we are past a bend in the river. Defender will be after us soon, and it will then be a stern chase. I think that we are faster than her. Aurora was built for speed, while our pursuer was built for battle. It is for fate to decide now.”

Fox stood, shaking his head unhappily. “I’m afraid that he is dead.”

The Count crossed himself in the Russian Orthodox way. “A tragedy to die so far from Russia. He was a good man — and he died in a good cause.” He called out orders in Russian. “I’ll be on deck while this is cleaned up. Then we must wait. In the end we shall drink cognac to a successful voyage — or we will be prisoners of the British.”

“What are the odds?” Sherman asked.

“Very good — if we can outrun our pursuer. If we can do that, why, then it is straight across the sea to Ireland.”

They stood, side by side on the bridge, looking back at their mighty pursuer through the sheets of driving rain. Ahead of them the sky was getting darker.

“Are we faster than she is?” Sherman asked.

“I do believe that we are.”

As sunset approached and the distance between them grew, the captain of HMS Defender reluctantly took a gamble. The ship’s silhouette suddenly lengthened as she turned her bows so her length faced them. The guns fired as soon as they could bear. Once again Aurora suffered a bombardment, but none of the shells fell close.

The ship was a small target and constantly moving, changing course, elusive. The rain was heavy, night was falling, and soon after this last broadside Aurora was invisible to their pursuer.

“And now the cognac!” Korzhenevski shouted aloud, laughing and slapping Sherman on the back, then seizing his hand and pumping it enthusiastically. Sherman only smiled, understanding the Russian’s happiness.

They had gotten away with it.

A DISASTROUS ENCOUNTER

The approaching British ironclad slowed her engines and her bow wave died away. Captain Semmes looked at her coldly as she drew closer to the USS Virginia. There was her name, spelled out in large white letters, DEVASTATION. Maybe, just maybe, the British captain would decide on aggression. Would that he did. Semmes knew that his ship was the match for any in the world, with three steam-powered turrets, each of them mounting two breech-loading guns. While the enemy outgunned him, he doubted very much that she outclassed him. Her muzzle loaders had a much slower rate of fire than his own guns.

He recognized her type; one of the newly built Warrior-class ironclads. She had all the strengths of the original — twenty-six sixty-eight-pounders and ten hundred-pounders — and could unleash a terrible broadside. Also, according to the intelligence reports that he had seen, the builders had overcome Warrior’s weaknesses by armoring her stern, then eliminating the masts and sails. Semmes was not impressed, even by these changes. The greatest naval engineer in the world, John Ericsson, had designed every inch of his ship, and she was the most advanced ever known to man.

A signalman appeared on the other ship’s bridge.

“They’re sending a message, Captain,” his signalman said. “It reads—”

“Belay that,” Semmes snapped. “I have no desire to communicate with that ship. We will remain here on station until she leaves.”

Devastation’s captain was infuriated.

“Doesn’t she read our signals? Send the message again. We are well within our rights to inspect the manifests of a vessel suspected of breaking international law. Damme, still no response — yet I can see them on the bridge there, brazenly staring at us. Bos’un, fire off the saluting cannon. That should draw their attention.”

The little gun was quickly loaded, powder and no shot, and went off with a cracking bang.

Aboard Virginia, Captain Semmes was just sending a signal to Dixie Belle inquiring as to her repairs when he heard the explosion. He spun about and saw the puff of white smoke just below the other ship’s bridge.

“Was that a shot?”

“Yes, sir. Sounded like a saluting cannon.”

Semmes stood, frozen for a long moment, while the smoke thinned and dispersed. He had a decision to make, a decision that might end these frustrating months of convoy duty.

“Bos’un — was there a cannon fired aboard the British ship?”

“Aye, sir. But I think—”

“Do not think. Answer me. You saw the smoke, heard the sound of a cannon being fired aboard that British ship?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Good. We will return fire. I want the gunners to aim for her upper works.”

The six guns fired almost as one. The hail of steel fragments swept the other ship’s decks clear, wrecked both her funnels, blew away her bridge and officers, steersman, everyone. The surprise was complete, the destruction total. No order was given to fire aboard the battered ship, and the guncrews, trained to obey orders and not to think, did nothing.

Semmes knew all about the ship he had just engaged. He knew that all of her guns were in a heavily armored citadel, an iron box that was separate from the rest of the ship. They pointed to port and starboard — and only a single hundred-pound pivot gun that was on her stern deck pointed aft. Virginia crossed Devastation’s stern, and all of her guns, firing over and over, pounded this single target.

No ship, no matter how well built and heavily armored, could survive this kind of punishment. The pivot gun got off one shot, which bounced from Virginia’s armor before being dismounted and destroyed. Shell after shell exploded inside the ironclad’s hull, gutting her, blowing gaping holes in the outer armor. Igniting a store of powder.

The ripping explosion blew most of the ship’s stern away, and the ocean rushed in. With the ship deprived of her buoyancy, the bow rose in the air. There were more explosions deep in the hull and immense clouds of vapor as the boilers were flooded. The bow was higher now, pointing to the zenith. Then, with immense burbling and retching, the ironclad sank down into the ocean and vanished from sight. Nothing but wreckage remained to mark the spot.

“Lower the boat,” Semmes ordered. “Pick up any survivors.” He had to repeat the order, shouting it this time, before the stunned sailors sprang into action.

Out of a crew of over six hundred, there were three survivors. One of them was so badly wounded he died even before they could bring him aboard. It was a resounding victory for American sea power.

And HMS Devastation had fired the gun that started the conflict. Captain Semmes had many witnesses to that fact. Not that there would be any real questions asked; the affair was a fait accompli. The act was finished.

There was no going back now. The deed was done.

Once the Aurora was out of Liverpool Bay, safe in the darkness and the open and rainswept Irish Sea, she slowed to a less strenuous pace and eased the reckless pressure in her boilers. There were extra lookouts posted, on the off chance that their pursuer might still be after them, while the sailors cleared away the wreckage and covered with a tarpaulin the hole that had been blasted into the cabin. Once this was done, they settled down for a late dinner with, as always, copious quantities of the Count’s vintage champagne. Because the galley fires were still out, it was a cold meal of caviar and pickled herring; there were no complaints.

“How did they find us?” Wilson said, sipping gratefully at the champagne. “That is what I don’t understand.”

“My fault completely,” Korzhenevski admitted. “After that little contretemps in Greenwich, I should have been more on my guard. Once suspicion was aroused, they would have easily traced us to Penzance. Plenty of people there saw us cruise north from there. I was equally foolish when we stopped for fresh supplies in Anglesey. I bought maps of the estuary here, and of the bay, in the chandler’s. Once they knew that, they knew where to find us. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“Which is written by the victors,” General Sherman said, holding up his glass. “And a toast to the Count, the victor. Whatever crimes of omission you think you have committed in leading the British to us, you have well vindicated yourself by what to me, a mere landsman, appeared to be an incredibly skilled bit of boat handling.”

“Hear, hear,” Fox said, raising his glass as well.

“Gentlemen, I thank you.” The Count smiled and settled back in the chair with a sigh.

“What is next?” Sherman asked.

“Ireland. We are now on a northwest heading to stay clear of Anglesey and the Welsh coast. In a few hours we head due west for Ireland and Dublin Harbor. We will arrive around daybreak. And then — what happens next is up to you, General. My part of our interesting tour of exploration is finished. I will have Aurora repaired in Ireland, then will sail north to Russia, since these waters are no longer as friendly as they once were.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Sherman said. “About the end of your friendship with the English—”

“Please don’t be! Ever since the Crimean War, my friendship has been nothing but a sham. In a way I am glad that the playacting is over. They are now as much my enemy as they are yours.” His face grew grim. “Will there be war?”

“That I do not know,” Sherman said. “All I know is that if war does come, we will be prepared for it. With all thanks due to you.”

“It was all worth doing if you obtained the military intelligence that you needed.”

“I did indeed.”

“Good. Then — a single favor. If there are hostilities, would you recommend me for a post in your navy?”

“With all my heart—”

“And I as well!” Commander Wilson cried loudly. “I know that if you were my commander I would be proud to serve under you, anytime, sir.”

“I am most grateful…”

Only Fox demurred. “I’ll be sorry to lose you.”

“I understand. But I have had enough of stealth, of creeping about in the darkness. I will see that you will still have all of the assistance that we can possibly supply. When next I go to war I hope that it will be aboard one of your magnificent fighting ships. That is what I want very much to do.”

“You must tell us how to contact you,” Sherman said. “With a little luck we’ll be out of Ireland without setting a foot on dry land. After the British raids there is always an American navy ship or two stationed in Dublin. That will be our transportation.”

“A cable to the Russian Navy Department will quickly reach me. Now — I wish you Godspeed.”

The rain had cleared away during the night and the wet rooftops of Dublin glinted golden in the rising sun as they passed the Pigeon Coop lighthouse and entered the Liffey.

“There is an ironclad tied up by the customs house,” Korzhenevski said, peering through his binoculars.

“May I look, sir, I beg of you!” Wilson said with obvious excitement. He raised the glasses and took only the briefest of glances. “Yes, indeed, I thought so. It is my ship, the Dictator. A good omen indeed.”

Sherman nodded. “You are indeed right, Commander. The best of omens. President Lincoln, when we parted, insisted that I report to him as soon as our mission had been accomplished. I think that your commanding officer will go along with a command from his commander in chief and provide me the needed transportation.”

They bade their farewells to the Count and boarded the ship’s boat; their luggage had already been stowed aboard. They waved good-bye to the Count and the little ship. At a shouted command all of the sailors aboard her snapped to attention and saluted.

“I shall miss her,” Wilson said. “She’s a grand, stouthearted little vessel.”

“With a fine captain,” Sherman said. “We owe a great debt to the Count.”

When they boarded the Dictator, they discovered that she was preparing to go to sea. In the wardroom Captain Toliver himself told them why.

“Of course you would not have heard — I’ve just been informed myself. Virginia stopped at Cork on the way home. Telegraphed me here. She has been in battle. Apparently she was attacked by a British ironclad.”

“What happened?” Sherman asked, his words loud in the shocked silence.

“Sunk her, of course. Only proper thing to do.”

“Then it means…”

“It means the President and the government must decide what must be done next,” Sherman said.

Captain Toliver nodded agreement. “There will be new orders for all of us. I hope that you will sail with us, General; you as well, Mr. Fox. I am sure that Washington will have assignments for us all.”

To say that the British were perturbed by the sinking would be the most masterful of understatements. The ha’penny newspapers frothed; the Thunderer thundered. Parliament was all for declaring war on the spot. The Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston, was summoned by the Queen. It was an exhausting two hours that he passed in her presence. Lord John Russell waited patiently at Number 10 for his return. Looked up from his papers when there was first a rattling at the door, and then it was pushed wide. One of the porters stepped in, then opened the door as far as it would go. A bandage-wrapped foot came through first, gingerly followed by the rest of Lord Palmerston, seated in a bath chair that was pushed by a second porter. A moment’s inattention caused a wheel of the chair to brush against the man who was holding the door open. Palmerston gasped out loud and lashed out with his gold-headed stick. But it was a feeble blow and the porter merely cringed away. Russell put down the sheaf of papers that he had been studying and rose to his feet.

“I have read through all of the armament proposals,” he said. “They all seem most sensible and very much in order.”

“They should be. I drew them up myself.”

Palmerston grunted with the effort as he pulled himself out of the bath chair and dropped into the armchair behind his massive desk, then waved a dismissing hand at the porters. He took a kerchief from his sleeve and mopped his face and did not speak again until the door had closed and they were alone.

“Her Majesty was unconscionably unreasonable today. Thinks we should go to war by tomorrow morning at the very latest. Silly woman. I talked of preparations, organization, mustering of troops until I was blue in the face. In the end I just outlasted her. She summoned her ladies-in-waiting and swept out.”

Palmerston spoke in a thin voice, very different from his normal assertive self. Lord Russell was worried, but knew enough not to speak his reservations aloud. After all, Palmerston was in his eighties, tormented by gout — in addition to all the usual ailments of old age.

“She has been like that very much of late,” Russell said.

“The German strain has always had its weaknesses — not to say madness. But of late I despair of obtaining any cooperation or reasonable response from her. Yes, she despises the Yankees and wishes to exact a high price from them for their perfidy. As do we all. But when I urge upon her approval of one action or another, she simply flies into one of her tempers.”

“We must take her wishes as our command and act accordingly,” Russell said with the utmost diplomacy. He did not add that the irascible Prime Minister was no stranger himself to bullheadedness and irrational fits of temper. “The yeomanry are being assembled for active duty, as is required in any national emergency. Orders have gone out to India and the antipodes for regiments to be transferred here as soon as is possible. For almost two years now the shipyards on the Clyde and the Tyne have been building the finest ironclad vessels ever conceived by the genius of our engineers. There is little else that can be done to prepare for any emergency. While on the diplomatic front our ambassadors press on indefatigably to wrest every advantage from the Americans—”

“All this I know,” Palmerston said testily, dismissing any argument with a wave of his hand. “Preparations, yes, we have enough of that. But preparation for what? Is there any overall strategy to unite all this and the nation into a cohesive whole? If there is, I see it not. Certainly the Queen cannot provide us with any aid or succor in this matter.”

“But the Duke of Cambridge, commander of the armies, can certainly be relied upon to—”

“To do what? Vacillate? Get drunk? Spend his time with one of his ladies? No salvation there. He has some good men on his staff, but he overrides them more often than not.”

“Then, unhappily, the burden is still yours.”

“It is indeed.” Palmerston nodded weary agreement. “But the years begin to show. I should have put myself out to pasture long before this. But there is always one more crisis, one more decision to make — with no end in sight.”

He had slumped deeper in his chair as he spoke. His face, despite the fullness of his jowls, was slack and pendulous, his skin an unsightly gray. Russell had never seen him look this ill in all their years of association, was about to remark upon it but held his comment for now. He temporized instead.

“You have worked too hard of late, taken too much upon yourself. Perhaps a spell in the country, a good rest—”

“Cannot be considered,” Lord Palmerston said fiercely. “The country is going to hell in a handbasket, and I shall not be one to hurry it on its way. There is too much to be done, too much…”

Yet even as he spoke these words, his voice died away, ending in a wordless mumble. Russell looked on horrified as his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell forward in a slump, his head dropping onto the desk with a resounding thud. Russell jumped to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor, but even as he hurried forward, Palmerston dropped heavily onto the carpet and slid from sight.

COMMAND DECISION

General Sherman had met President Lincoln at the White House. From there they strolled over to the War Office together. They talked a little about the hot weather that had seized the city in a relentless grip for almost two weeks now. Then Sherman inquired about Mrs. Lincoln’s health, which was improving. Lincoln reported that everyone was pleased that General Grant’s wounded arm had healed so well. They talked about everything except the matter that was of the greatest concern to them. But Gus Fox had been adamant about this; no discussions about the details of the trip aboard Aurora unless it was in Room 313. Which was where they were headed now.

The two guards snapped to attention when they came down the corridor.

Sherman returned the salute, then rapped on the door. Fox unlocked it from the inside and stepped aside so they could enter. He locked the door behind them, then crossed over the small anteroom and unlocked the other, inner room. Once inside, they discovered that the windows were all closed and sealed and it was stifling hot.

“Just a moment,” Fox said, quickly throwing wide the curtains and opening both of the windows. Thick bars prevented any access from outside, but at least the air could circulate now. Lincoln took out his kerchief and patted his face and neck dry, then dropped into an armchair, letting his long legs dangle over one arm.

“Am I at last to discover the facts about your mysterious mission?”

“You are,” Sherman said. “It was dangerous, perhaps foolhardy, but since it was very successful, I imagine that the risks were justified. I suggest that you tell the President about our Russian friend, Gus.”

“I will do just that. It all began while we were all still in Brussels; that was when we met a Count Korzhenevski, someone very high up their navy — and in their military intelligence as well. I can vouch for his authenticity because I have had contacts with his organization in the past. He speaks perfect English and was educated in England, and actually attended Greenwich Naval College. However, since the Crimean War, he has grown to detest the British who invaded his country. Knowing about our difficulties with Britain, he saw our two countries as natural allies. That was when he made a very generous offer, when he told us that he would like to put his yacht at our disposal. To take us wherever we wished to go.”

“Very nice of the Count.” Lincoln smiled. “You should have asked him to take you to England.”

“That is just where we went.”

The President was rarely caught out — but he was this time. He looked from one to the other of them with bewilderment.

“Do you mean that? You — went there?”

“Indeed we did,” Fox said. “In the guise of Russian officers.”

“I’ve heard some tall stories in my time, but this beats the pants off any of them. Pray tell me, in greatest detail, about where you went and just what you did.”

Sherman sat back and listened in silence while Gus outlined the various aspects of their precarious journey. For the moment the President did not appear to be interested in what they had discovered, but rather in all the surprises and close escapes in their exploration of the English mainland.

Gus finished, “…we sailed all that night and reached Dublin in the morning. That is when we heard about the naval engagement between the two ironclads. Of course we had to return here, so that was the end of our little voyage of exploration.”

Lincoln leaned back with a heavy sigh — then slapped his knee with enthusiasm. “If I had heard this story from anyone else, Gus, anyone other than you, why, I would say he got the liar of the year — no, of the century! — award. You were right not to have informed me of your plans before you left. I would have vetoed them instantly. But now that you have returned, about all I can say is — well done!”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Sherman said. “In hindsight our little voyage of exploration does appear a mite foolhardy. But we got away with it. We have studied the English ports, cities, and countryside. And we have taken the measure of their defensive ability. It was intelligence hard gained — unhappily at the price of a man’s life. One of the Russian sailors was killed when the ironclad fired on us. But the trip was well worth doing, I assure you.”

“And your conclusions?”

“Militarily we know a great deal more about the British defenses than ever we did before. What is to be done with that knowledge of course depends upon the state of international affairs. The newspapers are all in a frazzle and contain more rumor than news. Before I go on, I would like to hear about the official reactions of the British to the loss of their ship.”

The lines of worry were deep cut between Lincoln’s eyes again. He had forgotten his troubles while listening to the tale of their daring adventures. Now memory flooded back.

“They are livid, intransigent, calling their men to arms, preparing their country for war. They demand immediate payment of ten million pounds’ compensation for the loss of their ironclad.”

“Can war be avoided?” Sherman asked.

“If we pay them the millions that they ask for, and stop shipping our cotton to world markets, also permit their men-of-war to arrest and search all of our ships at sea, and more. They have endless demands and bristle with threats. The situation is very tense.”

“How did the naval engagement come about?”

“I doubt if we will ever know. Captain Semmes says that his ship was fired upon. His officers and men all agree with him. That is what they say, and I sincerely doubt that they are lying to us. It still remains a mystery why the British vessel opened fire. The two English survivors knew nothing, other than the fact that there was gunfire and explosions and they were blown into the water. Neither of them appeared to be too bright, according to their interrogators. Apparently they worked in the ship’s galley and were on deck dumping rubbish — which is what saved them. Of course, after they were sent back home, they changed their stories — or they were changed for them — and Virginia is now supposed to have fired in an unprovoked attack. But this matters little. The original cause has been forgotten in the cloud of political invective.”

“Will it be war?” Gus asked, almost in a whisper.

Lincoln sagged back deep into the chair and shook his head with a most woeful expression upon his face.

“I do not know, I cannot tell you… I just have no idea where all this will end.”

“If war comes,” Sherman said with icy resolution, “we will be prepared for it. And I also know now how it can be won.”

They both looked at him, waiting for him to continue. His face was set and he was looking out of the window, not seeing the hot and brassy sky — rather, another land far across the ocean.

“There are many ways to attack a country like that and I am completely sure that I know how it can be successfully done. But first, what we must do is far more important than how we do it. To begin with, unless we want to be immersed in a long, protracted, and murderous war, we must be prepared to fight the new kind of lightning warfare, just as we did in the battle for Ireland. In order to succeed we must first assess the enemy’s strengths — and weaknesses — in every detail. This, along with war preparations, will take some months at least. So I would say that we will be prepared for any venture by spring at the earliest. Can we buy that time?”

Lincoln nodded slowly. “A politician can always buy time; that is the one thing we are good at — that, and wasting time. The negotiations will plow ahead. We will make some concessions, then let them think that there are more are on the way. King Leopold of Belgium has offered us neutral ground on which to discus our differences. We shall avail ourselves of his offer and set in motion the ponderous machinery of international negotiations yet another time.”

“Is there any possibility that they may strike before we are prepared?” Gus said worriedly. Sherman considered the question.

“It is not that easy to launch an attack across an ocean. Surely your intelligence sources will keep you informed of all preparations?”

Gus shook his head. “Our informants in Great Britain were all Irish — and are all now seized or in hiding. But I had many discussions with Count Korzhenevski, and he will be happy to supply us with intelligence from his network there. We are now in the process of arranging a working relationship.”

“I must be informed of all developments,” Sherman said.

“You will be. You as well, Mr. President.”

Sherman returned to the War Department and wrote a number of telegraph orders. It took only a day to make the necessary arrangements. When they were done he sent for Ulysses S. Grant.

“General Grant, sir,” the captain said, opening the door and standing aside.

“Why, you are sure a sight for sore eyes,” General Sherman said, standing and coming around his desk, smiling with obvious pleasure. He started to raise his hand — then dropped it. “How is the arm?”

“Well healed, thank you, Cumph.” Grant proved this by seizing Sherman’s hand and shaking it strongly. Then he looked down at the drawings spread over the desktop and nodded. “I sent these over because I was sure that they would interest you as much as they did me.”

“More than just interest; this mobile gun position is the answer to an unspoken prayer. Of late, my thoughts have been turned to the possibilities of lightning attacks and expeditious victories. This invention of Parrott and Ericsson fits in with all that I plan to do.”

“Do we plan to go to war?” Grant asked, his face suddenly hard and grim.

“A soldier must always be ready for war. If not now, I think that we will be facing the prospect of battle by spring. But please, do sit down.” Sherman seated himself and tapped the drawings. “I need this infernal machine. The British talk of war and are at their most bellicose. It is a possibility that we must consider strongly. That is why I have invited engineer Ericsson to join us this morning.” He took out his watch and looked at it. “He will be here at any time now. Before he comes, I must tell you about a little scouting trip I have just finished to the English shore.”

“You didn’t!” Grant sat back in his chair and laughed out loud. “I swear — you have more brass than an entire band.”

“It was indeed an interesting time. But other than the men who went with me, only you and the President know of the visit — and we must keep it that way. It was a most fruitful exploration, for what I did discover was just how that country could be successfully invaded.”

“Now you do have my complete attention.”

Sherman outlined roughly what he planned to do, including what would be Grant’s vital contribution to a successful invasion. When Ericsson was announced they put away the papers and maps that they had worked on and turned their attention back to the plans for the mobile battery.

“I have many things to do and do not enjoy wasting time on trips to the city of Washington,” Ericsson said testily as he was shown in.

“A pleasure to see you again,” Sherman said, ignoring the engineer’s outburst. “You of course know General Grant.”

Ericsson nodded curtly. Then, “Why was I summoned here?”

“Well, for one thing,” Sherman said, opening a drawer in the desk, “I understand that the navy has been slow in paying you for the new ironclads that are now under construction.”

“Always late! I have a large workforce, and there is iron and steel must be purchased—”

“Perfectly understandable.” Sherman slid an envelope across the table. “I think that you will find dealing with the army much more satisfactory. This is a check for the first payment for the development of the mobile battery.”

Ericsson smiled — for the first time that they had ever seen. Tore open the envelope and squinted down at the check. “Most satisfactory.”

“Good. Then we can get down to work.” Sherman pointed to the drawings on his desk. “I have been examining these in great detail ever since General Grant gave them to me. I have some suggestions.”

Ericsson’s face grew hard. “You are not an engineer…”

“No — but I am the officer in charge of the armies that must use this device. I want you to consider this. The driver and the gunner will be under intense fire from the enemy. Is there any way we can protect them with some armor?”

“That will not be a problem. I have already had this under consideration.” He took a pencil from his jacket pocket and pulled over the drawings. With quick, precise strokes he sketched in an iron shield.

“If we attempt to armor the vehicle on all sides, it would be too heavy to move. But since it will be attacking the enemy, then a shield on the front should provide all the protection that it will need as it rides into battle. The muzzles of the Gatling will fire through this opening in the armor.”

“Sounds most promising,” Sherman said, smiling with pleasure. “How long will it take to build the prototype?”

“One week,” Ericsson said without the slightest hesitation. “If you will be at my works one week from today, you will see the new machine in action.”

“That will indeed be satisfactory.” Sherman tugged at his beard, deep in thought. “But we must have a name for this new invention.”

“I have thought about that. It must be a heroic name. So I suggest Fafnir — the dragon of Norse legend, breathing out fire and destruction on all who oppose it.”

“I think not. We want a name that if it is overheard, or mentioned in correspondence, will be most innocuous and bear no relation to the war vehicle. The secret of its existence must be kept at all costs.”

“Innocuous!” Ericsson’s temper had snapped again. “That is ridiculous. If you want innocuous, then why not call it a bale of hay — or — or a water tank!”

Sherman nodded. “A capital suggestion. A water tank, an iron tank — or just plain tank. So that is settled. But there is another matter that I want to consult you about. A military matter.”

“Yes?”

Sherman took a key from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked the top drawer of his desk, and took out a sheaf of drawings. He slid them across the desktop to Ericsson.

“These are different elevations and details of a fort defending a river bend.”

Ericsson took them and nodded agreement. “Obviously. A typical construction that you will see right across all of Europe. It is roughly a triangular redan. These spurs flank the approaches to the fort, and see, opposite the salients here, the walls take the form of a star, a development of a tenaille trace. This ravelin has an important defense role in defending the main entrance. A well-worn design — but also well past its time. It cannot stand up to modern artillery. I assume you want to reduce this fortress?”

“I do.”

“Easily enough done. Get a siege train within range, and in three or four days you will have reduced the walls to rubble.”

“That will be impossible. It is surrounded by water and swamps. Also — that would take too long.”

“Too long! You want a miracle, then.”

“I don’t want a miracle — but I do want the guns destroyed in hours, not days. I am not interested in the fabric of the fort itself; it will be bypassed in any case.”

“Interesting,” the engineer said, picking up the aerial view of the fort. “The river here, of course. With the guns silenced, the ships of war may pass. You come to me because I am a nautical engineer and this will require a nautical solution. May I take these drawings with me?”

“You may not. Study them as long as you like — but they must not leave this room.”

Ericsson scowled at this prohibition and rubbed his jaw in thought. “All right, I can do that. But one more question: The fleet that sails up this river, will they be riverine ships?”

“No, they won’t be. They will have crossed an ocean before they reach the river mouth.”

“Very good, then.” Ericsson climbed to his feet. “I will show you how it can be done when I see you in a week’s time to demonstrate my new hay bale.”

“Tank.”

“Bale, tank — it is all nonsense.” He started for the door, then turned back. “At that time I will be able to show you how to reduce those guns. An idea I already have been working on.” He went out, slamming the door behind him.

“Do you think he can do it?” Grant asked.

“If he can’t, why, there is no one else in the world who can. He is an original thinker. Never forget that it was his Monitor that changed naval warfare forever.”

On the other side of the Atlantic a far more commonplace event was taking place. In the port of Dover, the morning steam packet from Calais had just arrived after an uneventful crossing of the English Channel from France. Albert Noireau was just one of the many passengers who came down the gangway and stepped onto the English soil.

Most of the other passengers hurried on to board the London train. But a few, like Monsieur Noireau, had business here in the seaport. His visit could not have been intended to be an extensive one, for he carried no baggage. He also appeared to be in no hurry as he strolled along the seafront. Sometimes stopping to gaze at the ships gathered there, at other times he looked at the shops and buildings that faced the docks. One in particular attracted his attention. He peered at the chiseled nameplate outside the door, then went on. At the next turning he paused and looked about. As far as he could tell, he was unobserved. He took a moment to glance at the slip of paper in his pocket and nodded slightly. It was indeed the same name he had been told to look for. Trinity House. He walked back toward it, then entered the public house in the adjoining building. The Cask and Telescope. Très naval.

The newcomer ordered a pint of beer in good English — although he had a thick French accent. His French was perfect, he had lived in France for many years, and had long since submerged Mikhail Shevchuk under his new persona. But he never forgot who his masters were.

It was easy to strike up conversations at the bar. Particularly when he was most generous when his time came for buying rounds. By late afternoon he had talked to a number of pilots from Trinity House and had discovered what he needed to know. To them he was an affable agent for French ship’s chandlers, with well-filled pockets.

They called after him cheerfully when he hurried to get the afternoon packet back to France.