Read Stars & Stripes Triumphant Online
Authors: Harry Harrison
"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.