Stars & Stripes Triumphant (9 page)

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 NavalAcademy. 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."