Stars and Stripes Triumphant sas-3 Page 5

  “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 pul
led 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.”