Stars and Stripes in Peril (25 page)

Gustavus Fox was seated in the anteroom of Room 313, a half an hour before noon, the time when the meeting was due to begin. He had already checked off two names on his list of those who would be present. General Sherman and General Lee, who had requested that this meeting take place. They had been waiting for him when he arrived at eight that morning to unlock the door. Lee had been carrying a battered leather saddlebag which he never let go of. Fox did not ask about its contents—he would know soon enough. But his curiosity was so great that he could not keep his eyes off it. Lee had seen this and smiled.

"Soon, Gus, soon. You must be patient."

He did try to be patient, but still he could not keep his eyes off the clock. At a quarter to twelve there was a quick rap on the door and he crossed over to unlock it. The two guards outside were standing at attention; he straightened up himself when the tall and lanky form of the President walked in. He waited until the door had been relocked before Lincoln spoke.

"We finally get to look inside—as the boy said when he opened his Christmas present."

"I certainly hope so, sir. Generals Sherman and Lee have been here all morning. And General Lee was carrying a mighty full saddlebag."

"Well he will have all of our attention I assure you. How is our other invasion going?"

"Very well indeed. All of our coaling provisions are in place. And I have reports from agents in England that not only have our preparations been observed, but plans for counter-measures are already in progress. Whoever is spying for the enemy here was very quick off the mark. Whatever agent they have in this country is very efficient. I would dearly love to find out who he is."

"But not at the present time."

"Indeed not! Whoever he—or she—is, why they are working for me right now."

"And the British are paying him. A remarkable arrangement. Ah, there you are Seward," he said as the Secretary of State entered.

The members of the small circle arrived one by one. Welles and Stanton arrived together, completing their number.

"Shall we go in?" Lincoln asked, pointing to the locked inner door.

"In a moment, gentlemen," he said as there was a rap on the outer door. Lincoln's eyebrows rose in unspoken query.

"Our numbers have increased by one since last we met," Fox said as he unlocked the door.

An erect, gray-haired man in naval uniform came in. Fox locked the door, turned and spoke. "Gentlemen, this is Admiral Farragut who has already been aiding us. Shall we go inside? If you please, gentleman," Fox said as he unlocked the door to the inner room. Went in after them and locked it behind him.

Sherman and Lee were sitting at the conference table, the saddlebag on the table between them. When they were all seated Lee opened the bag and took out a thick sheaf of papers that he passed to Sherman. Who touched them lightly with his fingertips, looked at the others present with a cold and distant look in his transparent eyes.

"I see you all have met Admiral Farragut, who has been of singularly great assistance to us in our planning," Sherman said. "His naval wisdom was vital in drawing up what we have been referring to as the Mexican File. So if, by any chance, the name of the operation is overheard, the assumption will be that it refers to our Pacific Ocean operations. The Mexican File comes in two parts." He separated out the top sheaf held by a red ribbon.

"These orders conform to the proposed attacks that the British now know about. We wish to confer with the Secretary of the Navy after this meeting, in order to transform general fleet movements into specific sailing orders. This operation will begin when a group of warcraft, containing four of our new ironclads, proceeds south as far as Recife in Brazil. They will coal there, then leave port and sail in a southerly direction. The ship's officers have orders to refuel again at the port of Rawson in Argentina. The Argentines have been informed of their arrival. They will also have orders commanding them to proceed to Salina Cruz, Mexico, to engage any British men-of-war that may be stationed there." He opened the file and smoothed the pages out.

"The next movements will occur two weeks after the ironclads leave. At this time the fleet of troop-carrying transports will be assembled. They will leave various east-coast ports, to rendezvous off Jacksonville, Florida. They will be joined there by more ironclads. At noon on the first day of September they will all form up and sail south.

"That same night, at nine in the evening, they will all open their sealed orders—that will put them on a new course." He nodded at Fox who stood and went to the map cabinet, unlocked and opened it. Fixed to the open door was a chart of the Atlantic Ocean. Facing it in the cabinet was the map of Ireland. Sherman walked across the room, every eye on him, and touched a spot in the Atlantic west of the Iberian Peninsula.

"This is their destination. I doubt if you can see this group of islands from where you are sitting, but I assure you that they are there. They are the Azores. On the most northern of these islands, Graciosa, there is a coaling port at Santa Cruz de Graciosa. Ships from Portugal and Spain refuel there on the way to South America. This will be the new rendezvous of the invasion fleet. Arriving on the same day will be the ironclads that the world believes were headed for Cape Horn. Once out of sight of land their sealed orders will also have directed them to this same coaling port. Admiral Farragut, will you elucidate." He sat down as the admiral crossed to the map and ran his finger around the Azores.

"Sailing times have been carefully calculated, allowance made for irregularities such as storm or accidents. Once both fleets are out of sight of land, their new orders will take them to this secret rendezvous in the Azores. There should be no suspicion that their courses have been changed, because they will be expected to be at sea and out of sight of land for this carefully calculated period. After arriving at the island of Graciosa they will have twenty-four hours to refuel—then set sail. Before I go into the final period—are there any questions?"

Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy, looked apprehensive. "So many ships at sea, there will surely be chance encounters with other ships."

"There undoubtedly will be, sir," Farragut said firmly. "But we are at war, we are about to be invaded, and our counter-measure to this planned invasion will be positive in our defense. British ships will be captured and made prizes. Ships of other nations will be boarded and will accompany our ships to Graciosa. There they will remain for three days after the fleet departs. Only then will they be permitted to leave. Even if one of them should go directly to Spain, where the nearest telegraph is located, it will still be too late. Our invasion will already have begun."

Welles still wasn't satisfied. "So many ships involved, so many changes of plans, refueling—much can go wrong..."

"If it does—it will not be through fault of planning. Every distance has been measured, every ton of coal accounted for. There may be minor mishaps, there always are with a maneuver this size, but that cannot be helped. But this will not alter or interfere with the overall plan."

"Which is what?" The president asked quietly.

"I defer to General Sherman," the admiral said and regained his seat.

Sherman stood beside the map of Ireland, pointed to it.

"This is where we will land." He waited until the gasps and murmurs of excitement had died away before he continued. "This is where we will defeat the enemy forces. This is the island that we will occupy. This is where the theatre of war will be—and where the threatened invasion of our country will end. Britain dare not commit so many troops to foreign adventures when the enemy is at the gate, threatening the very heart of her Empire.

"And now I will tell you how we will do it."

Allister Paisley was a curious man—and a very suspicious one as well. He was an opportunist, so that most of his petty crimes were committed on the spur of the moment. Something of value left unguarded, a door invitingly open. He was also very suspicious and thought every man his enemy. Which was probably right. After he had sent his report on the American activities to England, by way of Belgium, he still wanted additional information. He was paid for what he delivered, and the more he delivered the more money he had to spend. Not so much on alcohol these days, but on the far more satisfactory opium. He sat now in the grubby rented room in Alexandria, Virginia, heating the black globule on the pierced metal opening of his pipe. When it was bubbling nicely he inhaled deeply through the tall mouthpiece. And smiled. Something that few people living had seen him do. As a child he may have smiled: none alive would remember that. Now the sweet smoke burned away all cares. As long as he had the money he could smile; it was wonderful, wonderful.

Not so wonderful next morning in the damp chill of dawn. Rain was blowing in through the half-open window. He stepped in a pool of water when he got up and slammed it shut. All the smoke from his night's pleasure was now dispersed. Through the sheets of rain he could just make out the buildings of WashingtonCity just across the river. He shivered and pulled on his shirt, then drank some whisky to free him from the chill.

The rain stopped by noon and a watery sun occasionally appeared behind the clouds. At five in the afternoon Paisley had crossed the river into the capital and was now leaning against a wall on

Pennsylvania Avenue

, watching the clerks emerge from the War Department. He inhaled deeply on his cheap cheroot and looked for one particular face in the crowd. Yes, there he was. A gray man in gray clothing, scuttling along like a rodent. Allister stepped forward and fell in beside him, walked a few paces before the other man noticed him—and twitched, startled.

"Hello Georgy," Paisley said.

"Mr. McLeod—I didn't see you." Few men, if any, knew Paisley's real name.

"How's the work going, Georgy?"

"You know, they keep us busy." Giorgio Vessella, one generation away from Italy, was not a happy man. His parents, illiterate peasants from the Mezzogiorno, had been proud of him. An educated man with a position in the government. But he knew how little he earned, how insecure his position was. Only in wartime would they have even considered hiring a foreigner, as he would always be to the authorities' Anglo-Saxon eyes; his tenure was always suspect. Now, and not for the first time, did he regret that he had ever set eyes on the Scotsman.

"Let's go in here. Have a drink."

"I told you, Mr. McLeod, I don't drink. Just wine sometimes."

"All guineas drink," Paisley said with instant racial intolerance. "If you don't want it I'll drink it for you."

It was a dismal little alehouse, the only kind Paisley frequented, and they sat at a table in the corner away from the few other clientele. Paisley drank a good measure of the raw spirit and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His other hand tapped a silver dollar lightly on the stained table. Giorgio tried not to see it, but his eyes kept straying back to it.

"They keep you busy?"

"Just like always."

"I waited a couple of times. You never came out."

"We've been working late for a number of weeks now. The Navy Department ran short of clerks to copy orders. They sent over a lot of ship movements and we have been copying for them."

"I know about those," Paisley yawned widely. "Ships to Mexico."

"That's it. A whole lot of them."

"Old news. I only pay for new news. You got any of that?"

"No, sir. I just copy what they tell me to. The same old thing. It's just Mr. Anderton and Mr. Foyle, they get to do the different stuff in the locked room."

"What different stuff?" He said it offhandedly, almost bored, finished his drink. It sounded like there was something of some importance here.

"More naval orders, I heard them talking. They were excited. Then they looked at me and laughed and didn't say anything else."

All of the military clerks were trusted, Paisley thought. But some were trusted more than the others. Clerks who worked in a locked room inside a locked room. And why had they laughed? A secret within a secret? Superiority? They knew something that the other clerks didn't.

"I would like to know what it is that Anderton and Foyle are working at. You can find that out for me."

"No, please don't ask that!" Giorgio's olive skin went quite pale.

"I'm not asking—Georgy—I'm telling you."

"I can't, really, you don't know..."

"But I
do
know," Paisley said, leaning his face close to the other's, his voice thick with menace. "And what I know others would like to know. I've written a letter that lists a number of interesting facts that you have told me. Should I mail it? For you it will mean jail, disgrace, probably hanging. Isn't treachery a hanging offense in wartime?"

Georgio was beyond speech, terrified and gasping for air.

"But I am a generous man." He folded a ten dollar-bill and passed it over. "And another of the same when you find out what they are writing. There, that wasn't too bad, was it?"

Paisley smiled broadly when the little man clutched the bill and staggered out into the street. He tapped on the table, ordered more to drink. This was proving to be a most satisfactory day.

A CLASH AT SEA

Ordinary Seaman Webb yawned widely, then stamped in a full circle on the metal deck. These night watches were difficult to get through without dropping off to sleep. Two hours on duty, four hours off. The four went by in a flash when he fell asleep—while the two hours on watch seemed to stretch forever. Overhead the stars were sparkling points of light against the darkness of the sky, the moon a thin sliver just above the western horizon. Was there a touch of brightness to the east? He raised his night glasses. Yes, it was brighter there already with the swift arrival of the tropical dawn. He squinted through his glasses again, then swept the horizon in the growing light, south all the way to the sharp outlines of the mountains where they met the sea. Then stopped—was that a tiny dark blob? He couldn't tell. He rubbed his eyes, looked again—and yes, it certainly was.