“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.”