“No bloody frog — nor bloody Russian either. You are in England now, and if you don’t speak English you are not welcome. This is my authority!” The officer waved a sheet of paper under Fox’s nose. “An English officer has filed a complaint against certain officers of this ship. He says that you are spies. I want you to know that this is a military establishment and charges of this kind are taken very seriously. This is my warrant to search this ship.”

Fox accepted the sheet of paper, shook his head with lack of comprehension, and passed the warrant back.

“Follow me,” the officer called out, and the armed soldiers clumped up the gangway. Simenov barred their way.

“Nyet!” Fox shouted, and waved the Russian officer aside. Simenov started to protest — then realized the futility and danger of what he was doing. Reluctantly, he stepped back.

“Search the ship,” the officer said as he led the soldiers below. Fox stayed close behind him. The first door at the foot of the gangway was General Sherman’s. It was unlocked. The officer threw it open and marched in. Sherman looked up from the chair where he was seated smoking a cigar.

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 Naval Academy. 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.