“But of course!” the Count called out, clapping his hands with pleasure. “I have Russian charts below, but they begin at the coastline and reveal little or nothing of the country’s interior. My general — we must get you a copy of a Bradshaw.”

“I’m afraid that I don’t understand…”

“But I do,” Fox said. “I have one in my library in Washington City — which of course will be of no help to us here. A Bradshaw is an English publication that contains timetables of all the trains that run in the British Isles.”

“I would certainly be pleased to have one.”

“And that you shall,” the Count said. “I had planned a stop at Dover for fresh supplies from the ship’s chandlers there. While that is being done I shall visit a local bookshop. Since Dover is the main port of entry from the continent, they will certainly have this invaluable guide for sale there.”

The good weather still held, so Korzhenevski ordered luncheon to be served on deck. They did not wait for Wilson, who was still deeply involved in his charts and drawings. They had cold beetroot soup that the Count referred to as borscht, which they greatly enjoyed. Along with the ever-flowing champagne. By the time they had finished, they were already anchored outside Dover Harbor. The Count excused himself and took the boat ashore to arrange for the provisions. Sherman and Fox enjoyed a cheroot on deck while awaiting his return.

“I want no more meetings with the British military,” Sherman said. “The risk is too great.”

“I could not agree more.”

“But that does not mean we cannot go ashore. As long as we keep our mouths shut, the danger should be minimal. There are many things I would like to see before this visit is terminated.”

Fox nodded agreement. “I agree completely. We will not have this opportunity for exploration a second time.”

When the boat returned and the Count climbed on deck, he was brandishing a thick, red-bound volume. “Bradshaw!” he said triumphantly. He carried a thick envelope as well. “And detailed maps of Britain.”

“My thanks,” Sherman said, weighing the book in his hands. “If I could also have your British charts, I will retire to my cabin.”

The Aurora was coasting down the English Channel as evening fell. This was the time of day when the Russians, like the British, enjoyed their tea. The Americans were happy to conform to this pleasant custom.

“I’m just about done with the drawings,” Commander Wilson said as he stirred sugar into his cup.

“Good news indeed,” Fox said. “We must get some more work for you to do.”

“See if you can’t avoid another search of the ship. I’m still shuddering from the last little adventure. I would rather face an enemy broadside at sea than go through that again.”

They turned to greet General Sherman when he came in; he had been closeted in his cabin for most of the day. He nodded abstractedly, then took a cup from the servant who stood by the samovar. He remained standing and sipped at it in silence, his gaze miles away. When he finished the tea and put the cup down, he turned to face the others. The abstracted look was gone and a smile of satisfaction had taken its place.

“Gentlemen. If war should come to this part of the world, I would like you to know that I have a plan. Not complete in detail yet, but in overall design it is completely clear to me.”

“Do tell us!” Fox said excitedly.

“In due time, Mr. Fox, in due time.”

It was his anger at the unfairness, the imprisonment of the women and the wee ones, that kept Thomas McGrath seething. He had asked nothing from the world except the chance to earn an honest living. He had done that, worked hard, earned enough to raise a family. For what purpose? For all of them to be bunged up in a foul camp. To what end? He had done nothing to anyone to have caused him to suffer this disgusting fate. Be honest and hardworking — and look where you ended up. He had never before been tempted by violence or crime, for these were alien to his nature. Now he was actively considering both. The end was worth it — Whatever the means. Ireland must be told about the concentration camps.

Sauchiehall Street was well lit, with lamps outside the elegant shops and restaurants. What was to be done? He had seen two peelers already — seen them first before they had spotted him. The rain had died down to a light drizzle, but he was still soaked through. He drew back into a doorway as a light suddenly lit up the pavement. A man in evening dress came down the steps from a restaurant — stepped to the curb and signaled to one of the passing cabs. An opportunity? McGrath could not tell. He walked past the cab as the man entered it, saying something to the driver. Who clicked at his horse and flicked the reins. The cab pulled away slowly.

There were other cabs about, and pedestrians crossing the street. Without walking too fast, McGrath was able to keep pace with the cab, seeing it turn into a darkened street ahead. When he rounded the corner he began to run.

The horse was old and in no hurry; the driver did not use his whip. The cab stopped not too far ahead. McGrath was only feet away when the man finished paying off the driver and turned toward the steps of a finely built house.

“Money,” McGrath said, seizing the man by the arm. “Give me all the money that you have.”

“I’ll give you this!” the man cried out, laying his stick across the side of the Irishman’s head. He was young and fit, and the blow drew blood. It also drew savage reprisals. A hard fist struck him in the chest, driving the air from his lungs, dropping him to the wet pavement.

McGrath went quickly through the fallen man’s pockets, found his billfold inside his jacket pocket. It had taken but moments; he had not been seen. The cab was just turning the corner and vanishing out of sight. McGrath went swiftly away in the opposite direction.

He was late for their meeting, and Paddy McDermott was already there waiting in the darkened doorway. He stepped out when he heard McGrath approaching.

“I thought you weren’t coming…”

“I’m here all right. How did it go?”

“Not quite like you said. There were no Irish in any of the bars I visited, none at all. The Brits have swupt them all up — Prods and Taighs both.”

“By Jayzus — don’t they know what loyalists are?”

“It doesn’t look like it. But I went down to the harbor, like you said, and the Scottish fishermen are that angry about it all. They wonder if they’ll be next. When they heard my accent they asked if I was on the run. I told them aye and they believed me. It seems that the fishermen here and those from Ulster, they both fish the same banks. I think they do a bit of smuggling for each other, but I didn’t want to ask too many questions. They’ll take me over in the morning, in time for the funeral I told them about. But it will cost us dear. A tenner to get there, then another ten pounds for the others to get me ashore. We don’t have that kind of money.”

“Well, let us say that there are those that do,” McGrath said, taking the roll of banknotes from his pocket. “Get there, Paddy. Get to Ireland and tell them what is happening here. Dublin must know.”

IRELAND ENRAGED

President Abraham Lincoln looked up from the papers he was signing when his secretary, John Nicolay, came in.

“Let me finish these, John, then you will have my full attention. There seem to be more of them every day.”

After blotting his signature, he put the sheaf of papers into a pigeonhole of his desk, leaned back in his chair, and sighed with relief. “Now — what can I do for you?”

“It’s Secretary of War Stanton. He would like to speak with you on a matter of some urgency. And he has General Meagher with him.”

“Ireland,” Lincoln said as he shook his head wearily. “That poor country still continues to suffer after all her tribulations.” He stood and stretched. “I’ve had enough of the office for now. Will you be so kind as to tell them to meet me in the Cabinet Room?”