Travel was easy and cheap in this raw land, and opportunity ever knocking. The guise of a medicine traveler was a perfect cover for his petty crimes. He stole from his fellow travelers in cheap rooming houses, made easier by the American practice of sleeping four or five to a bed. He always rose before daylight and took anything that might be of value with him. That, along with shoplifting and some burglary, kept him alive — until the advent of war provided the perfect opportunity for the employment of his particular skills.

It was a matter of money and had nothing to do with slavery or Southern rights. It was just a matter of chance that he had been in Richmond, Virginia, when he read about the shelling of Fort Sumpter. If he had been in New York City he would have worked for the Federal government. As it was he went searching for the nearest military establishment. In the hectic environment of the opening days of the war, it took some time to find anyone who would listen to him. But he was persistent and in the end he found the ready ear of a military officer, a man who recognized the unique opportunity that this stranger with the thick accent represented.

Therefore Allister Paisley became almost the first spy employed by the South.

It had been a good war for him, as he shuttled back and forth between the warring sides. His Scotch accent and his medical flasks ensured that he was never suspected of his true employment. He brought his samples to the attention of the sutlers who accompanied every regiment and encampment. He soon discovered that the soldiers of the North shared his love of alcoholic beverages. Since they had little or no money, they were forced back on their own devices and brewed and fermented a number of noxious beverages. After he had discovered this fact yeast, raisins and other dried fruit were an essential part of his baggage. Money rarely changed hands; drink always did. Aching head, shaking limbs and painful regurgitation was the price he paid for his information. The names and numbers of regiments, guns and marching orders, all things military were patiently recorded and transcribed. The thin slips of paper traveled safely in a corked vial that was concealed inside a larger dark bottle of Fletcher’s Castoria. His dark secret was never discovered.

Also in the vial was a pass signed by General Robert E. Lee himself. When Paisley was back safely behind the Southern lines, this assured him rapid transportation to his employers in Richmond. After receiving his payment he drank more potable alcoholic beverages, until poverty, or military necessity, sent him forth once again.

When the newspapers printed the reports of the Trent affair and the ultimatum from Britain, he saw the opportunity to widen the scope of his activities. He knew the English very well, and also knew how to prize money from their grasp. Making his way to Washington City he easily found the residence of Lord Lyons, the British representative in the American capital. At an appropriate moment, when he knew that his lordship was at home, he managed to talk his way into his presence. Lyons appreciated the fact that if war did come, then a spy like MacDougal would be most useful to have. That was the name the Scotsman had given him, on the chance that police warrants were still extant.

War, happily for Paisley, did come, and he effortlessly changed sides and masters. It was in this new service that he found himself on the waterfront in Philadelphia, renewing an old acquaintance.

Horst Kretschmann, like his Scottish employer, felt no love for his adopted land. He was the proprietor of a very seedy drinking establishment, close to the Philadelphia Navy Yard. Here he brewed his own beer, which was very strong as well as being quite revolting. Since it was very cheap his customers did not complain. But they did talk to each other as they grew quickly drunk on his repulsive brew. Horst paid close attention to what they said, each night transcribing what he had learned in his scuffed, leather-bound diary. His notes entered in tiny, spidery writing in his native Bavarian dialect. Now, with the Civil War at an end, he had assumed he would never meet his paymaster again. Therefore he was quite pleased to see the Schotte appear one morning when he was swabbing out the drinking house floor.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, what with the war over.”

Paisley did not answer until the door was closed and bolted behind them.

“We’re still at war, aren’t we?”

“Are we?” He brought out a bottle of Schnaps and put it on the table; neither of them would drink the repugnant beer. “Didn’t we send the British away with their tails between their legs?”

“I guess so — but they’re a tenacious breed. And pay well for news.”

“That is very good to hear. Prosit.”

Horst smacked his lips and refilled their glasses.

Paisley drained his and belched loudly: the German nodded approval.

“Any talk among the sailors?” Paisley asked.

“Not much. Not many ship movements since the end of the war. But they complain, sailors always complain. It’s about the coal dust now, aboard the Dictator. Got her bunkers full and still more bags in the companionways.” Paisley was interested.

“A long journey then. Any idea where?”

“None of them seemed to know. But there are three coaling ships now loading at the docks. The Schwarzen who load, they drink in here.”

“Do they know anything?”

“Yes — but it is hard to understand them. Still one did mention South America.”

Paisley nodded as he took a roll of greasy dollar bills from his pocket. With this, and the troop movements he had already recorded, he had enough for a report. Just in time since the Primevère sailed in two days for Belgium. It would take him that long to transcribe the clumsy substitution code using the Bible.

For Patrick Joseph Condon this was a homecoming he had not expected. He had fled Dublin in 1848, with the Royal Irish Constabulary and the soldiers right behind him. The uprising planned by the Young Islanders had failed. O’Brian, as well as Meagher and McManus, had been seized and sentenced to transportation for life to Tasmania. But Condon had been warned in time, had fled through a back window with nothing but the clothes on his back. A good deal had happened to him since then. Now he was a captain in the United States Army and on a very different mission indeed.

Dublin had not changed. Walking into the city from Kingstown was a travel back through time. Through the hovels of Irishtown and past Trinity College. He had studied there, but had left to join the uprising. He looked through the railings as they passed along Nassau Street; it was just as he remembered. They crossed Ha’penny Bridge, paying the toll, then walked down the quays along the Liffy. Memories.

But this was all very new for James Gallagher, who was walking beside him. Brought up in a small village in Galway, he had memories only of hunger, and the cold winds of winter blowing in from the Atlantic. He had been fifteen years old when they had emigrated to America, with tickets sent by his brother in Boston. Now, just turned twenty, he was a private in the American army and not quite sure exactly what he was doing back here in Ireland. All he knew was that every man in the Irish Brigade had been asked to write down where he came from in Ireland. There had been a score of them from Galway and, for some reason unknown to him, he had been selected. Although there were many who were brighter than him, bolder even, and eager to see Ireland again, who might have been selected. But he was the only one who had an uncle who worked as an engine driver. He was unhappy about this selection, and frightened, trying not to shiver whenever they passed a man in uniform.

“Are we getting close, sir? Jayzus but it’s a divil of a way…”