“It’s a troop transport, Mr. Fox,” Anderton said. “The Argus.”

“Make another copy of the letter to the Argus and put it with the others,” Stanton ordered. “When are they to be delivered?”

“In three days’ time.”

Stanton and Fox looked at each other in stunned silence. Were the invasion plans to be betrayed even before they had begun?

Things moved a good deal faster after that. The newspaper artist, that Fox had used before, was sent for and he made a drawing of the mysterious Scotchman from Craig’s description. Copies were quickly printed and distributed to Pinkertons, the police, and other agencies. Fox’s own agents watched the train station, while others went to the Baltimore docks, as well as to all the other nearby ports where ships left for Europe. Fox himself reported to the Secretary of the Navy.

“This is terrible, tragic,” Gideon Welles said. “The orders must be recalled at once.”

“No,” Fox said. “It is too late to do that. And it is also too late to change the invasion plans. And even if we did, the enemy’s mere knowledge of the invasion could prevent us from ever going through with it again. The invasion must go ahead as planned. And we must use all our resources to find and stop this man.”

“And if you fail?”

Fox drew himself up and when he spoke his voice was most grim. “Then we must pray that the invasion is under way before the enemy discovers our ruse. Communication is difficult with Britain and there is little time left for this spy to report to his masters.”

“Pray, Mr. Fox? I am always uneasy when success or failure depends upon summoning the Almighty. You must find that man — and you must stop him. That is what you must do.”

The train was almost on time when it pulled into the station in Jackson, Mississippi. During the war the trains had been up to twelve hours late, plagued by lack of rolling stock and the desperate shape of the roadbed. Peace had changed all that. The newly built train works in Meridian was turning out passenger cars and boxcars to replace the ancient cars dilapidated by the war. More important, federal grants to the railroads in the South had provided needed employment for newly freed slaves. Work gangs had leveled and straightened the rails, smoothing the roadbed with new ballast. Train schedules had become more realistic, the ride almost comfortable.

L.D. Lewis swung down from the last car in the train and seated his bundle carefully on his shoulder. He was a tall man dressed in patched and repaired trousers, wearing as well a faded blue army jacket bereft of any insignia. It had belonged to a sergeant once: the darker blue, that had been concealed from the sun by the stripes, stood out from the faded fabric of the rest of the jacket. Lots of people wore pieces of surplus army uniforms; they were hard-wearing and cheap enough. L.D. did not make a point of mentioning that this was his own jacket, the very one that he had worn throughout the war. There was a mended tear on the left hip where a British bullet had gone through it during the fighting in the Hudson Valley. It matched perfectly the scar in his skin below. He had a wide-brimmed and battered hat that was pulled low over his eyes. Deep, black eyes. Just as black as his skin. He waited until the rest of the passengers, all white, had dispersed before he entered the station. A white ticket agent was talking with a white couple through his barred window. L.D. went on through the station and into the street. An ancient Negro was leisurely sweeping the sidewalk there.

“Morning,” L.D. said. The man stopped sweeping and looked at him quizzically.

“You ain’t from around here?”

L.D. smiled. “One word and you can tell all about me. Is that right, old timer?”

“You a Yankee?”

“I sure am.”

“Ain’t never met no black Yankee afore.” He smiled broadly; most of his teeth were missing. “As a fact — ain’t never met no Yankees before. Can I he’p you?”

“Surely. Can you tell me where the Freedmen’s Bureau is?”

The old man’s smile vanished, and he looked around before he spoke. “Jus’ carry on as you goin’. Two, three blocks then you turnin’ right.” He turned away perfunctorily and resumed his sweeping. L.D. thanked him, but his words elicited no response. This was not surprising; the older generation of Negroes in the South saw the Yankees as trouble and wanted nothing to do with them or their laws. He shrugged and walked on.

The Freedmen’s Bureau was at the side entrance of a rundown church, far down a dusty, unpaved street from the center of town. L.D. pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was dark after the glare of the street. Two Negro women were behind a table covered with cardboard boxes filled with papers. They glanced up at him; the younger one smiled, then turned back to her work. A man wearing a reverend’s white collar came in through the door in the back and nodded to him.

“Can I help you, son?”

“Sure can — if you’re the Reverend Lomax.”

“I am.”

“Did you get a letter saying I was coming? Name of L.D. Lewis.”

“We sure did. Mr. Lewis — I’m most glad to see you.” He smiled as he came forward and offered his hand. “Ladies, Mr. Lewis is from the Freedmen’s Bureau in Washington City.”

After the introductions had been made, L.D. put down his bundle and dropped into a chair.

“Can I offer you some refreshment?” Lomax asked.

“Just a glass of water, if you don’t mind.”

He chatted with the two women while the reverend was getting the water. Thanked him and half-drained the glass. “I meant to ask,” he said. “Did a box come for me?”

“Surely enough did. Thought it was for me at first, labeled ‘bibles.’ But it was addressed to you, and said not to open. Not too easy anyway seeing as how it was sealed with riveted leather straps. It’s in the back.”

“Might I see it?” L.D. rose and took up his bundle. Lomax led the way through the main room of the church beyond, and on into a small room at the back.

“Put it here for safe keeping,” he said.

L.D. pushed the long box with his toe, then took a bowie knife from his bundle and used it to cut the straps. Then he started to lever the crate open. “Can anyone hear us in here?”

“No. Just us and the ladies are here today.”

“The letter you wrote to the Freedmen’s Bureau ended up with me.”

Lomax frowned. Sat in a chair and cracked his knuckles abstractedly. “Then you know that we have had trouble here. Nightriders set fire to the church. Lucky I saw it and could put it out in time.”

“Any threats?”

“Some. Notes pushed under the door. Illiterate ones. Telling us to close up or we would get what was coming to us.”

“We’ve had some bureaus broken into. Two were burnt down. One man dead.”

“I saw that in the paper. Can you help us?”

“That’s what I’m here for, reverend.”

He turned again to the crate, levering off the boards that sealed it.

“Will the Bibles really help?” Lomax asked, looking at the red Bibles that apparently filled the crate.

“This kind of Bible will,” L.D. said as he took out the top row of books and pulled up a greased-paper wrapped bundle. He unwrapped the paper and took out the rifle inside. “This is a twenty-shot, breech-loading, Spencer rifle. I couldn’t very well carry it down here on my shoulder, so I sent it on ahead.” He removed a box of ammunition from the crate.

Lomax shook his head and frowned.

“I am a man of peace, Mr. Lewis, and abhor violence.”

“As do I, sir. But we must defend ourselves against these nightriders. They are cowards — but they are becoming bolder every day. And they are wonders at beating old folk, women and children. In South Carolina they actually whipped a woman who was one hundred and three years of age. We are simply defending ourselves against men who seek to return us to slavery. Doesn’t the Bible say something about an eye for an eye?”