“I say — who’s in command here?”

The gray-haired fisherman looked up from the rope he was securing.

“Aye.”

“I must cross to Scotland at once.”

“Go to Larne. I’m no ferry.”

“Larne is sealed off. I saw an enemy gunboat there.”

“Get away with you! And what enemy would that be?”

“The Americans.”

“Well — it’s not my business.” He reached up and took the fish box from the man on deck.

“Please do this. I will pay well.”

The captain dropped the box and looked up. “How much is well?”

“Fifty pounds.”

The fisherman rubbed his beard in thought. “Done. Can I unload my catch first?”

“No. There is no time. And you’ll be coming right back.”

The captain thought about this, then nodded. “Tie your horse up and get aboard.” He bent and untied the line. A squall came up and rain spattered on the deck as the sail filled and they headed out to sea.

More squalls were coming in from the west: they hid the coast from sight when they swept over the fishing boat. The sea was empty of ships and Otfried sincerely hoped that it would stay that way.

But his good luck did not last. The captain estimated that they had come halfway to Scotland when he pointed out to another squall coming down upon them.

“Did you see that — just before the rain come up. A large steamer coming our way.”

“No. Are you sure?”

The fisherman nodded. “In a moment you’ll see for yourself.”

What to do? How to escape capture? Otfried had a sudden inspiration. “Turn about,” he said. “Head back towards Ireland.”

“What?”

“Do as I say man — hurry.”

After a moment’s hesitation the wheel came over. Captain Otfried was suddenly conscious of his uniform.

“I’m going below. If the ship is American say that you are from Scotland — going to sell your fish in Ireland. Do it!”

The rain blew past and there was the warship — with the American flag flying from her mast. Otfried closed the door all the way. Strained to listen at the crack between the door and the frame.

“Heave to!” someone shouted and the fishing boat swung about into the wind and lay pitching in the waves. “What’s your destination?”

“Carrickfergus. Sell my fish there.”

And spoken with a thick North Irish accent! Could the Americans tell the difference between that and Scots? The silence lengthened — and then the voice called out again.

“Not today, Scotty. Just turn about and go back to Scotland.”

Otfried smothered his cry of happiness, pounded his fist into his palm. It had worked! A simple ruse — the Americans were sealing off Ireland from all communication with the outside world. He felt the boat go about again, waited below until he was sure it was safe.

“You can come on deck,” the captain called out. “They’re gone. And now is the time for you to tell me just what is happening with the Yanks and all.”

“We have been at war with the United States, still are, as I am sure you know. I do believe that the war has now widened and includes Ireland.”

“The divil you say! What would they want to be doin’ that for?”

“I’m afraid that I am not in their confidence. But I imagine that their aim would be to drive the British out.”

The captain looked up at the sail and made an adjustment on the wheel. Loyalist or Republican, he did not say. Otfried started to query him, then changed his mind. This was not his business. What he had to do was make sure that the warning did go out. He had to get to the telegraph. Whitehall must be informed of the invasion.

No one in Jackson, Mississippi, knew that a new war had started some thousands of miles away across the Atlantic Ocean. Even if they had known, the chances were that it would have taken second place to the dramatic events now unfolding in Jackson. Since soon after dawn the crowds had begun to gather outside of the jail. Silent for the most part, though there was the occasional jeer at the troops of the Texas Brigade who were lined up before the jail. The soldiers looked uncomfortable — but snapped to attention when the captain and the first sergeant came out of the building. They ignored the questions and the taunts from the crowd as they made their way to their temporary quarters in the hotel next door. The crowd grew restless.

Major Compton stopped the cab well clear of the crowd and paid off the driver. He did not know Jackson at all, so had taken the cab from the station. Now he rubbed at his chin, he had cut himself some when he had shaven himself on the train. He straightened his tie and brushed some soot from his tan jacket: he was not used to being out of uniform. But it would have taken some special kind of insanity to wear his blue jacket down here. He picked up his carpetbag and pushed through the crowd towards the hotel.

The lobby was crowded and noisy. A small boy with a bundle of newspapers was doing a smart business, with people climbing over each other to buy one. An army captain in field gray came in from the street and worked his way through the crowd to a hallway on the far side of the lobby. Compton went after him: it was much quieter in the hall. Two soldiers in butternut brown guarded a doorway labeled “Ballroom” at the far end of the hallway. They looked at him suspiciously when he approached.

“I am Major Compton. I am here to see General Bragg.”

One of the soldiers opened the door and called inside. A moment later a corporal came out.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“I am Major Compton of the United States Army. I am here to see General Bragg. He will have had a telegraph message about me.”

The corporal looked suspiciously at the jacket and tie. “There’s a chair over there, Major. If you’ll just sit a bit I’ll see what I can find out.”

Compton sat down and paced his bag on the floor. The guards stared into space. The crowd in the street outside were a distant roar, like waves breaking on a beach. After some minutes the corporal returned.

“You best come with me.”

General Bragg was not a happy man. He waved Compton to a chair as he shuffled through the papers on the desk before him, until he found the right one. Pulled it out and read from it.

“From the War Department… will make himself known to you… officer in the 29th Connecticut.” He dropped the sheet of paper and looked at Compton, cocking his head to one side.

“I thought that the 29th Connecticut was, well—”

“A Negro regiment?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“It is. The senior officers are all like me.”

“Well then, yes, I see. How can I be of help to you, Major?”

“Maybe I can be of help to you, General. You are not in an enviable position here…”

“You can damn well say that again, and twice on Sunday. We’re all good Texas boys in this brigade and we fought for the South. But folks here look at us like we’re lower than raccoon shit.”

“Understandable. They’re all upset.”

“Hell, we’re upset! After what happened to ol’ Jeff Davis. Went and got shot by a nigger…”

“While wearing a hood and participating in a lynching.”

“Yes, well, there is that. A man his age ought to have had more sense. But, anyway, you never say why you’re here.”

“I would like you to arrange it so I can see the prisoner in jail.”

“Nothing I can do about that. Have to see the judge, the sheriff about that. We just sent here to keep the peace, such as it is.”

“I will see the sheriff — but any decisions about the prisoner are really up to you. You are an army officer and this is a military matter. Sergeant Lewis is in the army—”

“The hell you say!”

“I do say — and you can telegraph the War Department if you don’t believe me. He was on detached service, working with the Freedmen’s Bureau. But he was in uniform when he was arrested and he is subject to military justice.”

The general’s jaw fell. “Am I right? Are you telling me that the army wants him?”