"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?"
The President wiped the nib of his pen, then closed the inkwell. He had done enough paperwork for the day. He went down the hall and let himself into the Cabinet Room. The two men standing by the window turned to face him when he came in.
"Gentlemen, please seat yourselves."
"Thank you for seeing us," Meagher said.
"Is it Ireland again?"
"Unhappily it is, sir. I've had the most worrying report."
"As have I," Stanton said in equally gloomy tones. "Another vessel seized on the high seas. A cotton ship on her way to Germany with her cargo. She was taken to England, where her master and officers were released. But her unhappy crew was pressed into the British navy. The officers had to return by way of France, which is why we have just heard about the incident now."
"Then it is 1812 all over again?"
"It is indeed."
Would it be war again—for the same reason? Without realizing, the President sighed heavily and pressed his hand to his sore forehead.
"I have reports as well," Meagher said. "We know that the English have been rounding up and taking away people of Irish descent for some months now, but we had no idea what was happening to them. No one hears from them—it is as though they have vanished. But now a message has reached us and its authenticity has been vouched for. The authorities have set up camps, that they have; concentration camps they call them. Two men escaped from the camp near Birmingham and one of them made his way to Belfast. They say that not only men, but also women and children, are locked up in these vile places. The conditions in the camps are appalling. No one has been charged with any crime—they are just held against their will. This is more than a crime against individuals—it is a crime against a race!"
Lincoln listened in silence, staring out of the window at the growing darkness, felt the darkness growing in himself as well. "We must do something about this—though for the life of me I cannot think what. I must call a cabinet meeting. Tomorrow morning. Perhaps cooler and wiser heads will have some answers. I suppose a government protest is in order..."
Stanton shook his head. "They'll ignore it just the way they have ignored all the other ones." Then, the thoughts obviously linked, he asked, "Is there any word from General Sherman yet?"
"None. And how I wish that there were. During the past years of war I have come to depend upon him. This country owes him an immense debt. Without any doubt he is the man to rely on in a national emergency. I am concerned with his safety because I am sure he is involved with some desperate matter. I just wonder where he is now."
Across the ocean, on the shores of the country that so tried the President and his men, Sherman was staring through a spyglass at a peninsula jutting out from the rapidly approaching coast.
"It's called the Lizard," Count Korzhenevski said. "A strange name—and a very old one. No one knows why the peninsula is so named. But on the modern charts it does look like a lizard—which I doubt the people who named her could have known. Bit of a mystery. The very tip is called Land's End—which it indeed is. The most westernmost place in Britain. That is where Penzance is."
Sherman turned his telescope to focus on the town. "The Great Western Railway line terminates there."
"It does indeed."
"I would like to go ashore and visit the place. Or would that be too risky?"
"It would be a piece of cake, old boy, as Count Iggy might say. This will not be entering a military establishment, visiting the lion in its lair, so to speak. This is a quiet, sleepy little town. With a passable basin wher
e we can tie up among the other yachts. A stroll ashore would be very much in order, drink some warm British beer, that sort of thing. As long as I am the only one who speaks to the natives, there should be no danger."
"Then let us do it," Sherman said strongly.
The sun shone warmly on the slate roofs of Penzance. A steam ferry was just emerging from the harbor as they approached, bound for the Scilly Isles. Clad in yachting outfits, the Count and the three American officers were rowed ashore. Korzhenevski had been right: No attention was paid to their arrival. A fisherman, mending nets on the shore, looked up as they passed. He touched a worn knuckle to his forehead and went back to his work. It was a Sunday, and others in their best clothes strolled along the shore. It was a pleasant day's outing.
There, just ahead of them, was the bulk of the train station. Sherman looked around to be sure he could not be overheard, then spoke softly to the Count.
"Is there any reason we can't go in there?"
"None. I will make some inquiries in the booking office while you gentlemen stand and wait for me."
"And look around," Commander Wilson said, smiling. Since they had come ashore, he had been examining everything with a keen surveyor's eye.
They went up the few steps and entered the station. A train was just leaving, and like many others, they watched as the carriage doors were slammed shut and the guard blew his whistle. The stationmaster, proudly uniformed and sporting a gold watch chain across his waistcoat, waved his flag to the driver. Blasting out a burst of steam, the engine's whistle blew, and puffing out clouds of smoke, the train drew out of the station.
"Gentlemen," the Count said loudly, "I do believe there is a refreshment bar over there. It is a warm day and I think that we would all enjoy a glass of ale."
They sat around a table in silence as the glasses were brought to them. They drank slowly, eyes glancing about at the busy scene, finished their drinks, and proceeded at the same lazy pace back to the waiting boat.
"I must make some drawings," Wilson said as soon as they were back on board. "Just quick sketches while memory is still fresh."
"By all means," Korzhenevski said. "There will be ample time to put the papers back into the safe if any other vessels approach us. That was a most satisfactory visit, was it not, gentlemen?"
"It was indeed," Sherman said. "But I would like to see more."
"And what would that be?"
"A little train trip, Count. I would like you to accompany me on a visit to Plymouth."
Korzhenevski found his mouth gaping and closed it sharply. It was Fox who protested.
"General Sherman—are you being realistic? Plymouth is a large naval base, patrolled and well guarded. It would be folly to attempt to enter it."
"I am well aware of that—but I have no intention of going anywhere near the military. Let me show you what I have in mind. Count, if you would be so kind as to get the charts from your safe, I will be happy to explain my thoughts to you."
Sherman spread the charts and maps out on the table and the others leaned close. Even Wilson left his drawing to see what was happening. The general ran his finger along the Cornish coast, where he penciled in a line just inland.
"This is the route of the Great Western Railway, a masterpiece of construction built by the great engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunei. Before the railroad was constructed, there were no roads the length of this mountainous county. Which means that all communication had to be by sea. Not only did Brunei build a railroad through this difficult terrain, but he also constructed, here at Saltash, a great bridge spanning the river Tamar. Just six years ago—I recall reading about it with great interest at the time. It was held as a truism by many people that the river was too wide to bridge. By ordinary means of construction, it surely was. But this great engineer pioneered a completely new method of construction that replaced the ferry, and linked Cornwall by rail to the rest of Britain for the first time. And here, on the other side of the river, is the city of Plymouth. It is my plan to take the train to Plymouth and return on the next train back to Penzance. I have no intention of going anywhere near the naval station."
Fox looked at him shrewdly. "Does this trip have anything to do with the plans that you mentioned a few days ago?"
"Perhaps. Let us just say that I need much information about this country before I can think about finalizing my intentions. But I will need your aid, Count."
"You have it, surely you have it." He paced the cabin, deep in thought. "But we must make careful preparations if this rather—should I say adventurous?—plan can succeed. Your hair and beard will need re-dyeing if they are not to arouse suspicion. I will take a trip ashore in the morning to buy us suitable clothes, though God knows what gentlemen's attire I will find here. Then I must buy tickets—first-class tickets—and I assume you have looked closely at your Bradshaw and have worked out a schedule?"
"I have." Sherman took a slip of paper from his jacket pocket and passed it over. "These are the trains we will take. With proper preparations I feel that this trip will be a successful one."
"Well then!" the Count said, clapping his hands happily. "We must have some champagne and drink to a prosperous journey."
A SECRET REVEALED
General Ramsey, head of the United States Army Ordnance Department, had traveled down from Washington City to Newport News, Virginia, on the previous afternoon. He had enjoyed a good meal and a pipe in the bar afterward, then passed a pleasant night in the hotel. He was happy to be away from the endless labors of his position in the War Department for at least a few hours. Now, well relaxed, he was having a coffee in the station cafe when he saw a plump man pause at the entrance and look around. Ramsey stood so that the newcomer could see his uniform. The man hurried over.
"You are General Ramsey, sir? I received your message and I am most sorry to be tardy."
"Not at all, Mr. Davis." Ramsey took his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. "I have been informed that the train is running late, so we have plenty of time. Please join me. The coffee here is, if not wonderful, at least drinkable. You are, as I understand it, John Ericsson's works manager?"
"I have that pleasure."
"Then perhaps you can enlighten me about your employer's message. He simply asked that I appear here today with at least one general officer, an officer who has had field experience. That is why I contacted General Grant, who will be arriving on the next train. But I am most curious as to the meaning of this invitation. Could you enlighten me?"
Davis mopped his sweating forehead with a red bandanna. "I wish that I could, General. But none of us are permitted to speak a word about our work when we are outside of the foundry. I hope that you understand..."
Ramsey frowned, then reluctantly nodded his head. "I am afraid that I do. A great deal of my work is secret as well. Listen—is that a train whistle?"
"I believe that it is."
"Well then—let us meet General Grant on the platform."
Grant was the first person off the train. The conductor reached to help him, but he waved the man away. He went slowly, holding on to the exit rail with his left hand, his right arm in a black silk sling. Ramsey stepped forward to greet him.
"I hope I did the right thing by asking you to be here, Ulysses. I was assured that you were on the road to recovery."
"Very much so—and damn bored with all the sitting around. This little trip will do me worlds of good. If you want to know, your telegram was a gift from the gods. But did I detect an air of mystery in your request?"
"You did, General, you certainly did. But it is all a mystery to me as well. This is Garret Davis, Mr. Ericsson's works manager. He is also very secretive in the matter."
"I am most sorry, gentlemen," Davis said with a weak smile. "But I have specific orders. If you would please come this way—there is a carriage waiting."
It was a short drive from the station to Ericsson's shipyard. A high wall surrounded the yard itself and there was an armed soldier guarding the
gate. He recognized Davis, saluted the officers, then called out for the gate to be opened. They climbed down from the carriage in front of the main building. Davis moderated his pace to accommodate Grant as they entered the building.
Ericsson himself came out to greet them. "General Ramsey, we have met before. And it is my pleasure now to meet with the very famous General Grant."
"Excuse me if I don't shake hands, sir," said Grant, nodding at his immobilized right arm. "Now permit me to be blunt; I wish to know why we have been summoned here."
"It will be with great satisfaction that I tell you—indeed show you. If you will follow Mr. Davis." The Swedish engineer explained as they walked. "I assume that both you gentlemen are acquainted with the steam engine? Of course, you will have traveled on trains, been many times on steamships. So then you will know just how large steam engines must be. This immense size has worried me in the construction of the new ironclads. These new ships are far bigger than my first Monitor, which means that to supply steam to engines that rotate the gun turrets, I must run steam lines about the ship. The lines are very hot and dangerous and therefore require thick insulation. Not only that, but they can be easily broken, and they are unsatisfactory in general. But if I generate steam for each turret engine, I will have created a mechanical monstrosity, with engines and boilers throughout my ship. I am sure that you see my problem. No, I thought, there must be a better solution."
"Smaller, more self-contained engines to move the turrets?" Ramsey said.
"The very truth! I see that you are an engineer as well as a military man, General. That is indeed what I needed. Since an engine of this type does not exist, I, of necessity, had to invent one myself. This way, please."
Davis showed them into a large workshop that was well lit by an immense skylight. Ericsson pointed to the squat metal bulk of a black machine. It was about the size of a large steamer trunk.
"My Carnot engine," he said proudly. "I am sure that you gentlemen know the Carnot cycle. No? Pity. The world should understand this cycle because it is the explanation behind all the forces of energy and propulsion. An ideal cycle consists of four reversible changes in the physical condition of a substance, most useful in thermodynamic theory. We must start with specified values of the variable temperature, specific volume, and pressure the substance undergoes in succession—"
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