“I could not agree more,” Gus said. “Our American victories in the field and at sea have caused them great irritation. At times the outcome of battle has been a close-run thing. Many times it has only been our superiority in modern military machines and weapons that has carried the day. And we must not forget that up until the past conflict, they ruled the world’s oceans. That is no longer true. For centuries they also ruled in Ireland — and that is also no longer true. They bridle at this state of affairs and do not want to accept it.”
“That is why we are making this voyage of exploration,” Sherman said grimly. “War is hell and I know it. But I do not think those in authority in Britain are aware of it. They rule with a certain arrogance, since they are used to continual success. Remember, this is not a real democracy. The powers that are in control here rule from the top down. The ruling classes and the nobility still do not accept defeat by our upstart republic. We in America must work for peace — but we must also be prepared for war.”
“Just think about it, William,” Gus said in a quieter tone. “We do not hurt Great Britain by charting her defenses, for we have no plans for war. But we must be prepared for any exigency. That is why this trip to Greenwich was arranged. We have no interest in their naval academy — but it does lie just outside London on the river Thames. The route to the heart of England, Britain — the empire. An invasion route first used by the Romans two thousand years ago. I am not saying that we will ever mount an attack here — but we must know what is to be faced. As long as the British bulldog is quiet, we will sleep better in our beds. But — should it rouse up…” He left the sentence unfinished.
Wilson sat quiet, pondering what he had heard, then smiled and signaled for more champagne. “What you say makes strong logic. It is just that what we are doing is so unusual. As a sailor, I am used to a different kind of life, one consisting of discipline and danger…”
“You shall find that you will need a good deal of both if we are to finish this voyage successfully,” Sherman said.
“You are of course right, General. I shall put all doubts to one side and do my duty. For which I will need drawing and drafting materials.”
“If I know our friend the Count,” Fox said, “I am sure that he has laid in a stock for you. But you must not be seen making drawings.”
“I am fully aware of that. I must look and remember, then draw my plans from memory. I have done this before, when working as a surveyor, and foresee no problems.”
The warm June weather continued, even when they left the English Channel and entered the North Sea. Being small and fast, the Aurora managed to avoid being seen closely by any of the other ships plying these busy waters. The Americans sat on deck in their shirtsleeves, enjoying the sunshine as though on an ordinary holiday cruise, while Wilson honed his artistic skills making sketches of shipboard life and his fellow officers. The Count had indeed laid in an ample supply of drawing materials.
When they reached fifty-six degrees north latitude, Korzhenevski decided that they had sailed far enough in that direction and set a course due west for Scotland. The Russian flag was raised at the stern and the sailors scrubbed the decks and put a last polish on the brass while the officers enjoyed their luncheon. When they emerged on deck they were all dressed in full uniform and saluted one another smartly, clicking their heels with many a da, da.
It was midafternoon when they sighted the Scottish coast near Dundee. They altered course and coasted south easily while Korzhenevski looked at the shore through a brass telescope.
“Over there you will see the mouth of the Firth of Forth, with Edinburgh lying upstream. I have had many jolly times in that city with Scots friends, drinking far too much of their excellent whiskey.” He focused on a group of white sails scudding out of the Firth. “It looks like a race — how smashing!” He issued quick orders and the yacht moved closer to shore.
“Not a race at all,” he pronounced when the sailing ships were better seen. “Just cheery times in this salubrious weather — who is to blame them?”
As they slowly drew level and passed the smaller craft, there were friendly waves and an occasional distant cheer. Aurora answered with little toots of her whistle. One of the small sailing craft was now angled away from the others and heading out to sea in their direction. The Count focused his telescope on it, then lowered the scope and laughed aloud.
“By Jove, we are indeed in luck. She is crewed by an old shipmate from Greenwich, the Honorable Richard MacTavish.”
The Aurora slowed and stopped, rolling easily in the light seas. The little yacht came close, the man at the tiller waving enthusiastically; then he called out.
“When I saw your flag with the two-headed eagle I couldn’t believe it. It is you, isn’t it, Count Iggy?”
“In the flesh, my dear Scotty. Do come aboard and have a glass of bubbly — does wonders for the tummy!”
The boarding ladder was thrown over the side as a line from the little yacht was hauled aboard. A moment later MacTavish was scrambling over the rail and pounding the Count on the back.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Iggy. Where have you got to these last years?”
“Oh, just tootling about… you know.” Korzhenevski sounded a bit bored and a little simple. “I say — shouldn’t you bring your friends aboard as well?”
“Not friends, if truth be spoken,” MacTavish said. “Just some locals I let crew.”
“Well then, you must meet some fellow Russian officers who joined me for this little cruise.”
MacTavish took a glass of champagne as the three Americans clicked their heels and took a brace on the stern deck. The Count smiled and sipped his champagne as well.
“From left to right Lieutenant Chikhachev, Lieutenant Tyrtov, and Commander Makarov, the one with the dark beard. Unhappily, none of them speak English. Just give them a smile, that’s right. Look how happy they are.”
MacTavish got his hand pumped enthusiastically and there were plenty of das.
“As you see, not a word of English among them,” the Count drawled. “But still good chaps. You just say da back; well done! Let me top up your glass.”
MacTavish was working on his second glass of champagne when a head appeared at deck level. “I say, Dickie,” an angry voice called out, “this is a bit much.”
“On my way,” he called out, draining his glass. With many shouted farewells and protestations of eternal friendship, he climbed back down to the yacht. The Count waved after them and smiled as they darted back toward land.
“A good chap,” he said, “but not too bright. Last in the class, as I remember. Gentlemen, you did most excellently.”
“Da!” Wilson said, and they all laughed.
A puff of smoke rose from the stack as the engine started up again. Their course south along the coast toward England.
Beyond the coast that they were passing — and farther south, well inland, just two and a half miles from Birmingham city center — a tent city had sprung up in what, until recently, had been the green pastures around the noble house of Aston Hall. The camp covered an area of over ten acres of churned-up mud, still soaked from the recent rains, which was now drying slowly in the sun. Duckboards had been laid between the tents, but the mud oozing up between them rendered them almost useless. Women were moving about listlessly, some of them cooking in pots hung over the open fires, others hanging up clothes on lines stretched between the tents; children ran along the duckboards shouting to one another. There were very few men to be seen.