That night a closed carriage was sent for the American party. And, not by chance, it was surrounded by a troop of cavalry as it made its way across the Grande Place and past the Hôtel de Ville. They drew up before the Palais du Roi. The two generals exited first, walking close beside the President as they climbed the red-carpeted steps; Pierce followed behind. Once they were inside, Pierce hurried ahead of the rest of the American party as they entered the hall, whispered urgently to the majordomo who was to announce them. There was a moment of silence when Lincoln's name was called out; all eyes were upon him in the crowded hall. Then there was a quick flutter of clapping and then the buzz of conversation was resumed. A waiter with a tray of champagne glasses approached them as they entered the large reception room. All of the other brilliantly clad guests seemed to be holding a glass, so the Americans followed suit.
"Weak stuff," General Meagher muttered, draining his glass and trying to see if the waiter was about with another.
Lincoln smiled and just touched the glass to his lips as he looked around. "Now, see the large man in that group of officers over there; I do believe that is someone I have met before." He nodded in the direction of the imposing, red-faced man, dressed in an ornate pink uniform, who was pushing through the crowd toward them. Three other uniformed officers were close behind him. "I do believe that he is a Russian admiral with a name I have completely forgotten."
"You are president, we meet once in your Washington City," the admiral said, stopping before Lincoln as he seized his hand in his own immense paw. "I am Admiral Paul S. Makhimov, you remember. You people they sink plenty British ships, then they kill British soldiers... very good! These my staff."
The three accompanying officers clicked their heels and bowed as one. Lincoln smiled and managed to extricate his hand from the admiral's clasp.
"But that war is over, Admiral," he said. "Like the Russians, the Americans are now at peace with the world."
As the President spoke, one of the Russian officers came forward and extended his hand to Sherman, who had, perforce, to take it.
"You must be congratulated, General Sherman, on a brilliant and victorious campaign," he said in perfect English.
"Thank you—but I'm afraid that I didn't catch your name."
"Captain Alexander Igoreivich Korzhenevski," the officer said, releasing Sherman's hand and bowing yet again. While his head was lowered he spoke softly so that only General Sherman could hear him. "I must meet with you in private."
He straightened up and smiled, white teeth standing out against his black beard.
Sherman had no idea what this was about—though he dearly wanted to know. He thought quickly, then brushed his hand across his mustache, spoke quietly when his mouth was covered.
"I am in room one eighteen in the Hotel Grand Mercure. The door will be unlocked at eight tomorrow morning." There was nothing more that could be said and the Russian officer moved away. Sherman turned back to his party and did not see the captain again.
General Sherman sipped his champagne and thought about the curious encounter. What had caused him to respond so quickly to the unusual request? Perhaps it was the officer's command of English. But what could it all be about? Should he be armed when he unlocked the door? No, that was nonsense; after this day's events, it appeared that he still had assassination on his brain. It was obvious that the Russian officer wanted to communicate something, had some message that could not go through normal channels without others being aware of what was happening. If that was the case, he knew just the man to ask about it.
The reception and the presentations, the bowing and saluting, went on far into the night. Only after the Americans had been introduced to King Leopold could they even think about leaving. Happily, the meeting with the King was brief.
"Mr. President Lincoln, it is my great pleasure to meet you at last."
"It is mine as well, Your Majesty."
"And your health—it is good?" The King's eyes widened ever so slightly.
"Never better. It must be the salubrious air of your fine country. I feel as comfortable here as I would at home in my own parlor."
The King nodded vaguely at this. Then his attention was drawn elsewhere and he turned away.
Once they had been dismissed, the President rounded up his party. It was after midnight and they were all tired. Not so, apparently, the Belgian cavalry officer commanding the troopers who accompanied their carriage back to the hotel. Spurred on by his shouted commands, they surrounded the carriage, sabers drawn and ready, warily on guard. The streets were empty, echoing the clattering hoofbeats of the mounted guards; a strangely reassuring sound.
As soon as he had left the others at the hotel, General Sherman went and pounded on Gustavus Fox's door.
"Duty calls, Gus. You better wake up."
The door opened immediately. Gus was in his shirtsleeves; lamps illuminated a table strewn with papers. "Sleep is only for the wicked," he said. "Come in and tell me what brings you around at this hour."
"An international mystery—and it appears to be right down your line of work."
Gus listened to the description of the brief encounter in silence, nodding vigorously and enthusiastically when Sherman was done.
"You have given this officer the perfect response, General. Anything to do with the Russians is of vital interest to us right now—or at any time, for that matter. Ever since the Crimean War they have had no love for the British. They were invaded and fought very hard in their own defense. But it is not only Britain that they see as the enemy—it is almost every other country in Europe. In their own defense they have a superb spy network, and I must say that they make the most of it. I can now tell you that a few years ago they actually stole the plans for the most secret British rifled hundred-pound cannon. They actually had the American gunsmith Parrott make them a replica. Now we discover that an English-speaking officer on the Russian admiral's staff wants to meet with you in private. Admirable!"
"What should I do about it?"
"Unlock your door at eight in the morning—then see what happens. With your permission I will join you in this dawn adventure."
"I wouldn't have it any other way—since this is your kind of game and not mine."
"I shall be there at seven, which is only a few hours from now. Get some sleep."
"You as well. And when you come, why, see that you bring a large pot of coffee with you. This has been a long day—and I feel that it is going to be an even longer one tomorrow."
The knock on the door aroused Sherman. He was awake at once; his years of campaigning in the field had prepared him for action at any hour. He pulled on his trousers and opened the door. Gus stepped aside and waved the hotel servant past him—who pushed a wheeled table laden with coffee, hot rolls, butter, and preserves.
"We shall wait in comfort," Gus said.
"We shall indeed." Sherman nodded and smiled when he noticed that there were three cups on the table. When the waiter had bowed himself out, they saw to it that the door remained unlocked. Then they sat by the window and sipped their coffee while Brussels slowly came to life outside.
It was just a few minutes past eight when the hall door opened and closed quickly. A tall man in a dark suit entered, locking the door behind him before he turned to face the room. He nodded at General Sherman, then turned to face Gus.
"I am Count Alexander Igoreivich Korzhenevski. And you would be...?"
"Gustavus Fox, Assistant Secretary of the Navy."
"How wonderful—the very man I wanted to contact." He saw Gus's sudden frown and waved away his concern. "I assure you, I am alone in my knowledge of your existence and will never reveal that information to a soul. I have been associated with Russian naval intelligence for many years, and we have a certain friend in common. Commander Schulz."
Gus smiled at this and took the Count's hand. "A friend indeed." He turned to the puzzled Sherman. "It was Commander Schulz who brought us the plans of the British breech-loading cannon th
at I told you about." With a sudden thought he turned back to Korzhenevski. "You would not, by any chance, be associated with that affair?"
"Associated? My dear Mr. Fox—at the risk of appearing too forward, I must admit that I was the one who managed to purloin the plans in the first place. You must understand that in my youth I attended the Royal Naval College in Greenwich. Graduated from that admirable institution, having made many friends there down through the years, I am forced to admit that I am fairly well known throughout the British navy. So much so that old shipmates still refer to me as Count Iggy. Someone not too bright, but very rich and well known as an ever-flowing font of champagne."
"Well, Count Iggy," Sherman said. "I have only coffee to offer you now. Please do sit and have some. Then, perhaps, you will enlighten us as to the reason for this sub-rosa encounter."
"I will be most delighted, General. Delighted!"
The Count took the chair farthest from the window and nodded his thanks when Fox passed him a cup of coffee. He sipped a bit before he spoke.
"My greatest indulgence these days is my little boat, the Aurora. I suppose you would call her more of a yacht than a boat. A steam launch, since I never could master all of those ropes and lines and sails and things that most sailors are so fond of. It is really quite jolly to fool about in. Makes traveling here and there and everywhere most easy as well. People admire her lines, but rarely query her presence."
Sherman nodded. "That is most interesting, Count, but—"
"But why am I telling you this? You are wondering. I do have my reasons—first I must bore you with some of my family history. History tells us that the Korzhenevskis were glorious, but impoverished Polish nobility until my great-grandfather chose to join the navy of Peter the Great in 1709. He had served with great valor in the Swedish navy, but was more than happy to change sides when the Swedes were defeated by the Russians. He was still in the service when Peter expanded the Russian navy, and my reading of our family history reveals that his career was a most distinguished one. My great-grandfather, who was also very much a linguist, learned English and actually attended the British Royal Naval College in Greenwich. Very much the anglophile, he married into a family of the lesser nobility, who, impoverished as they were, considered him a great catch. Ever since then our family, in St. Petersburg, has been very English-orientated. I grew up speaking both languages and, like the eldest son of each generation, attended the Greenwich Naval College. So there you have it—you see before you an Englishman in all but name."
His smile vanished and his face darkened as he leaned forward and spoke in a barely audible voice. "But that is no more. When the British attacked my country, I felt betrayed, wronged. On the surface I still amuse and entertain my English friends, because that role suits me best. But deep inside me, you must understand, is the feeling that I loathe them—and would do anything to bring about their destruction. When they attacked your country—and you defeated them—my heart sang with happiness. May I now call you my friends—because we are joined in a common cause? And please believe me when I say that I will do anything to advance that cause."
Deep in thought, Gus rose and put his empty cup on the table, turned, and smiled warmly.
"That is a very generous offer, sir. Do you think you might consider a little ocean cruise?"
The Count's smile mirrored his. "I might very well indeed. I was thinking of tootling up the Thames to Greenwich. I have some classmates still stationed there. Might I invite you to join me? Aurora is getting a refit in Hamburg just now. I intend to join her in a week's time. I shall then sail her to Ostend. Please think about this, and when you make a decision, please leave a note for me at the desk sometime today, since I will be leaving at dawn tomorrow. A yes or a no will suffice. And I do hope that you will say yes. And in addition, you must excuse me, I do hate to be personal—but I must tell you that there are almost no redheads in Russia."
He rose and put down his cup, turning once again to Gus. "If I could bother you—to look down the hall. It is important that we not be seen together."
The hall was empty. With a cheery wave, the Count was gone and Gus locked the door behind him. Sherman poured himself some more coffee and shook his head.
"I'm a simple man of war, Gus, and all this kind of thing is beyond me. Would you kindly tell me what that was all about?"
"It was about military intelligence!" Gus was too excited to sit and paced the room as he spoke. "By revealing himself as an intimate of Schulz, he was letting us know that he has experience and training as—well, not to put it too fine—as a spy. He also believes that Britain and America may go to war again and has offered us assistance in preparing for that eventuality."
"So that's what all that strange talk was about. He wants you to join him in snooping around the British Isles?"
"Not me alone. Remember—it was you he contacted. He wants to give you an opportunity to see for yourself what the British defenses are like. If another war is forced upon us, we must be prepared for anything. An intimate knowledge of the coast defenses and major waterways of that country would be of incalculable aid in planning a campaign."
"I begin to see what you mean. But it sounds pretty desperate. I don't think that I would relish going to sea in the Count's ship. We would have to hide belowdecks during the daylight hours and emerge like owls after dark."
"That we will not! If we go, why, we are going to be Russian officers. Swilling champagne on deck and saying 'Da! Da!' Of course, you will have to dye your beard black. The Count was very firm about that. Do you think you can manage that—gospodin?"
Sherman rubbed his jaw in thought.
"So that's what the bit concerning red hair was about." He smiled. "Da," he said. "I think I can manage almost anything, if it means that I can take a look at the British defenses and wartime preparation."
With sudden enthusiasm Sherman jumped to his feet and slammed his fist down so hard on the table that the plates and saucers bounced.
"Let's do it!"
THE ULTIMATUM
The rain was streaming down the glass lobby doors. Barely visible through them were the horses, hitched to the carriage outside and standing with lowered heads in the downpour. Abraham Lincoln stood to one side of the lobby talking with Ambassador Pierce and General Sherman. Pierce was upset and very apologetic.
"That is all I know, Mr. President. A servant brought me a note from Mr. Fox, saying that he would be slightly delayed and we should not wait, but should go on without him."
"Well, if truth be known, I'm in no rush to go out in this rain. We'll give him a few minutes in the hope that the weather might ameliorate. I am sure that we still have plenty of time once we get to the assembly."
"Here he comes now," Sherman said, then turned and looked out at the waiting carriage; he turned his uniform coat collar up. "At least, considering the time of year, it will be a warm rain."
"Gentlemen, my apologies," Gus said, hurrying to join them. "I was delayed because I was getting a report from an agent. It seems that the British are coming after all. A goodly sized party was seen already entering the palace—and it was headed by Lord Palmerston!"
"Well, there is no end to surprises," said Lincoln, "as the man said when he first saw the elephant. I believe that we shall meet at last."
"For good or ill," Pierce said, mopping his sweating face with his kerchief.
"We'll know soon enough," Lincoln said. "Well now—shall we brave the elements and finally get to meet Lord Palmerston?"
The carriage was still accompanied by the Belgian cavalrymen, now looking damp and miserable, the elegant plumes on their helmets drooping and wet. King Leopold had taken it as a personal responsibility that the American President had been assaulted in his country. He was determined that there would be no reoccurrence. There had been unobtrusive guards in the hotel, most disguised as employees, and others now waited along the route that the carriage would take. The King believed that the honor of Belgium was at stake.
Once inside, the Americans were ushered to the great chamber where the conference would convene. Even on this dark day, light streamed in through the ceiling-high windows. Ornate gas lamps abolished any traces of gloom, illuminating the ornately painted ceiling where centaurs pranced around lightly clad, very large women.
But Abraham Lincoln had no eyes for any of this. Across the floor and opposite their table (with the neatly lettered sign ÉTATS-UNIS upon it) was that of GRANDE BETAGNE. One seated man stood out sharply from the dark-clothed delegation. His foot propped on a stool before him, his hands clasped around the head of his cane, he glowered out at the entire assembly.
"Lord Palmerston, I presume?" Lincoln said quietly.
Gus nodded. "None other. He looks to be in an angry mood."
"Considering the tenor of his communications with us, I believe he must live in a permanent state of bile."
The Belgian Foreign Minister, Baron Surlet de Chokier, rose and the murmur of voices died away as he addressed the assembly in French.
"He is just reading out a formal and general greeting to all the delegations assembled here," Fox said, leaning over to whisper to the President. "And it is his fond hope that prosperity for all countries will be the fruitful conclusion of these highly significant and most important negotiations."
Lincoln nodded. "You never cease to surprise me, Gus."
Fox smiled and gave a very Gallic shrug of his shoulders.
Stars & Stripes Triumphant Page 3
