"Pass the word for the captain."
The USS Avenger was stationed off the port of Coatzacoalcos for just this reason. To intercept any ships attempting to approach the enemy-occupied port. There was always the chance that this might be an American ship. But her sudden appearance at dawn, near the coast, made that highly improbable. Friendly ships would have come from the east in daylight. Whereas a British ship could have made a landfall to the south the night before, then slipped north along the coast to make this sudden appearance at dawn. This was not the first time that this had happened. The engine room had already raised steam and they were moving through the water when the captain made his appearance on deck.
They weren't the only ones who had seen the newcomer. The two British ironclads, the Conqueror and the Intrepid, stationed just outside the harbor, had also raised steam. The three ships were now all heading south on parallel courses. But not quite parallel.
"The nearer one," the watch officer said to Commander Goldsborough as he came on deck, "that will be Conqueror. Looks as though he is angling to forereach us."
"By all means let him try. I would dearly love to see him in our gun sights."
They had been weeks on this station without firing a shot. Every time Goldsborough approached the two British guard ships they would retreat until they were within range of the big guns ashore.
It was full daylight now and the approaching ship could be clearly seen. Clouds of smoke billowed behind her sails.
"Unarmored!" Goldsborough said with obvious relish. "One broadside—that's all I want."
The approaching British ironclad was aware of this danger as well, coming closer and closer, moving between the American ship and what surely must be one of their own vessels.
"He'll pay dearly for this," Goldsborough said fiercely, cut off from his prey. "Stand by the wheel. I want to change course the second that we fire."
The two turrets fired their immense seven-hundred-pound guns at almost the same instant. Seconds later the enemy ironclad fired as well. The Avenger heeled with the recoil of the guns, shivered with the resounding clanging as the British shells struck her armor.
"Hard starboard!" the captain shouted and the ship heeled again as it turned away from its opponent—who was turning as well. Both ships seemed unharmed by this exchange.
"Damnation!" Commander Goldsborough called out as the smoke was blown away. Their prey had slipped by, was past them, with the other ironclad shielding it from the enemy. Conqueror turned away from them as well and headed for port. Avenger turned in their wake but slowed when the first shells from the shore-mounted guns splashed into the ocean close to their bow.
"Well, one ship can't make much of a difference," Goldsborough said begrudgingly. "Take up station."
Aboard the newly arrived ship the major, wearing the uniform of the Household Guards, stamped impatiently up and down the deck as they slowly approached the shore. As soon as the boat was swung down from the davits in the stern he was waiting by the rope ladder. The sailors went ahead of him and were just raising their oars when he scrambled after them, almost falling into their midst.
"Put your backs into it," the coxswain ordered as the oars dipped into the smooth water of the bay.
Their approach had been seen and the officer of the day was waiting on shore, saluting as the major jumped from the bow onto the sand.
"Your commanding officer...?"
"Still asleep, sir."
"You had better wake him, then. Orders." He held up a canvas-wrapped bundle as they strode towards the buildings.
The officer looked at the canvas and could not restrain his curiosity. "Do you know...?"
"Of course I know," the major said. "The Americans are launching an attack on Salina Cruz, our port at the other end of the road—and their invasion force is already at sea. The orders are from the Commander-in-Chief himself. He wants one out of every three of the cannon here to be used to reinforce the defenses of Salina Cruz. Not only these, but one out of every three of the cannon defending the road are to be sent to reinforce the harbor defenses as well."
"Be a devil of a job."
"It will be. But we have no choice, do we? Now let us go and make your commanding officer's day."
Not for the first time did Giorgio Vessella rue the day when he had first met the Scotsman. A newspaperman, that's what he had said he was, and Giorgio had believed him at first. One of the many reporters who worked for Richard Harding Davis, scouring the country for information. They had talked about Giorgio's clerk's job in the War Department and the Scotchman had been suitably impressed. So impressed that he bought them both drinks, although Giorgio refused the harsh spirit, had a glass of wine instead. Then, better still, when Giorgio had repeated some harmless piece of office gossip his new friend had been very impressed and made a note of it. And had given him a silver dollar as well, almost forced it upon him saying that his information was very noteworthy.
That's how it had started. A few drinks, then a few dollars for unimportant rumors. It all went very well until the Scotchman had revealed his true colors.
"You wouldn't want me to go to your boss, would you? What would happen if I told him that you were selling government secrets? Lose your job and go to jail, you would. Instead of that you can earn a few more bob. Then you'll have nothing to worry about."
Nothing!—Giorgio had everything to worry about. And there was no turning back. Every time they met he was drawn deeper into the mire. Now he was in well over his head with this demand to see the secret orders. Luckily his work was so boringly repetitive that he could do it easily, no matter how disturbed he felt. He copied the letters, scarcely aware of what he was doing, so wrapped up in misery was he. This morning he looked up from his desk and was surprised to see that that he was alone in the room. It was late and all of the others had gone for their midday meal. He wiped his pen off and put it in the drawer, capped his ink bottle, then pulled on his jacket. On his way out he passed the door to the inner room that was always locked.
The key was in the door.
He looked over his shoulder; he really was alone. His heart was pounding in his chest. Should he do it? He had to do it. He sobbed aloud as he turned the key and opened the door.
The envelopes lay in rows upon the central table. He had a trained eye and counted them automatically. Over two hundred. Each with a ship's name on it, some of the very same ships that he had copied letters to. He was still alone...
He went forward, almost staggering, seized one from the center of the table, rearranged the gap so the missing envelope would not be noticed. Shoved it into his pocket and left the room. Locked the door. Turned away and saw Mr. Anderton coming into the room.
"Giorgio," he snapped, "what are you doing there?"
"Locking the door. You said it had to be always locked. I was going to lunch and saw it was unlocked." Then, in a burst of inspiration, he added. "Didn't want to get you in no trouble in case someone else saw it open and reported it. Here," he pushed the key into the other man's hand. "I gotta go."
He slipped by Anderton and left. Anderton looked after him, rubbing his jaw in thought. Had the little wop been in the room? He hadn't seen him go in there, had just seen him standing in front of the door when he had come in from the hall. But maybe he could have been inside. Any other clerk, why he wouldn't have suspected him of anything. But this guy, he wasn't even born in this country. Anderton checked: the door was locked. But if anyone found out that he had left the key in the lock he would be in deep trouble. Someone else might have seen the key there and reported it. When it came to that he really had no choice.
He pocketed the key and went out. On the ground floor, near the front door of the building, was a door with the legend PINKERTON on it. He knocked and went in. The man seated at the desk reading the newspaper raised his eyes.
"Mr. Craig," Anderton said, "Remember what you told us about keeping our eyes open on the job. Well..."
Giorgio had read the lett
er in the toilet. Had almost fainted with shock. He had taken out his rosary and thumbed through it as he realized the magnitude of what he had done. Could he take it back? The room would be locked. Then what could he do? He must report to the Scotchman. And then what? Slowly, ever so slowly, a plan began to take form. He finished his work for the day, scarcely aware of what he was doing. Still numb. So wrapped in his own terrible thoughts that he never noticed the man in the cap who followed him when he left the War Department for the day. Was never aware that the same man came into the bar after him, seating himself against the rear wall. Giorgio sipped from his glass of wine and knew just what he had to say to the Scotchman when he came in.
"I found out what you wanted to know, Mr. McLeod. It was important like I thought."
"You're a fine laddie. You'll earn your ten dollars, you will."
"No, sir. I want five hundred dollars." He shivered when he said it but did not look away.
"Now why should I pay that kind of money?"
"Because what I have are the real orders to the ships, to be opened only when the ships are all at sea. They are not going where everyone thinks they are. All the first orders are fakes."
"So tell me then—where are they going?"
"It will cost you the five hundred to find out." He straightened his back and stared the spy right in the eye.
This was big, Paisley realized. If the clerk was speaking the truth it would be worth the five hundred and more.
"All right, laddie." Paisley rose and patted him on the back. "But I dinna carry that kind of silver around with me. I'll be back in a half an hour. You wait here."
The man in the cap watched the newcomer stand up and leave. He waited fifteen minutes more, watched Giorgio order another glass of wine. Craig's stomach grumbled and he realized that it was past his dinner hour. He drained his beer glass and left. The Pinkerton Agency owned his daylight hours, but they couldn't expect him to miss his dining hour. No more than five minutes after he left Paisley returned. He looked around before he passed the envelope to Giorgio.
"Just be careful when you count it—there's plenty about who would knock you on the head for half of what you have there."
Giorgio bent over the money as he counted it: all in twenty-dollar bills, twenty-five of them. He put the money into his jacket pocket as he withdrew the naval order and passed it across the table. Paisley took out the sheet of paper and held it to the light. His eyes opened wide and he muttered an imprecation under his breath as he understood its import. He pocketed it and hurried out without a word.
The clerk watched him leave and felt an immense feeling of relief. It was over, all over at last. Everything was over. All over with his work, and with his job—and with this country. He had asked for this impossibly large sum because this was really the end for him and America. He could now pay his fare on the boat back to Italy—and have enough money left over to set himself up in business in Napoli. A public letter writer was a respected man to the illiterate workers of the south. And one who could write English as well—why he could certainly earn a good living. He might even think of getting married. It would be a relief. Since his parents had died he had no one to worry about. He would turn his back on his rented room with pleasure. Everything he owned would fit in one suitcase.
He would be free at last! Tonight, he would leave this very night. He would be long gone before they found out that a letter was missing. Take the night cars to New York City. Bury himself in Little Italy there, until the next ship left for Naples, that great immigrant port that would surely welcome another immigrant going in the opposite direction.
No more than a hundred feet from his rooming house was an alley, its darkness untouched by the distant street lamp. As he passed it there was the sudden rush of feet. Even as he started to turn he felt a terrible pain in his chest. He tried to scream but could only gasp. He fell into an even darker night.
Paisley pulled the body into the alleyway. Wiped the big clasp knife on the dead man's clothes, folded it and put it away. Groped through the dead man's jacket pockets until he found his envelope, clutched it and smiled into the darkness, then hurried away. Only stopping for a moment under the streetlight to check its contents. Grunted in satisfaction.
"This is too much silver for you, wee man. You would only have wasted it."
His footsteps died away and the street was silent again.
THE REFORMATION OF THE SOUTH
It was late afternoon before all the pieces fell into place for Gustavus Fox. The Pinkerton agent who was stationed in the War Department building had handed in a report about one of the clerks being noted in suspicious circumstances. This had eventually ended up on Fox's desk. The agent had followed the suspect to a drinking house where he met a third party. The report ended there. It was filed and almost forgotten until the early edition of the newspaper arrived. One of his filing clerks brought it to Fox's attention.
"One of the War Department clerks, a Giorgio Vessella, was found dead under suspicious circumstances. The suspicion being that he was murdered, since he died of a stab wound and no weapon was found."
"What was that name?" Fox asked, suddenly attentive. "And get me the last report from agent Craig."
They were the same. The clerk and the murder victim. The hurriedly summoned Craig amplified his report.
"Yes, sir. I followed him because one of the other clerks was suspicious about him. Like I said in the report, he met another man. Gray-haired, stocky build the stranger had."
"Have you ever seen him before?"
"Never, Mr. Fox, but I'll tell you something else about him. I walked by and heard them talking, then later I spoke with the barman. I was right—he had a thick Scotch accent."
So far there were just suspicions. Too many suspicions and he did not like it. A clerk in the copying section, handling vital documents of war. His blood ran cold at the thought of it. He went to the office where he asked for an emergency interview with Secretary of War Stanton. The wait was a short one; he still paced the floor like a caged animal until he was shown in.
"One of your copying clerks has been killed, murdered."
"This is terrible. Do they know who did it?"
"We have our suspicions. But I will need your help to find out more about it. I could go through the proper channels but that would take too much time. No one in the copying section knows who I am. And this investigation must be carried out at once. Would you mind going with me now so we can find out what is going on?"
"No, of course not."
Stanton's presence opened all of the locked doors and, eventually, took them to the heart of the copying section. They sent for the clerk, Anderton, who had made the original complaint. He was visibly upset.
"The Pinkerton agents. They came and talked to us once. Told us to keep our eyes open and let them know if we saw something suspicious. I told them about Giorgio—and now he's dead. Do you think he was killed because I went to the agent?"
"We have no way of knowing yet. But if you had your suspicions then you did the correct thing—whatever the outcome. Now, what did you observe?"
"It was the room where we copy only the absolute top secret orders. I came back from lunch and I saw Giorgio at the door and he had his hand on the key. He said that he saw that the door was unlocked and that he was just locking it for me. But, like I said—I was just coming in from the hall door. There is, well, a chance he might have been in the office and was on the way out of it when I saw him." Fox saw that Anderton was sweating and he did not like it.
"Who is responsible for keeping that door locked?"
"I am, but—"
"Could Giorgio have been telling the truth? Could the door have been left unlocked?"
"There is always that possibility," Anderton answered in a low voice.
"Then let us now go and see if anything is missing from that room."
"I'm not authorized..."
"But I am, young man," Stanton said sternly. "Open it up."
&nb
sp; Their suspicions were horribly justified when a careful count uncovered the fact that one of the envelopes containing the secret orders was indeed missing from the locked room. The count came out wrong. The names on all of the envelopes were compared to a master list until the stolen one was found.
"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.
Stars And Stripes In Peril Page 20
