There was a decanter of port next to the charts and Somerville accepted a glass. The admiral tapped the chart.
“ Land’s End, that is where we will be two days from now. That is our rendezvous. Some of the cargo ships, the slower ones under sail, are already on the way there at the present time. We shall sail tomorrow after Intrepid arrives. I’ll transfer my flag to her because I want to see how she maneuvers at sea.”
Somerville studied the chart and nodded. “Does every ship know our destination?”
The admiral nodded. “They do. Each vessel has been issued with its own individual orders. Ships do get separated in bad weather. And these transports are all heavily laden with cannon so we are sure to have stragglers.” He pushed the chart aside and slid over another one. “We shall all rendezvous here, out of sight of land and away from the usual shipping lanes. And certainly away from the state of Florida. Sixty-six degrees west on latitude twenty-four north.”
“The various ships involved, they have known this destination — for how long?”
“At least the past three weeks.”
“That will be fine, very fine indeed.”
They both smiled at that, Admiral Napier even chuckling to himself. Captain Fosbery noticed this and wondered at its significance — then shrugged it off as one of the foibles of high command. He knew better than to ask them what appeared to be so funny.
“Another port, sir?” Fosbery asked, noting the army officer’s empty glass.
“Indeed. And a toast perhaps? Admiral?”
“I heartily agree. What shall we say — a safe voyage. And confusion to the enemy.”
This time the two officers did laugh out loud, then drained their glasses. Captain Fosbery reminded himself again that he was too lowly in rank to dare to ask them what the joke was.
It was a chill and rainy afternoon in England. Not so in Mexico, far across the width of the Atlantic Ocean. It was early morning there and already very hot. Rifleman Bikram Haidar of the 2nd Gurkha Rifles did not mind the heat too much. Nepal in the summer could be as hot as this — even hotter. And Bombay, where they had been stationed before they came here, was far worse. No, it wasn’t the tropical heat but the endless digging that was so bothersome. If he had wanted to stay at home and be a farmer, he could have spent his life digging in the fields like this, with a shovel and a hoe. But never for a second had he wanted to be a farmer. Since he had been a small boy he had always known that he would be a soldier like his father, and his father before him. He remembered how his grandfather would sit by the fire in the evening, smoking his pipe. Sitting with his back straight, just as erect as he had been fifty years before. And the stories that he told! Of strange countries and strange peoples. Battles fought and won. Tricks that had been played, good times that the regiment had enjoyed together. Wonderful! He never, not for a single instant, had even the tiniest doubt that he wanted to be a soldier of the Queen. He had no doubts now. He just did not like the digging.
He felt better when the jemadar called out to him and the others nearby.
“Leave the digging and get some of this undergrowth cut and out of the way. So the axe men can get at the trees.”
Bikram happily drew his kukri and trotted with the other Gurkhas, past the rows of laboring men. Behind them the dusty road curved around the side of the hill, crossed a ravine on a wooden bridge that the engineers were just completing. Ahead the growth had been cleared and soldiers of the Bombay Rifles were chopping down the trees that blocked the way. Beyond them was the jungle.
Bikram had started to hack at a trailing vine when they heard a distant rattle from their rear.
“Is that gunfire, jemadar?” he asked.
The jemadar grunted agreement; he had heard the sound of guns often enough in the past. He looked back down the road to the spot where their muskets were neatly stacked; quickly made up his mind.
“Get your guns—”
He never finished speaking as a ragged volley of shots sounded from the depths of the jungle before them. He fell, blood pouring from his torn throat. Bikram hurled himself to the ground, crawled forward beneath the shrubbery, his kukri extended. More shots tore the leaves over his head, followed by the sound of running men ahead of him. Then nothing. There was shouting from behind him. He lay still for a moment. Should he follow the attackers? One man armed only with his sharp blade. It did not seem to be a wise thing to do. But he was Gurkha and a fighting man. He was just starting after the ambushing gunmen when there were more shouted commands and the sound of a bugle.
Assembly. Reluctantly, still keeping low, he went back to his company — dodging aside to avoid the officer on his rearing horse. The horseman was followed by gasping soldiers of the Yorkshire Regiment, the 33rd Foot. At his command they halted and formed a line. Aiming their guns at the silent forest.
As they were doing this more firing sounded back down the road. The officer cursed loudly and fluently.
By the time the Gurkhas had returned to their guns and formed up, the firing had completely died away. The wounded and the dead were carried back to camp. Their losses were slight — but all work on the road had stopped for the good part of an hour. Ever so slowly it began again. Despite everything, the armed attackers, the heat, the snakes and insects, the road was being built.
Gustavus Fox had hints and rumors, but no hard evidence. Yes, the British were putting together a naval force of some kind. He had received reports from a number of his operatives in the British Isles. Something was happening — but no one seemed to know what. Until now. He spread the telegram out on the desk before him and read it for perhaps the hundredth time.
ARRIVED BALTIMORE BRINGING NEWSPAPER ROBIN
“Robin” was the code name of his most astute agent in the British Isles. An impoverished Irish count who had been to the right schools and sounded more English than the English. Nor was he ashamed to take money for working for the American cause. He was always reliable, his information always correct. And “newspaper” was the code word for a document. What document was worth his leaving England at this time?
“Someone to see you, sir.” Fox jumped to his feet.
“Show him in!”