“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.”
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.
L.D. Lewis swung down from the last car in the train and seated his bundle carefully on his shoulder. He was a tall man dressed in patched and repaired trousers, wearing as well a faded blue army jacket bereft of any insignia. It had belonged to a sergeant once: the darker blue, that had been concealed from the sun by the stripes, stood out from the faded fabric of the rest of the jacket. Lots of people wore pieces of surplus army uniforms; they were hard-wearing and cheap enough. L.D. did not make a point of mentioning that this was his own jacket, the very one that he had worn throughout the war. There was a mended tear on the left hip where a British bullet had gone through it during the fighting in the Hudson Valley. It matched perfectly the scar in his skin below. He had a wide-brimmed and battered hat that was pulled low over his eyes. Deep, black eyes. Just as black as his skin. He waited until the rest of the passengers, all white, had dispersed before he entered the station. A white ticket agent was talking with a white couple through his barred window. L.D. went on through the station and into the street. An ancient Negro was leisurely sweeping the sidewalk there.
“Morning,” L.D. said. The man stopped sweeping and looked at him quizzically.
“You ain’t from around here?”
/> L.D. smiled. “One word and you can tell all about me. Is that right, old timer?”
“You a Yankee?”
“I sure am.”
“Ain’t never met no black Yankee afore.” He smiled broadly; most of his teeth were missing. “As a fact — ain’t never met no Yankees before. Can I he’p you?”
“Surely. Can you tell me where the Freedmen’s Bureau is?”
The old man’s smile vanished, and he looked around before he spoke. “Jus’ carry on as you goin’. Two, three blocks then you turnin’ right.” He turned away perfunctorily and resumed his sweeping. L.D. thanked him, but his words elicited no response. This was not surprising; the older generation of Negroes in the South saw the Yankees as trouble and wanted nothing to do with them or their laws. He shrugged and walked on.
The Freedmen’s Bureau was at the side entrance of a rundown church, far down a dusty, unpaved street from the center of town. L.D. pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was dark after the glare of the street. Two Negro women were behind a table covered with cardboard boxes filled with papers. They glanced up at him; the younger one smiled, then turned back to her work. A man wearing a reverend’s white collar came in through the door in the back and nodded to him.
“Can I help you, son?”