Craig recognized two Pinkerton agents at the train station; they ignored him just as he did them. They were on the lookout for the fugitive. If the man were still in the city he would not be leaving by train from this station. These agents would see him, recognize him — and take him.

But what if he was already gone? He might be in New York, but Craig felt sure that he wasn’t. Why take the extra time to go there if he was leaving the country, when the port of Baltimore was close to hand? The docks in Baltimore — that’s where Craig felt he should be. If the man they were seeking really was a foreign agent, why he would accomplish nothing by staying in the capital. If he had obtained the important information from the dead clerk, as seemed to be the case now, then he would surely be taking it, or sending it, to his employers. By ship. It was Baltimore then. Agent Craig boarded the train just as it was leaving.

His first stop when he reached the city’s docks was the harbormaster’s office. He took out his badge and called the clerk over.

“Never seen one of them before,” the man said, staring wide-eyed at his silver-plated badge.

“Take a good look and remember it. Then you’ll always know when you are talking to a Pinkerton agent. I want to show you something.”

He unfolded the drawing and laid it flat on the counter. “Have you seen this man?”

“Don’t reckon so. But I don’t get out of the office much. Along the docks, that’s where you got to look. What’s he done?”

“I just want to talk to him. Any ships sail today?”

“Nothing since midnight that I know of.” He flipped through a sheaf of papers. “Got two of them due to leave tonight. One, the City of Natchez, bound for New Orleans, but I think that she might be already gone.”

Craig thought of wiring ahead, have the ship searched when it arrived. Then changed his mind. It was more than a hunch — the fugitive would have to be going in the other direction with his priceless information. “What’s the other ship?” he asked.

The clerk ran his finger down the large ledger. “Yep, here she is. Due to sail out of here in a couple of hours. Spanish ship name of the Xavier Margais. Dock eighteen.”

“Going to Spain?”

“Guess so. By way of Rotterdam. Got a cargo for that port.”

Craig was turning away, rubbed his jaw and turned back. “Passenger ship?” he asked.

“No, just an old freighter. Came in under sail for engine repairs.”

“Any other ships leaving tonight?”

“Them is the only ones.”

“Thanks.”

It didn’t sound promising. But he wanted to check the waterfront in any case. Check the freighters and then the passenger ships. He strolled down towards the docks, noting that there was another agent at the main entrance gate. He stopped and leaned against the wall behind him, coughed and talked into his hand.

“Anything?”

“Nothing. But I only been here an hour. Relieved Eddie.”

“What time did he come on?”

“A little after noon.”

And the clerk was killed last night. With no guard on the docks the fugitive could very possibly be on one of the ships here.

“OK. I’m going to mosey around the docks.”

The Xavier Margais was not much to look at. She needed a repaint — maybe even a refit. There was more rust than paint on her funnel; her reefed sails were bound in clumsy bundles. Her gangplank was down. He stood there indecisively, then saw someone come on deck. Why not? It didn’t hurt to make inquiries. Craig stamped up the gangplank. The sailor heard him and turned to face him.

“I want to ask you some questions…”

“No hablo inglés.”

He was shifty-eyed and unshaven and Craig did not like him. “Get capitano,” he said authoritatively and the man darted away. There was the sound of raised voices and a minute later an officer wearing a filthy billed cap came on deck.

“What you want?” he snapped.

“To ask you a few questions…”

“The captain not here now. You come back.” He was just as unshaven and shifty-eyed as the sailor. Craig put on the pressure.

“Do you know what this is?” he said taking out his badge and holding it in front of his face. Yes, by God, he did flinch away!

“You gotta talk the captain—”

“But now I’m talking to you. How many passengers does this scow carry?”

“No passenger… not allowed.”

Nothing about the man smelled right. Why was he so upset over some simple questions? Now if they weren’t permitted to carry passengers — and they had one… Craig put his badge away, very slowly, and, never taking his eyes from the other man’s face, he took out the drawing and unfolded it, held it up.

“Have you seen this man?”

“No — no see!”

“Then why are you looking so frightened, my lad? Guilty secrets?”

Time for a little pressure. He pulled out the revolver and spoke in a low, tense voice.

“You’re not in trouble — yet. Take me to him.”

“I dunno, got nothin’ do wi’ me. Ask captain—”

Still looking the terrified sailor right in the eyes, Craig pulled back the hammer of the revolver which clicked loudly into place. The man started at the sound.

“Now, you take me to him” Craig whispered. “And not a word out of you. Just do as I say.”

The man was terrified, which Craig greatly appreciated. He looked around in desperation, saw no way out. Then he nodded quickly and pointed to the hatchway. Craig followed him below. There were doors on both sides of the corridor. The sailor pointed to one of them, then draw back as Craig knocked on the door.

“What is it?” The voice spoke from inside.

A voice with a guttural Scotch accent.

“Message for you, meestair from capitano,” Craig said — in what he hoped was a Spanish accent. Apparently it was good enough for the man inside. Footsteps came towards the door and the lock rattled. As soon as it opened an inch, Craig kicked it wide.

It was the man!

At the sight of the gun the suspect turned away — turned back an instant later with an open clasp knife.

Craig hated knives. He had once been cut badly arresting a suspect. He had sworn, when he got out of the hospital, that something like this would never happen to him again. Once was enough. It wasn’t going to happen a second time. He fired instantly.

A single shot through the man’s heart, surely killing him. He crumpled to the floor; Craig kicked the knife from his limp hand. Then prodded the man with his toe, but there was no movement. He smiled. At least this would make up for his earlier lapse of duty. He bent over the corpse, ran his hands swiftly over the body. Something bulky stuck in the back of his trousers. Craig rolled him over roughly, pulled out an oilskin-wrapped package.

“You,” he said over his shoulder. “Run to the office. Tell them to send the police.”

As the sailor’s footsteps receded he carefully unfolded the oilskins to reveal a crumpled envelope. With the blue imprint of the United States Navy on it. Without looking inside it he wrapped it back up again.

There would be no problems about the killing since he had surely fired in self-defense. And if this envelope was what the authorities wanted, why then he would be sitting pretty. He searched the man more thoroughly, and then searched the cabin, while he waited for the police to arrive.

At the opposite end of the Baltimore docks the men of the Irish Brigade were boarding ship. As the men of 69th Regiment climbed the gangways they were heckled by the men in butternut brown who lined the railings of the deck above. These were soldiers from the two Mississippi regiments who had boarded that morning.

“Mighty hot for you boys where you goin’.”

“You gonna shed those wool jackets like a snake sheds its skin!”

Rumors were thick on the ground about their planned destination. They were all very sure that they were on the way to Mexico.