The President wiped the nib of his pen, then closed the inkwell. He had done enough paperwork for the day. He went down the hall and let himself into the Cabinet Room. The two men standing by the window turned to face him when he came in.

“Gentlemen, please seat yourselves.”

“Thank you for seeing us,” Meagher said.

“Is it Ireland again?”

“Unhappily it is, sir. I’ve had the most worrying report.”

“As have I,” Stanton said in equally gloomy tones. “Another vessel seized on the high seas. A cotton ship on her way to Germany with her cargo. She was taken to England, where her master and officers were released. But her unhappy crew was pressed into the British navy. The officers had to return by way of France, which is why we have just heard about the incident now.”

“Then it is 1812 all over again?”

“It is indeed.”

Would it be war again — for the same reason? Without realizing, the President sighed heavily and pressed his hand to his sore forehead.

“I have reports as well,” Meagher said. “We know that the English have been rounding up and taking away people of Irish descent for some months now, but we had no idea what was happening to them. No one hears from them — it is as though they have vanished. But now a message has reached us and its authenticity has been vouched for. The authorities have set up camps, that they have; concentration camps they call them. Two men escaped from the camp near Birmingham and one of them made his way to Belfast. They say that not only men, but also women and children, are locked up in these vile places. The conditions in the camps are appalling. No one has been charged with any crime — they are just held against their will. This is more than a crime against individuals — it is a crime against a race!”

Lincoln listened in silence, staring out of the window at the growing darkness, felt the darkness growing in himself as well. “We must do something about this — though for the life of me I cannot think what. I must call a cabinet meeting. Tomorrow morning. Perhaps cooler and wiser heads will have some answers. I suppose a government protest is in order…”

Stanton shook his head. “They’ll ignore it just the way they have ignored all the other ones.” Then, the thoughts obviously linked, he asked, “Is there any word from General Sherman yet?”

“None. And how I wish that there were. During the past years of war I have come to depend upon him. This country owes him an immense debt. Without any doubt he is the man to rely on in a national emergency. I am concerned with his safety because I am sure he is involved with some desperate matter. I just wonder where he is now.”

Across the ocean, on the shores of the country that so tried the President and his men, Sherman was staring through a spyglass at a peninsula jutting out from the rapidly approaching coast.

“It’s called the Lizard,” Count Korzhenevski said. “A strange name — and a very old one. No one knows why the peninsula is so named. But on the modern charts it does look like a lizard — which I doubt the people who named her could have known. Bit of a mystery. The very tip is called Land’s End — which it indeed is. The most westernmost place in Britain. That is where Penzance is.”

Sherman turned his telescope to focus on the town. “The Great Western Railway line terminates there.”

“It does indeed.”

“I would like to go ashore and visit the place. Or would that be too risky?”

“It would be a piece of cake, old boy, as Count Iggy might say. This will not be entering a military establishment, visiting the lion in its lair, so to speak. This is a quiet, sleepy little town. With a passable basin where we can tie up among the other yachts. A stroll ashore would be very much in order, drink some warm British beer, that sort of thing. As long as I am the only one who speaks to the natives, there should be no danger.”

“Then let us do it,” Sherman said strongly.

The sun shone warmly on the slate roofs of Penzance. A steam ferry was just emerging from the harbor as they approached, bound for the Scilly Isles. Clad in yachting outfits, the Count and the three American officers were rowed ashore. Korzhenevski had been right: No attention was paid to their arrival. A fisherman, mending nets on the shore, looked up as they passed. He touched a worn knuckle to his forehead and went back to his work. It was a Sunday, and others in their best clothes strolled along the shore. It was a pleasant day’s outing.

There, just ahead of them, was the bulk of the train station. Sherman looked around to be sure he could not be overheard, then spoke softly to the Count.

“Is there any reason we can’t go in there?”

“None. I will make some inquiries in the booking office while you gentlemen stand and wait for me.”

“And look around,” Commander Wilson said, smiling. Since they had come ashore, he had been examining everything with a keen surveyor’s eye.

They went up the few steps and entered the station. A train was just leaving, and like many others, they watched as the carriage doors were slammed shut and the guard blew his whistle. The stationmaster, proudly uniformed and sporting a gold watch chain across his waistcoat, waved his flag to the driver. Blasting out a burst of steam, the engine’s whistle blew, and puffing out clouds of smoke, the train drew out of the station.

“Gentlemen,” the Count said loudly, “I do believe there is a refreshment bar over there. It is a warm day and I think that we would all enjoy a glass of ale.”

They sat around a table in silence as the glasses were brought to them. They drank slowly, eyes glancing about at the busy scene, finished their drinks, and proceeded at the same lazy pace back to the waiting boat.

“I must make some drawings,” Wilson said as soon as they were back on board. “Just quick sketches while memory is still fresh.”

“By all means,” Korzhenevski said. “There will be ample time to put the papers back into the safe if any other vessels approach us. That was a most satisfactory visit, was it not, gentlemen?”

“It was indeed,” Sherman said. “But I would like to see more.”

“And what would that be?”

“A little train trip, Count. I would like you to accompany me on a visit to Plymouth.”

Korzhenevski found his mouth gaping and closed it sharply. It was Fox who protested.

“General Sherman — are you being realistic? Plymouth is a large naval base, patrolled and well guarded. It would be folly to attempt to enter it.”

“I am well aware of that — but I have no intention of going anywhere near the military. Let me show you what I have in mind. Count, if you would be so kind as to get the charts from your safe, I will be happy to explain my thoughts to you.”

Sherman spread the charts and maps out on the table and the others leaned close. Even Wilson left his drawing to see what was happening. The general ran his finger along the Cornish coast, where he penciled in a line just inland.

“This is the route of the Great Western Railway, a masterpiece of construction built by the great engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunei. Before the railroad was constructed, there were no roads the length of this mountainous county. Which means that all communication had to be by sea. Not only did Brunei build a railroad through this difficult terrain, but he also constructed, here at Saltash, a great bridge spanning the river Tamar. Just six years ago — I recall reading about it with great interest at the time. It was held as a truism by many people that the river was too wide to bridge. By ordinary means of construction, it surely was. But this great engineer pioneered a completely new method of construction that replaced the ferry, and linked Cornwall by rail to the rest of Britain for the first time. And here, on the other side of the river, is the city of Plymouth. It is my plan to take the train to Plymouth and return on the next train back to Penzance. I have no intention of going anywhere near the naval station.”