Honor's Kingdom (4 page)

“Would it have to do with the watch, sir?”

That jarred him, it did. “How did you know that?”

“When the inspector spoke of the watch, you gave a bit of a start, sir.”

Mr. Adams twisted his mouth. “Am I as obvious as that?”

“It is only a matter of paying attention, see. I cannot explain the matter properly, but I have always had a knack for looking in the right direction, sir. Even when all other eyes are elsewhere.”

“Rather a useful skill, I expect. Yes. The watch. As I said, the letter was a ruse. Though a costly one, it appears. We had agreed that Mr. Campbell would always bear such a communication upon his person. To mislead, were he taken by Confederate
agents or their sympathizers. It had to be addressed to me, you see, because anyone troubling to apprehend a reverend gentleman striving among the poor would only do so with a certain foreknowledge. The letter had to appear the height of authenticity, in order to mislead. That . . . had a price.”

He looked about as if fearful of listening walls.

“The deception lay in the other contents of the letter, in the claim that nothing had been learned about any Confederate agents or their business here. The true message, Mr. Campbell’s actual communication as to what he had learned, was concealed in a false compartment in the cover of his watch. Written in code. Were anything untoward to befall him, I was to claim the watch as part of his personal effects. Now it would appear that we have lost both Mr. Campbell and his intelligence.”

I shook my head. Slowly. “Perhaps not, sir,” I told him. Twas my foolish pride swelled up again.

He lifted an eyebrow.

“Might you tell me about the watch, sir?” I asked him. “Can you describe it?”

“A rudimentary mechanism, covered in simple brass. For Presbyterian humility, and to avoid the attentions of thieves. But, inside the spring cover, there is a scene done in enamel. An Indian temple, or something of the sort, by a river. With a tiny bullock. When the screw fixing the lid to the body of the watch is removed, the enamel disk separates to reveal a compartment capable of holding a few tissues of paper.” He looked at me with the eyes of a hawk, or, perhaps, of an eagle. “Do you have reason to think you might recover it?”

“I will know one way or the other tomorrow. After I call on Inspector Wilkie and see to matters.”

Our Minister’s lips opened to shape a word and I knew he was about to ask me more about the prospect of retrieving the watch, but he swallowed the syllable he had begun to speak and only said, “You understand the inspector must remain in ignorance?”

“Yes, sir. I will attend to it.”

“And you see the sensitivity surrounding the watch and its contents? An artless letter might be disclaimed as a hoax, but Her Majesty’s Government would put a more serious construction upon a coded message. One containing the most sensitive information. My position . . . would become untenable.”

“It is all right if they suspect you of fussing about with confidential agents—”

“That’s what diplomats do, Major Jones.”

“—but not if they have proof?”

“Exactly. Suspicions are the very nourishment of diplomacy. But facts make for a poor digestion between governments.”

At that, our dinner arrived, with a knock and a flourish. Oh, the smell of a chop is a beautiful thing, lovely as Heaven on a Sunday. But I was to suffer a terrible disappointment. Although our meal was fit enough to be eaten, I had hoped for something handsome for my belly. Twelve days at sea on a Navy ship had meant my meals were plentiful, but not pleasurable. I would not be a sailor for all the world. And I had worked up an appetite since breakfast time.

Our meal had substance enough, but come short of savor. America had spoilt me, see. John Bull may keep the roast beef of Old England, and all the cutlets and chops that march behind. Once a fellow has become accustomed to the meat of America, he suffers when he sets his course abroad. My chop was drab and tough, though I consumed it.

After I had got a certain fullness in me, I asked Mr. Adams, “And what is it, sir, that the Rebels are doing in Britain? Buying ships to run the blockade, as I am told? And murdering now, are they?”

Mr. Adams had attacked his meal with a neat method and seemed perfectly content with its quality, though I will tell you: That meat wanted sabering. I have heard that the men of New England have a stoical bent and do not keep good kitchens on principle, but disdain common pleasures. Truth be told, I have even known Welshmen of such habit, who find a danger to the immortal soul in every innocent joy. But there is a great difference
between a mortal sin and a good sauce, that is what I believe, and I have got my Gospels almost by memory. Our Savior offered his disciples a Last Supper, not a final fast, for he pitied us our prisons of flesh and blood. Every time I read about that Supper, I wonder what was served with the bread and wine.

“Yes. Murdering,” Mr. Adams said. “Or so it would appear. But we must see through to what lies behind the murders. I believe it has to do with ships, well enough—but not only with the purchase of blockade runners. The South wants warships, Major Jones, and wants them badly.”

Warships. To wipe our Yankee commerce from the seas. The Rebels were desperate for them, of course. I had got that much from the Navy officers who delivered me to Albion. Twas all they could speak about, dreaming as unblooded officers will of heroic engagements and fame, of prizes and promotions, should the Rebels manage to build or buy a fleet. But no one thought the British would sell Richmond warships. Commercial vessels, that much might be tolerated, for business never was accused of conscience. But the sale of fighting ships was cause for war.

Indeed, I had seen the evidence of Confederate deviltry with my own eyes. As the ship bearing me steamed through an Atlantic fog, we chanced upon the burning hulk of a clipper still trailing the Stars and Stripes. Twas a ghost ship, for the crew had been taken off by the raiders, and the flames made a haunting sight upon the water. We did not catch the Rebels, though we spent a day hunting for them and their ship, with our gun crews ready to open the moment we glimpsed a shadow in the mists.

The Rebels had done that much, and more, with third-rate vessels. Even in the far Pacific, so our Navy men told me, Southron privateers attacked our whalers. With proper ships, they might destroy our trade.

“And that,” I said, “is why you asked young Mr. Adams to have the dispatches from Liverpool set aside. Because of the dockyards and such.” I thought back. “Something else there was, too, some business with a number . . .”

“Number 290,” Mr. Adams replied. “It’s a shameless affair, absolutely shameless. The Confederates have contracted, secretly, for a fast warship. One clearly meant to serve as a commerce raider, built for the purpose from the keel up. In clear contravention of the 7th Section of Her Majesty’s Foreign Enlistment Act, I might add.” Our Minister had paused over his victuals and seemed nigh onto a fury, though an icy one. “Captain Bulloch, Richmond’s purchasing agent, managed to keep the matter quiet for a suspiciously long time. British bankers abet him, I fear. None other than the firm of Messrs. Fraser, Trenholm and Company. And the shipyard owners lack the least glimmer of shame. A lesser vessel has already sailed for the Indies. But this Number 290 is meant to be a model ship of war. Built by the Laird yards—and old Laird means to stand for Parliament! The better to protect his business with Richmond!”

Still cased in arctic anger, Mr. Adams nodded to himself. “Our consul in Liverpool caught wind of it some weeks ago. Good man, avid as a terrier.” He set down the knife and fork that had been frozen in his hands. “I’ve lodged official protests and even taken the matter to the courts—this contracting’s not only against British law, but the Law of Nations, as well. Yet, many in Lord Palmerston’s government prefer to turn a blind eye. There is great sympathy for the South in these isles, Major Jones. Many a lord, and many a lesser man of property, would like nothing better than to see our Republic successfully repudiated by the slave states. The United States seem to them a threat to their own system of hierarchies and privilege, given the recurrent clamor for reform in this country. And, then, of course, their manufacturers want Southron cotton. The blockade has been a hardship to the mills of Manchester.”

Oh, yes. I knew that, too. For I had brushed against the business in, of all places, the snowy moors and vales of New York State.

Where the truth had been as hard to find as warmth, and English interests ventured down from Canada.

“Might the loss of the Reverend Mr. Campbell have to do with this ship, this Number 290, then?”

Mr. Adams nodded again, slightly and somberly, but it was not quite a confirmation. “I begin to fear it. Yet, I cannot make sense of the deed. The Confederates—Captain Bulloch and his henchmen—know that we already possess a detailed knowledge of the vessel. Length, 220 feet. Breadth, 32 feet. Tonnage, 1040. Engines, two horizontal, of 300 horse-power each. Et cetera.” He narrowed his lips to a pair of blades. “Our protests to the Foreign Office have been anything but secret, given the level of sympathy felt there for the Confederacy. Our approach to the courts has been public. Bulloch
knows
that we know. So, I simply cannot see the purpose of . . . of taking the life of a poor fellow like Campbell.”

He looked down at the table and into his thoughts. “Of course, the first man was killed before we had the least inkling about the new ship. As for the second man and Mr. Campbell—why kill them to protect a secret that’s already compromised? And risk perturbing Her Majesty’s Government? After all, sympathetic or not, I would not accuse this government of the least tolerance of murder. At least not on British soil.” Mr. Adams sat back, stymied by the hole down which his thoughts had fled. “I wonder if there isn’t something more?”

I weighed the matter, wishing I had a powerful mind and not just a steady one. But we must be content with the gifts we are given.

“The first two agents . . . where were their bodies found, sir?”

Our minister had slipped into musings of his own and his eyes gave the slightest of starts when I spoke. “It’s strange . . . the first man turned up in Scotland, floating in the River Clyde, right in the middle of Glasgow. Down in the Broomielaw, among the ships. I suspected he had learned of some smuggling effort—arms or other contraband. There are a good number of shipbuilders along the Clyde, as well, and shipping brokers by the hundredweight. I assumed Glasgow was the key and ordered another confidential agent to Scotland. But he never arrived. A hunting party discovered his body just south of York. Now Mr. Campbell’s earthly remains appear in London . . .”

“In a basket of eels,” I added.

“Yes.”

“Well,” I said, “you have confirmed this business in Liverpool, and publicly, so that is likely not the cause. There is true.”

“Birkenhead, specifically. But let us say Liverpool.”

“And if I were trying to hide a thing—a thing worth taking a human life over, or three lives—I would not want their bodies found near the thing I wished to conceal. Look you. Perhaps the first corpse was carried to Glasgow and deposited there, just as Mr. Campbell was carried here, to put us on a false scent? And Glasgow would fit, see, for then we would think of Scottish shipyards, not English. And here we might think of the London docks, hinted at by the basket of eels. Do you know if the first corpse was fresh, sir?”

“I’m afraid it’s not a thing I thought to ask. But . . . what of the second body, the one found in York? Why call our attention to York? It’s an inland city, without shipyards. Nor is there any industry that might supply the tools of war or other contraband to the Confederates. There’s nothing suspect about York.”

“Except that a body was found there.”

“You have a suspicion?”

I shook my head above my disappointing, but emptied, plate. “I cannot say. Not yet.” I was beginning to come to my senses, see. Remembering past errors made in haste and presumption. Hadn’t I embarrassed myself at the start of the Fowler affair, blaming good Mr. Cawber? No, I had crowed sufficiently for one day. In the morning, I would visit Inspector Wilkie. Then we would see.

“Major Jones,” Mr. Adams said, leaning close again, with troubled eyes, “my mission to Her Majesty’s Government has three purposes. First, to avoid a war between Her Majesty’s Government and our own. We barely did so last winter. Second, to dissuade Britain from diplomatic recognition of the Confederate States, with all the privileges and rights that would confer. That will come under discussion in Parliament in a matter of weeks, if I am not mistaken. And, finally, to prevent the British
Isles from becoming the arsenal of the Confederacy. For today, let us concentrate on the last matter. The United States compose a trading nation, a maritime power. No matter how many victories our forces may achieve upon the land, we will have no credit in the eyes of the world if we cannot protect our commerce and assert our mastery of the seas. At present, our blockade of the South is hardly more than a sieve, if we are to be honest—although somewhat improved by the capture of New Orleans. We rely upon the acceptance by other powers that our war is, indeed, a civil matter, and that the interference of foreign governments is unwarranted and potentially of great cost to them. Thus, we cannot allow the Confederates to build or buy a navy for themselves, or to outfit themselves with ships superior to our own. We
must
command the seas to command respect. It is a matter of vital, of inestimable importance.” He sat back a bit, a habit he seemed to have when summing up. “As a soldier, you will have to regard this . . . this curious sphere . . . as your battlefield now.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, all burdened by my thoughts.

“As to battlefields . . . may I ask your professional opinion, Major Jones, of the current operations before Richmond? Will General McClellan have the Rebel capital, or not?”

And, yes, I knew General McClellan, too, though I would not presume to say I knew him well. We only brushed past each other, in the course of a deadly business far from the sound of the guns. But I had judged him as a soldier will, and found him wanting.