“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.
Off to one side, watching the soldiers who were burdened by packs and rifles as they labored up the gangways into the ship, were General Meagher and his staff. He fought hard to keep his face as stern as the occasion demanded; this was a most important occasion with the brigade sailing off to war. If he let himself go he knew that he would be smiling like a loony. Because only he, of all those present, knew their final destination. Working with generals Sherman and Lee in planning the invasion had been trying and difficult — but satisfying in every way. Now the planning was all done, the secret orders written. But, oh how he wanted to see the looks on his men’s faces when he told them that Ireland was their destination. It took a definite effort not to break into a wide grin. That pleasure would have to wait until they were well out to sea.
All along the Atlantic seaboard the ships were getting up steam and setting sail. The slower ships were already on their way to their rendezvous off the Florida coast, having left the day before. From the Gulf ports, transports laden with Southern troops were also on their way. The largest single invasion force the world had ever seen was at sea, prepared to take the war to the enemy.
Further to the south, the fleet of ironclads had coaled for the last time in South America and had put to sea. Their course was southerly and out of sight of land. They stayed on this heading until midnight when their secret orders had been opened. The scene aboard the USS Avenger was being repeated on every ship. The captain, with his first mate at his elbow, carefully slit the envelope and took out the thin sheaf of papers and unfolded them. He read halfway down the first page and his jaw dropped.
“Well I’ll be damned. We’re not going round the Horn after all.”
“What then, Captain?”
“Why we are crossing the Atlantic to rendezvous with the rest of the invasion fleet.”
“Invasion where, sir?” the officer pleaded.
“We are going to invade Ireland — that’s where! We are going to get in there and land before the British even have a clue. God, but I would love to see their faces when they find out what we have done!”
“May I tell the crew?”
“By all means. No way that they can tell anyone else now.”
After a stunned silence there were shouts of joy and many a rebel yell.
The watch below was woken by the cries, reacted with fear.
“What’s happened?”
“Have we been hit?”
The door opened and a sailor poked his head in and shouted.
“It’s Ireland we’re invading, boys — Mexico was just a ruse! We’re going to hit the Brits right in their back yard!”
The ships heeled as their wheels were swung over, their wakes cutting curved arcs in the water as they turned towards the east.
But in Jackson, Mississippi, there was little thought of the distant war between other nations. Here were the victims of the generations-old race war that still divided this nation. The three men on the church porch were still dazed by the suddenness of events. They had carried the dead man off the road and stretched him out on the bare splintered boards of the porch.
“I don’t understand. How did this happen?” Reverend Lomax asked.
“They dragged me from ma’ bed,” Bradford said. “Gonna lynch me ’cause I wouldn’t chop cotton. Got a noose, den the shooting…”
“I heard them arrive,” L.D. Lewis said. “They weren’t keeping it quiet. Guess they wanted the whole countryside to know what they were doing. Putting the Negroes back where they belonged. Right at the bottom of the heap. If they were just shouting, maybe burning a cross, I wouldn’t have done anything. But they were going to hang this man right in front of the church. Then burn the church and the Freedmen’s Bureau down. When I shouted a warning they just started shooting. All I could do was fire back. Emptied my magazine. They must have thought from all those bullets flying by that there was a whole platoon in here. They hightailed out of here. It’s one thing to attack the helpless hiding behind a hood — another thing altogether to stand up to rifle fire. Now we’ve got to do something about this mess. You’re sure about who this nightrider is what got killed?”
“That’s him all right. That is Mr. Jefferson Davis. The one who was president of the Confederacy. Maybe we ought to take him into the church, not leave him lying out here.”
L.D. was not impressed as he picked the dead man up under the arms and dragged him inside. Then he went back to the street and found the white hood; lifted the corpse’s head and pulled it on. “That was the way we found him, that’s the way that it’s going to be. Now he is just one more of the dead, rightly enough. And so will we be if we don’t move fast. Is there a swamp, maybe a river close by?”