“The right of force majeure,” the officer said disdainfully, waving toward the heavily armed warship. “I will now examine your ship’s papers.”
“You shall not!”
“What is your cargo?” The officer offhandedly loosened his sword in its scabbard as he spoke; this was not lost on the captain.
“Cotton,” he said. “American cotton on its way to Germany, and no concern of yours.”
“I beg to differ. If you were aware of w
orld affairs, you would know that due to unfair trading practices, Great Britain has banned the sale of American cotton to Germany and France. Your cargo is therefore declared contraband and will be seized and taken to a British port.”
“I must protest!”
“So noted. Now order your crew on deck. A prize crew will man this ship and take her into port.”
Captain Bulloch cursed impotently. He was no longer a happy man.
The fine weather petered out as one went north; the Midlands glistened under a steady, drumming rain; Scotland as well. But Thomas McGrath and Paddy McDermott walked out into the teeming Glasgow rain with immense feelings of relief. The train trip from Birmingham had been long, slow, and almost unbearably tense. McGrath, with his Cockney accent, had bought the two third-class tickets and they had boarded the train just as it was leaving. They had sat in silence all the way to Scotland, fearful that their Irish voices would arouse suspicion. The Irish were looked at with distrust in Great Britain these days.
“You say you’ve been here before, Paddy?” McGrath asked.
“Aye, for a year, after I came over from Belfast.”
“Many Irish here?”
“For sure. But not our kind.”
“Proddies?”
“To a man.”
“Could you pass as one?”
“Jayzus! Why would I want to do a thing like that?”
“Well, you sound like one, right enough.”
“To you mebbe. But as soon as they heard my name and where I lived, they would know right enough I’m a Taigh.”
“What if you gave them a different name, a different address?”
“Well — might work. But not for long.”
“It doesn’t have to be for long. We have to find an Irish bar near the fishing ships. They’ll be going out to sea, fishing the same grounds as the Irish do. We’ve got to find a way to use that contact, get you, or a message, across to the other side. Say something about a death in the family, a funeral you have to attend, anything. Offer them money.”
“And where would I get the brass? We’re that skint. Cosh someone mebbe?”
“If it comes to that, why not?” McGrath said grimly. “Word about the concentration camps has got to reach Ireland.”
Through the ceaseless rain the lights of a pub could be seen ahead, beside the Clyde. Heads down, they went toward it. Paddy glanced up at the signboard above the front entrance.
“McCutcheon’s,” he said. “I’ve been here. It’s about as Irish as you can get.”
“I hope so,” McGrath said, his voice betraying a native suspicion. “But let me talk until we are absolutely sure.”
His suspicion was well founded. They sipped silently at their pints and listened to the voices around them with growing concern. They drank quickly and left the dregs in the their glasses, went back into the rainy night.
“Not an Irishman among them,” Paddy said. “Scots to a man.”