Harry Harrison: Stars and Stripes In Peril

“I will go with them,” Miguel said. Don Ambrosio untied his wrapped bedroll from the horse.

“You will take good care of Rocinante while I am away,” he said.

“As always. Do you know when you will return?”

“Not yet. I will let Pablo know if I can, and he can get a message to you in your village.”

Pablo took the bedroll from him and led the way into the building.

Inside the well-lit kitchen Pablo opened a cabinet and took out a bottle, slammed it down and pushed forward the cut limes and the bowl of salt. Don Ambrosio nodded happily and reached for a glass. Put the salt on the web between thumb and index finger; licked the salt and then in a quick movement emptied the glass of mezcal. Bit the lime and sucked on it so that all three blended deliciously in the mouth. Derecho. The only way to drink the fiery maguey spirit.

Don Ambrosio smacked his lips with pleasure and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “That is wonderful. Now tell me, it is most important — is the ship here yet?”

“Not only here but it has been waiting for three days now. I have talked with them but they will not listen. They say that they cannot stay in port any longer. The captain says they must leave at dawn.”

Don Ambrosio sprang to his feet, unconsciously touching the book in his pocket to be sure it was safe. “Then I must go now.”

“Will you not eat before you go?”

“You are sure that they won’t leave before dawn?”

“The captain gave me his word on it.”

“Then I accept your kind invitation. All we had on the trail were some cold tortillas.”

“We will have carne asada. That will stick to your ribs. You know you can leave your horse with me if you want to.”

“You are kind to offer. But Miguel will take her with him back to his village. He has done it before. He is loyal and strong.”

Pablo nodded, drove the cork into the mezcal bottle and passed it over. “Take this as well. You will need its warmth where you are going.”

They ate quickly. When they had done they left, Pablo locking the door behind them, then leading the way down along the docks. To the grimy side-wheeler tied up at the very last berth. They said their quick goodbyes and Don Ambrosio climbed up the gangplank to the deserted deck. It seemed to be empty — then he saw the glow of a cigar in the shadow of the pilot house. The man in the uniform cap stepped forward and looked suspiciously at the newcomer.

“What are you doing on this ship? Speak up. Habla usted inglés?”

“Indeed I do, sir, indeed I do speak English. Now tell me, if you would be so kind, is it the noble captain of this fine vessel that I am speaking to?”

“Aye.”

“Then I am the man that you have been expecting.”

“Mr. O’Higgins?”

“None other. Thank you for waiting so long for me — but your wait is at end. If you have no other reasons to stay in this port, might I suggest that we cast off as soon as possible. I have with me information of the greatest importance.”

The captain was bellowing orders even before Don Ambrosio O’Higgins had finished speaking. Down in the engine room coal was shoveled liberally over the banked fires. A sailor jumped ashore and cast off the line, swung back onto the ship as she drifted away from her berth. As soon as steam was raised the big paddlewheels slowly turned, then faster and faster as they thrashed their way out of the harbor. As soon as they were out in the open sea, well clear of the land, the flag was raised on the stern.

The full moon cast a clear light on the stars and stripes, flapping proudly in the air that was rushing past.

It was just a short walk from the White House to the War Department, and Abraham Lincoln enjoyed the few minutes of respite from responsibility. There was a smell of spring in the air — along with the perpetual fetor of horse manure — during these few balmy days in Washington City, between the snows of winter and the humid heat of summer. He passed a dogwood tree just beginning to blossom and stopped to admire it. But could not really enjoy it because of the shadows of the responsibilities weighing him down, his many problems that obscured its beauty. He could not forget the problems in the South — as well as the fate of the former slaves. There were strong forces pitted against the attempts to integrate the Negroes into general society. And of course there were the British, always the British. They were still not reconciled to their defeat. American ships were being stopped at sea and boarded, bringing echoes of the War of 1812. And now there was apparently worse news. The brief message he had received from the War Department hinted at even more threats to the fragile peace, and strongly suggested that he come at once.

Lincoln sighed and went on. The two soldiers guarding the entrance to the War Department came to attention as he approached and smartly presented arms. This effective military display was spoiled slightly by the younger of the two men; obviously a new recruit.

“Fine mornin’, Mr. President.”

“It surely is, my boy, it surely is.”

A more superior military efficiency was displayed when he had climbed the stairs and approached the door of Room 313. The two veteran soldiers there, a corporal and a sergeant, came to attention but did not step aside.

“Just a minute, sir,” the sergeant said, then knocked on the door. It opened a crack and he spoke in a low voice to someone inside. Then the door opened wide and a major, he had never seen the man before, stepped forward and saluted him.

“Would you please come in, Mr. President.”

He did so, and found himself in a small bare room, containing just a desk and a chair. The major locked the outside door before he crossed the room and unlocked the other door on the far wall. This was Lincoln’s first visit to Room 313 and he found it most intriguing. He went through this last door and into the large room beyond. Gustavus Fox, in naval uniform, hurried forward, saluting as he came — then took the President’s outstretched hand.

“You have been mighty busy since I saw you last, Gus,” Lincoln said. “Time you told me about it.”

“Well past time, Mr. Lincoln. But things have kept us very occupied here since the war ended. We realized when we looked closely at what we were doing, without the pressure of war, that it was long past time to rationalize our operations. We were all new at the game and sort of made up the rules as we went along. This made for a lot of duplication of effort. I am still Assistant Secretary of the Navy, but that is my public persona. You, of course, know what my real work is. We have had to expand and add more people. Then the first thing we did was combine the SGSD and the BMI into a single operational unit—”

“Whoa there, young man. As I have said in the past take time and think well upon this subject. Nothing valuable can be lost by taking time. So take a moment, I beg you, to spell out all those letters to me.”

“Sorry, sir. You are right. We must take time to save time. The SGSD is of course the Scouts, Guides, Spies and Detectives. Their records were kept by the Provost Marshal General’s Office. They had the files of all the correspondence, records, accounts and related records of the military scouts, as well as the guides. In addition there were masses of reports from the spies and detectives. There was an awful lot of paper, let me tell you. When we started to sort things out we found that in many cases reports never reached us, or efforts were duplicated since there was no overall control. That is why we organized the BMI. The Bureau of Military Information. It is our aim to gather all of the intelligence-gathering services under this one roof. All reports, of any kind, will end up here in Room 313. These will be gathered into a single report every night — and a copy of this report will be on your desk every morning.”