took a glass of champagne as the three Americans clicked their heels and took a brace on the stern deck. The Count smiled and sipped his champagne as well.
"From left to right Lieutenant Chikhachev, Lieutenant Tyrtov, and Commander Makarov, the one with the dark beard. Unhappily, none of them speak English. Just give them a smile, that's right. Look how happy they are."
MacTavish got his hand pumped enthusiastically and there were plenty of das.
"As you see, not a word of English among them," the Count drawled. "But still good chaps. You just say da back; well done! Let me top up your glass."
MacTavish was working on his second glass of champagne when a head appeared at deck level. "I say, Dickie," an angry voice called out, "this is a bit much."
"On my way," he called out, draining his glass. With many shouted farewells and protestations of eternal friendship, he climbed back down to the yacht. The Count waved after them and smiled as they darted back toward land.
"A good chap," he said, "but not too bright. Last in the class, as I remember. Gentlemen, you did most excellently."
"Da!" Wilson said, and they all laughed.
A puff of smoke rose from the stack as the engine started up again. Their course south along the coast toward England.
Beyond the coast that they were passing—and farther south, well inland, just two and a half miles from Birmingham city center—a tent city had sprung up in what, until recently, had been the green pastures around the noble house of Aston Hall. The camp covered an area of over ten acres of churned-up mud, still soaked from the recent rains, which was now drying slowly in the sun. Duckboards had been laid between the tents, but the mud oozing up between them rendered them almost useless. Women were moving about listlessly, some of them cooking in pots hung over the open fires, others hanging up clothes on lines stretched between the tents; children ran along the duckboards shouting to one another. There were very few men to be seen.
One of them was Thomas McGrath, who now sat on a box in the opened flap of a tent, puffing slowly on his pipe. He was a big man with immense arms and slightly graying hair. He had been a gaffer in a Birmingham tannery up until the time of his arrest. He looked around bitterly at the tents and the mud. Bad enough now—but what would it be like in the autumn when the rains came in earnest? Would they still be here then? No one had told him anything, even when they came to arrest him and seize his family. Orders, the soldiers had said. From whom—or for what reason—had never been explained. Except that they were Irish, like every other person in the concentration camp. That's what the camps were called. They were concentrating the Irish where they could be watched. He looked up at the sound of footsteps to see Patrick McDermott walking toward him.
"How you keeping, Tom?" he asked.
"The same, Paddy, the same," McGrath said. McDermott had worked with him in the tannery; a good man. The newcomer squatted down gingerly on the duckboards.
"I've got a bit of news for you," he said. "It seems that I was over there, standing by the main gate, when the ration wagons drove in just now. Two soldiers, a driver and a guard, in each of them, just like always. But they are wearing totally different uniforms from the guards that are stationed on the gates. Sure, I said to myself, and there must be a new regiment come to look after us."
"Now is that true, you say?" McGrath took the pipe from his mouth and knocked the dottle out on the side of the box and rose to his feet.
"With my own two eyes."
"Well then, there is no time like the present. Let's do it—just like we worked out. Are you ready?"
"Never readier."
"When they come you look to the driver. I'll be having a word with the wife first. She'll talk to your Rose later."
The horse-drawn carts came every day or two to distribute food. Potatoes for the most part, since the British believed that the Irish ate
"From left to right Lieutenant Chikhachev, Lieutenant Tyrtov, and Commander Makarov, the one with the dark beard. Unhappily, none of them speak English. Just give them a smile, that's right. Look how happy they are."
MacTavish got his hand pumped enthusiastically and there were plenty of das.
"As you see, not a word of English among them," the Count drawled. "But still good chaps. You just say da back; well done! Let me top up your glass."
MacTavish was working on his second glass of champagne when a head appeared at deck level. "I say, Dickie," an angry voice called out, "this is a bit much."
"On my way," he called out, draining his glass. With many shouted farewells and protestations of eternal friendship, he climbed back down to the yacht. The Count waved after them and smiled as they darted back toward land.
"A good chap," he said, "but not too bright. Last in the class, as I remember. Gentlemen, you did most excellently."
"Da!" Wilson said, and they all laughed.
A puff of smoke rose from the stack as the engine started up again. Their course south along the coast toward England.
Beyond the coast that they were passing—and farther south, well inland, just two and a half miles from Birmingham city center—a tent city had sprung up in what, until recently, had been the green pastures around the noble house of Aston Hall. The camp covered an area of over ten acres of churned-up mud, still soaked from the recent rains, which was now drying slowly in the sun. Duckboards had been laid between the tents, but the mud oozing up between them rendered them almost useless. Women were moving about listlessly, some of them cooking in pots hung over the open fires, others hanging up clothes on lines stretched between the tents; children ran along the duckboards shouting to one another. There were very few men to be seen.
One of them was Thomas McGrath, who now sat on a box in the opened flap of a tent, puffing slowly on his pipe. He was a big man with immense arms and slightly graying hair. He had been a gaffer in a Birmingham tannery up until the time of his arrest. He looked around bitterly at the tents and the mud. Bad enough now—but what would it be like in the autumn when the rains came in earnest? Would they still be here then? No one had told him anything, even when they came to arrest him and seize his family. Orders, the soldiers had said. From whom—or for what reason—had never been explained. Except that they were Irish, like every other person in the concentration camp. That's what the camps were called. They were concentrating the Irish where they could be watched. He looked up at the sound of footsteps to see Patrick McDermott walking toward him.
"How you keeping, Tom?" he asked.
"The same, Paddy, the same," McGrath said. McDermott had worked with him in the tannery; a good man. The newcomer squatted down gingerly on the duckboards.
"I've got a bit of news for you," he said. "It seems that I was over there, standing by the main gate, when the ration wagons drove in just now. Two soldiers, a driver and a guard, in each of them, just like always. But they are wearing totally different uniforms from the guards that are stationed on the gates. Sure, I said to myself, and there must be a new regiment come to look after us."
"Now is that true, you say?" McGrath took the pipe from his mouth and knocked the dottle out on the side of the box and rose to his feet.
"With my own two eyes."
"Well then, there is no time like the present. Let's do it—just like we worked out. Are you ready?"
"Never readier."
"When they come you look to the driver. I'll be having a word with the wife first. She'll talk to your Rose later."
The horse-drawn carts came every day or two to distribute food. Potatoes for the most part, since the British believed that the Irish ate
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