Fleet orders were to have either an aeroplane or a kite balloon aloft as nearly continuously as possible. Balloons, of course, couldn't fly away from the U.S. ships the way aeroplanes could, but, floating four thousand feet above the fleet, could see a lot farther than lookouts on even the tallest observation masts.
The fellow up there had a telephone link to the Avenger. If he spotted any thing, he'd pass on the news and they'd haul him down as fast as they could. A kite balloon would stay up fine at cruising speed. You couldn't keep it up, though, if you needed to go flat out, the way you did when you had a battle to fight.
Carsten was glad to watch the sausage floating up there. It felt like a life insurance policy to him. If the Royal Navy or the Japanese spotted the Americans before the U.S. fleet saw them, that meant trouble, big trouble. You wanted to be in position to do what you intended to do, and do it first. What had happened at Pearl Harbor would have taught that to anyone foolish enough to doubt it.
Sam waved to the balloonist, as he had to the aeroplane pilot. Unlike the pilot, the balloonist didn't see him. That was all right. The balloonist had more important things to look for than one friendly sailor.
"And you know what?" Carsten muttered to himself. "I hope to God he doesn't see any of them."
George Enos peered out over the rail of the Mercy at the broad Atlantic all around. The Mercy flew not only the Confederate flag but also that of the Red Cross. It also had the Red Cross prominently displayed on white squares to port and starboard. Any submarine that got a good look at it would, with luck, sheer off.
With luck. Those were the key words. With luck, the Swamp Fox never would have spotted the Ripple in the first place, and Enos' ordeal in Confederate prison camps wouldn't have started. He hoped his luck was better now than it had been then.
There, in the east-not a star, but a plume of smoke. He turned to Fred Butcher and said, "That's the Spanish ship-I hope."
"Yeah, I hope so, too," the Ripple's mate answered. "If it's not a Spanish ship, then it belongs to… somebody else." In these waters, somebody else might be the USA or Germany or England or France or the Confederate States. Maybe whoever it was would let the Mercy go on its way anyhow- ships from other nations performed similar duties, and wanted to keep reciprocal good treatment-but maybe it wouldn't, too.
"They were saying, before we set out, that ships from Argentina don't go into the open waters of the North Atlantic any more," Enos said. "They scurry across to Dakar in Africa where the ocean's narrowest, and then hug the coast the rest of the way up to England."
" England would starve without that Argentine grain and beef," Butcher said. "I wish they would starve, but we can't get at those ships, not way the hell out there we can't."
Charlie White came over and stood with his crewmates. George leaned across Fred Butcher and slapped him on the shoulder. "Bet that smoke looks even better to you than it does to me," he said.
The Negro nodded. "I don't care if that's the neutral ship to take us home to the USA or a cruiser that's going to sink us," he said. "Either way, it's better off than
being a colored fellow down in the CSA."
He was a lot skinnier than he had been when they were captured. Somehow, his rations had never come out quite right-and the Confederates had worked him harder than any white detainee. All that was supposed to be against the rules, which didn't keep it from happening.
In a musing voice, White went on, "Isn't a whole lot of fun being a Negro in the USA, either. But now I know the difference between bad and worse, I tell you that for a fact."
"I believe it," Enos said. He peered across the ocean again. Now he could see a ship out there, not just smoke. It looked slow and boxy, not like a steam-powered shark. "That's a freighter-and I think that means it's the Spanish ship."
Closer and closer came the ship to the Mercy. Not only did it fly a huge Spanish flag, it also had Spain 's red-and-gold flag painted on its flanks, the same way the Mercy bore the Red Cross. It looked gaudy, but that was better than looking like a juicy target.
An officer in the dark gray of the Confederate Navy shouted, "Detainees, line up by the boats for exchange!"
Along with the other crewmen from the Ripple and several dozen more U.S. sailors captured by Confederate submersibles, commerce raiders, and warships, George Enos hurried to take his place by a lifeboat. The officer, who had a list on a clipboard, went down the line of men, checking off names. He had to ask George who he was, but needed to put no such question to Charlie White, who stood behind Enos. "All right, nigger," he said, drawing a thick, black line through White's name, "we're rid of you. Got rid of your great-granddaddy a while ago, and now we're rid of you. What do you think of that?"
"Sir," Charlie White said (even angry, he was polite), "since you ask, sir, I think that when my grandfather-that's who it was-ran away from Georgia, he knew what he was doing."
The Confederate officer stared at him. George Enos bit his lip. Half of him wanted to cheer Charlie; the other half feared the Negro's outspokenness would queer the exchange for everyone. The officer took a deep breath, as if to shout an order. But then, reluctantly, he shook his head. "If we weren't getting our own back for you, nigger, you'd pay plenty for that," he said, and wrote something next to the name through which he'd just lined. "And you'd better get down on your black knees and pray we don't ever catch you again, you understand me?"
"Oh, yes, sir," White answered. "I understand that real well." The officer gave him one last glare before continuing down the line.
"Good for you, Charlie," George whispered when the Rebel was out of earshot.
"Sometimes your mouth is smarter than your brains, that's all," the cook said.
At the officer's command, the detainees boarded the boats-all except for poor Lucas Phelps, who was buried down in North Carolina and would never see Boston again. God damn the Rebels, George thought, even as the sailors of the Mercy lowered them to the waters of the Atlantic.
Swinging down, ropes creaking as they ran through the pulley, Enos felt as if he were on a Ferris wheel. "One thing," he said as he and his fellow sailors started rowing toward the Spanish ship: "we all know how to handle a boat." A couple of men laughed; most just kept on rowing. A couple of Confederates sat, stolid and silent, at the stern: they would row back to the Mercy.
The Spanish ship-her name was Padre Junipero Serra — loomed up like a gaudily painted steel cliff. Her sailors had hung nets over the side, up which the detainees could scramble. A Spanish officer in a uniform fancy enough to have come out of a comic opera took the names of the sailors as they clambered up on deck and checked them off on a list he held on a clipboard exactly like the one his Confederate counterpart had used.
When everyone was accounted for, the Spaniard blew a whistle. A line of thin men in shabby clothes came up out of the hold and walked to the Junipero Serra's lifeboats. They look just like us, George thought, and then shook his head-why should that surprise him? Only the sailors' drawls-an accent he heartily hoped never to hear again-said they came from the CSA, not the USA.
Their names got checked off as meticulously as those of Enos and his comrades had aboard the Mercy. Once the Spanish officer satisfied himself that the count was full, complete, and accurate, the Confederate sailors boarded the boats and were lowered to the sea. A couple of Spaniards sat in each boat, as a couple of Confederates had sat in the boat Enos had helped row here.