“Did they mention our names?”
“They did, Sir, said they were after John Slidell and William Murray Mason. Didn’t mention me nor Macfarland. But the officer, he did talk some about you gentlemen’s assistants so they know that we’re aboard.”
Slidell did not like this. He rubbed at his big, red nose angrily, stomped the length of the cabin and back. “They just can’t do this, stop a British ship at sea, board her — this sort of behavior — it cannot be done.”
“Easy to say, John,” Mason said. “But as I live and breathe it sure looks like it has been done. Now we must think of the papers we are carrying, our warrants — the letters from Jefferson Davis. All the letters to the English and Scotch shipyards about the privateers they are building for us. Remember that we also have personal letters to the Queen and Louis Napoleon. They must not be taken!”
“Throw them overboard!” Slidell said.
“Too late for that — there is the good possibility that they would float, be seen. We need a better plan. And I have it.” The first fear was gone and Mason was his old and arrogant self again, brushing the back of his hand across his gray, bushy brows in a gesture long familiar to his fellow senators in Washington.
“John, you will stay here with your family and buy us time — a holding action.”
“Why?”
“Because I know what to do with the papers. Give yours to Eustin immediately. Macfarland, get to my cabin and get the lot. We will meet in the mail room. Go!”
They went. Mason paused before he followed them, waiting as Slidell threw papers onto the bed in a flurry of activity. “You must think of something, stall them somehow — you are a politician so that pontification, obfuscation and filibustering should come naturally. And lock this door behind me. I am well acquainted with the Mail Officer, and am aware of the fact that he is a retired Royal Navy commander. A real old salt. We have talked long over whiskey and cigars and I have heard many a nautical tale. And he dislikes the Yankees as much as we do. I am sure that he will aid us.”