“Shall we drink to a mission successfully accomplished?”
“A noble idea. Then we can change into some dry clothing.”
The deck door opened to admit a spray of rain, and the deck officer, Lieutenant Chikhachev, pushed in. He said something in rapid Russian and the Count cursed out loud and began to pull his oilskins on.
“There is a large ship ahead, coming upstream toward us,” he said.
“We’ve seen others,” Sherman said.
“But none like this. It has guns. It is a ship of war.”
Sherman dressed hurriedly and joined him on deck. The rain was ceasing and the ironclad could be clearly seen coming upstream toward Liverpool. The two-gun turret in the bow was pointed ominously in their direction.
The Count called out a command in Russian. “I ordered us closer to the shore,” he said, translating. “I want to give them as much room as possible.”
“I’m sure it is just a chance meeting,” Sherman said.
As he finished speakin
g, the gun turret slowly swung in their direction, and for the first time they could see the ship’s name clearly.
“Defender!” Sherman said. “Wasn’t that the name of the ship in Plymouth — the one that the officer in the train said he was stationed on?”
The Count had no time to answer him — but his shouted commands were answer enough. Clouds of smoke poured from the yacht’s funnel as the engine raced up to full speed. At the same time they heeled sharply as they came about in the tightest turn possible. Then their stern was to the battleship and they were at full steam back up the river.
“It was that damnable little swine, Archie Fowler,” Korzhenevski growled out angrily. “We should have killed him when we were alone with him on the train.”
“I am afraid I do not understand why.”
“In hindsight it is all too transparently clear. After leaving us, he returned to his ship — where he bragged about meeting me. You could tell that he is a great snob. Someone there was at the dinner in Greenwich — or had heard about it. Whatever it was, we know that the British have no love for the Russians and would certainly resent our snooping around their shores. Once their suspicions were aroused, the Aurora would certainly have been easy enough to follow, since we have made no secret of our presence in these waters—”
He broke off as one of the guns in the forward turret of the ironclad fired. An instant later a great tower of water sprang up off their starboard bow. Then the second gun fired and a shell hit the water to port.
“Bracketed!” Sherman called out. “I’m glad they have no third gun.”
The distance between the two ships grew larger, since the smaller vessel had reached its top speed more quickly. But Defender’s engines were soon turning over at their maximum, and while she did not gain on them, she did not fall farther astern.
“They’ve stopped firing,” Sherman said.
“They don’t have to shoot. There is no way we can escape them. We are in a bottle and they are the cork.”
“What can we do?”
“Very little for the moment other than stay ahead of them.” The Count looked up at the darkening sky and the driving rain. “The tide will turn in about an hour; that will be high water.”
“And then…”
“We will be in the hands of the gods,” the Count said with dark Russian fatalism.
They plowed upriver, with their black iron nemesis steaming up steadily behind them. Liverpool swam out of the rain to port and moved swiftly by. Then they passed the last dock and the river narrowed.
“They’re slowing, dropping back!” Sherman called out.
“They must — they can’t risk running aground. And they know well enough that they have us in a trap.”
HMS Defender surged to a stop in the river. They watched her grow smaller until a bend in the Mersey cut her off from sight.
“Do we stop, too?” Sherman asked.