The river was narrowing and the little ship stayed in the channel in the center, letting the incoming tide carry them upstream.
“I think that dock we passed back there appears to be the final one,” Sherman said.
“I am sure of it. Any vessel with a draft deeper than ours would be grounding itself about now.”
“Good. I think that we have seen enough — and I don’t want to place our faithful vessel in any more danger. We can go back if you wish to.”
“Wish to! I yearn to.” The Count shouted orders up to the bridge and the bow began to swing about. Despite having to breast the incoming tide, they went downriver at a steady pace. They were making good progress when Sherman and the Count went below. As they shook themselves out of their oilskins, the Count called out to the steward, who, moments later, came in with glasses and a bottle of cognac on a tray. The Count poured, then handed one brimming glass to the general.
“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 speaking, 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.
“No. We keep going. They might send boats after us. They could also contact the shore, have the army come trap us. And this is a trap.” The Count looked up at the sky, then at his watch. “It won’t be dark for hours yet. Damn these long summer nights.” He hammered his fist angrily on the rail. “We must do something, not just stand and shiver like a rabbit in a snare.” He looked down at the muddy river water, then at his watch again. “We’ll wait until the tide turns, no longer than that. It won’t be too long now. Then we will act.”
“What can we do?”
The Count smiled widely, almost baring his teeth. “Why then, my dear general, we head downstream at top speed. That, and the outgoing tide, will mean that we will be exposed to their gunfire for the smallest amount of time. Hopefully we can get by the enemy ship and show her our tail. After that we must trust only to chance and, hopefully, we will have an inordinate amount of luck! If you are a religious man, you might pray for divine intercession. God knows we could use it.”
The Aurora continued slowly upriver until the Count became concerned about the Mersey’s depth; they dropped anchor.
By this time Fox and Wilson were on deck as well, ignoring the rain, and Sherman explained what was happening. Little was said — little could be said. They were safe for the moment. The Count went to the bow and stood, staring down at the river, looking at the debris floating by.
“It will be some time before the tide changes. Let us get out of the rain and into some dry clothes.”
In his cabin General Sherman pulled off his clothing and toweled himself dry. He dressed again, scarcely aware of what he was doing because he was deep in thought. This was a dangerous situation. When he rejoined the others in the main cabin, the Count was just doling out what appeared to be water tumblers of brandy. Sherman accepted one and sipped at it.
“I suppose that there is nothing we can do, other than wait for the tide to turn.”
“Nothing,” the Count said grimly, draining half of his glass. “If anyone, other than myself, could pass as an Englishman, I would put him ashore with all the maps and charts and have him take them to a neutral country. But there is no one — and I cannot bring myself to desert my ship.”
“Should we destroy the charts?” Sherman asked.
The Count shook his head. “I think not. If the ship goes down — they go down with her. And if we do succeed in escaping — why, they will make all of our trials worth the while.” He finished his glass and put it down; the strong spirits did not seem to affect him in any way.
“Is the game worth the candle?” Wilson asked, depressed.
“It is!” Fox said, most firmly. “When this information is brought home, it will be beyond price — that I can assure you. Modern warfare has come to depend on military intelligence. Modern armies don’t just move forward until they meet the enemy, then do battle. Such tactics went out with Napoleon. General Sherman will tell you. The telegraph brings swift information to the general in the field. Trains bring the munitions and materials for support. Without informed intelligence the warring army is blind.”