“They can’t depress the guns low enough to hit us yet. They should have waited. Now they must reload.”
The Count was jubilant; Sherman cold as ever under fire. Smoke roiled up from Aurora’s stack as they tore down the river at top speed. The guns began to fire again, but their aim was wildly erratic with the opening distance and the ship turning at the same time.
There was a sudden tremendous explosion in the rear of the cabin deck, fire and smoke. Someone screamed over and over. Luck could take them just so far.
“I’ll take care of that,” Sherman said, moving swiftly toward the stairway.
The shell had hit the rear of the main cabin, tearing a great hole in the wall. One of the stewards was lying on the floor, soaked in blood, still screaming. Fox was bent over him with the tablecloth he had torn from the endboard, trying to bind up the man’s wounds. A crewman appeared with a bucket of water and threw it on the smoldering fire. Through the opening in the wall more explosions were visible in the river.
Then the shelling stopped.
The Count appeared, took in the scene with a single glance. “There has been no major damage to the hull. Poor Dimitri is our only casualty. And we are past a bend in the river. Defender will be after us soon, and it will then be a stern chase. I think that we are faster than her. Aurora was built for speed, while our pursuer was built for battle. It is for fate to decide now.”
Fox stood, shaking his head unhappily. “I’m afraid that he is dead.”
The Count crossed himself in the Russian Orthodox way. “A tragedy to die so far from Russia. He was a good man — and he died in a good cause.” He called out orders in Russian. “I’ll be on deck while this is cleaned up. Then we must wait. In the end we shall drink cognac to a successful voyage — or we will be prisoners of the British.”
“What are the odds?” Sherman asked.
“Very good — if we can outrun our pursuer. If we can do that, why, then it is straight across the sea to Ireland.”
They stood, side by side on the bridge, looking back at their mighty pu
rsuer through the sheets of driving rain. Ahead of them the sky was getting darker.
“Are we faster than she is?” Sherman asked.
“I do believe that we are.”
As sunset approached and the distance between them grew, the captain of HMS Defender reluctantly took a gamble. The ship’s silhouette suddenly lengthened as she turned her bows so her length faced them. The guns fired as soon as they could bear. Once again Aurora suffered a bombardment, but none of the shells fell close.
The ship was a small target and constantly moving, changing course, elusive. The rain was heavy, night was falling, and soon after this last broadside Aurora was invisible to their pursuer.
“And now the cognac!” Korzhenevski shouted aloud, laughing and slapping Sherman on the back, then seizing his hand and pumping it enthusiastically. Sherman only smiled, understanding the Russian’s happiness.
They had gotten away with it.
A DISASTROUS ENCOUNTER
The approaching British ironclad slowed her engines and her bow wave died away. Captain Semmes looked at her coldly as she drew closer to the USS Virginia. There was her name, spelled out in large white letters, DEVASTATION. Maybe, just maybe, the British captain would decide on aggression. Would that he did. Semmes knew that his ship was the match for any in the world, with three steam-powered turrets, each of them mounting two breech-loading guns. While the enemy outgunned him, he doubted very much that she outclassed him. Her muzzle loaders had a much slower rate of fire than his own guns.
He recognized her type; one of the newly built Warrior-class ironclads. She had all the strengths of the original — twenty-six sixty-eight-pounders and ten hundred-pounders — and could unleash a terrible broadside. Also, according to the intelligence reports that he had seen, the builders had overcome Warrior’s weaknesses by armoring her stern, then eliminating the masts and sails. Semmes was not impressed, even by these changes. The greatest naval engineer in the world, John Ericsson, had designed every inch of his ship, and she was the most advanced ever known to man.
A signalman appeared on the other ship’s bridge.
“They’re sending a message, Captain,” his signalman said. “It reads—”
“Belay that,” Semmes snapped. “I have no desire to communicate with that ship. We will remain here on station until she leaves.”
Devastation’s captain was infuriated.
“Doesn’t she read our signals? Send the message again. We are well within our rights to inspect the manifests of a vessel suspected of breaking international law. Damme, still no response — yet I can see them on the bridge there, brazenly staring at us. Bos’un, fire off the saluting cannon. That should draw their attention.”
The little gun was quickly loaded, powder and no shot, and went off with a cracking bang.
Aboard Virginia, Captain Semmes was just sending a signal to Dixie Belle inquiring as to her repairs when he heard the explosion. He spun about and saw the puff of white smoke just below the other ship’s bridge.
“Was that a shot?”