Текст книги "Stars and Stripes Triumphant"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

Соавторы: Harry Harrison,Harry Harrison
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

When they reached fifty-six degrees north latitude, Korzhenevski decided that they had sailed far enough in that direction and set a course due west for Scotland. The Russian flag was raised at the stern and the sailors scrubbed the decks and put a last polish on the brass while the officers enjoyed their luncheon. When they emerged on deck they were all dressed in full uniform and saluted one another smartly, clicking their heels with many a da, da.

It was midafternoon when they sighted the Scottish coast near Dundee. They altered course and coasted south easily while Korzhenevski looked at the shore through a brass telescope.

“Over there you will see the mouth of the Firth of Forth, with Edinburgh lying upstream. I have had many jolly times in that city with Scots friends, drinking far too much of their excellent whiskey.” He focused on a group of white sails scudding out of the Firth. “It looks like a race – how smashing!” He issued quick orders and the yacht moved closer to shore.

“Not a race at all,” he pronounced when the sailing ships were better seen. “Just cheery times in this salubrious weather – who is to blame them?”

As they slowly drew level and passed the smaller craft, there were friendly waves and an occasional distant cheer. Aurora answered with little toots of her whistle. One of the small sailing craft was now angled away from the others and heading out to sea in their direction. The Count focused his telescope on it, then lowered the scope and laughed aloud.

“By Jove, we are indeed in luck. She is crewed by an old shipmate from Greenwich, the Honorable Richard MacTavish.”

The Aurora slowed and stopped, rolling easily in the light seas. The little yacht came close, the man at the tiller waving enthusiastically; then he called out.

“When I saw your flag with the two-headed eagle I couldn’t believe it. It is you, isn’t it, Count Iggy?”

“In the flesh, my dear Scotty. Do come aboard and have a glass of bubbly – does wonders for the tummy!”

The boarding ladder was thrown over the side as a line from the little yacht was hauled aboard. A moment later MacTavish was scrambling over the rail and pounding the Count on the back.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Iggy. Where have you got to these last years?”

“Oh, just tootling about… you know.” Korzhenevski sounded a bit bored and a little simple. “I say – shouldn’t you bring your friends aboard as well?”

“Not friends, if truth be spoken,” MacTavish said. “Just some locals I let crew.”

“Well then, you must meet some fellow Russian officers who joined me for this little cruise.”

MacTavish took a glass of champagne as the three Americans clicked their heels and took a brace on the stern deck. The Count smiled and sipped his champagne as well.

“From left to right Lieutenant Chikhachev, Lieutenant Tyrtov, and Commander Makarov, the one with the dark beard. Unhappily, none of them speak English. Just give them a smile, that’s right. Look how happy they are.”

MacTavish got his hand pumped enthusiastically and there were plenty of das.

“As you see, not a word of English among them,” the Count drawled. “But still good chaps. You just say da back; well done! Let me top up your glass.”

MacTavish was working on his second glass of champagne when a head appeared at deck level. “I say, Dickie,” an angry voice called out, “this is a bit much.”

“On my way,” he called out, draining his glass. With many shouted farewells and protestations of eternal friendship, he climbed back down to the yacht. The Count waved after them and smiled as they darted back toward land.

“A good chap,” he said, “but not too bright. Last in the class, as I remember. Gentlemen, you did most excellently.”

“Da!” Wilson said, and they all laughed.

A puff of smoke rose from the stack as the engine started up again. Their course south along the coast toward England.

Beyond the coast that they were passing – and farther south, well inland, just two and a half miles from Birmingham city center – a tent city had sprung up in what, until recently, had been the green pastures around the noble house of Aston Hall. The camp covered an area of over ten acres of churned-up mud, still soaked from the recent rains, which was now drying slowly in the sun. Duckboards had been laid between the tents, but the mud oozing up between them rendered them almost useless. Women were moving about listlessly, some of them cooking in pots hung over the open fires, others hanging up clothes on lines stretched between the tents; children ran along the duckboards shouting to one another. There were very few men to be seen.

One of them was Thomas McGrath, who now sat on a box in the opened flap of a tent, puffing slowly on his pipe. He was a big man with immense arms and slightly graying hair. He had been a gaffer in a Birmingham tannery up until the time of his arrest. He looked around bitterly at the tents and the mud. Bad enough now – but what would it be like in the autumn when the rains came in earnest? Would they still be here then? No one had told him anything, even when they came to arrest him and seize his family. Orders, the soldiers had said. From whom – or for what reason – had never been explained. Except that they were Irish, like every other person in the concentration camp. That’s what the camps were called. They were concentrating the Irish where they could be watched. He looked up at the sound of footsteps to see Patrick McDermott walking toward him.

“How you keeping, Tom?” he asked.

“The same, Paddy, the same,” McGrath said. McDermott had worked with him in the tannery; a good man. The newcomer squatted down gingerly on the duckboards.

“I’ve got a bit of news for you,” he said. “It seems that I was over there, standing by the main gate, when the ration wagons drove in just now. Two soldiers, a driver and a guard, in each of them, just like always. But they are wearing totally different uniforms from the guards that are stationed on the gates. Sure, I said to myself, and there must be a new regiment come to look after us.”

“Now is that true, you say?” McGrath took the pipe from his mouth and knocked the dottle out on the side of the box and rose to his feet.

“With my own two eyes.”

“Well then, there is no time like the present. Let’s do it – just like we worked out. Are you ready?”

“Never readier.”

“When they come you look to the driver. I’ll be having a word with the wife first. She’ll talk to your Rose later.”

The horse-drawn carts came every day or two to distribute food. Potatoes for the most part, since the British believed that the Irish ate nothing else. The two Irishmen were waiting when the wagon came down between the row of tents, stopping where the small crowd of women waited for the food. McGrath had chosen this spot because the tents blocked any view of the soldiers at the gates. There was only this single wagon in sight, with one of the prisoners in the back passing down the potatoes. McGrath knew the man from the pub, but couldn’t remember his name.

“Let me give you a hand with that,” he said, clambering up into the wagon.

The guard, with the musket between his legs, sat facing backward next to the driver. Out of the corner of his eye McGrath saw Paddy standing by the horse.

“You, get down from there,” the guard called out, waving him off with his gun.

“He’s been ill, your honor, he’s that weak. I’ll just give him a hand.”

McGrath seized up a sack of potatoes, saw Paddy stepping forward. He swung the bag and knocked the soldier’s rifle from his grasp. The man was gape-jawed, but before he could respond, McGrath bent him over with a punch to the belly. He gasped and fell forward; McGrath’s other fist felled him with a mighty blow to the jaw.

At the same moment as McGrath swung the bag, Paddy had reached up and pulled the surprised driver from his seat down to the ground, kicking him in the side of the head as he fell into the mud.

It had taken but an instant. The man who had been unloading the potatoes stood with a bag in his hands, shocked. The women did not move but looked on silently; a child started to cry but went silent, his mother’s hand over his mouth.

“Dump most of these potatoes,” McGrath told the other man. “See that they get spread around the camp. And you know nothing.”

On the ground Paddy had stripped the unconscious soldier of his clothes and was pulling them on. He wiped some of the mud from the uniform with the man’s neckcloth. “Get some rope,” he said to the watching women. “I want him bound and gagged. The same for the other.”

McGrath was struggling into the guard’s uniform jacket; not an easy fit and impossible to button. He picked up the man’s gun and took his place on the seat, stuffing his and Paddy’s wadded-up clothes under the seat beside him. The entire action had taken less than two minutes. The women had carried the bound and unconscious soldiers into an empty tent and tied the open flap shut. The Irishman who had been unloading potatoes was gone. Paddy made a clicking sound and shook the reins. The horse plodded forward. Behind them the women and children dispersed. McDermott let out a pleased sigh.

“That was well done, me old son,” he said.

“Jayzus, I thought you had taken his head off, the punch you hit him.”

“It did the job. The gate now – and keep your gob shut if they want to talk to you.”

“Aye.”

The horse, head low, plodded slowly toward the gate. There were four green jackets on guard there, one of them a sergeant with an ample belly. He signaled and two of the soldiers started to open the gate. Paddy pulled up the horse while he waited for it to swing wide.

“You’re finished damned fast,” the sergeant said, glancing suspiciously into the cart.

“Pushed the bleedin’ fings out, that’s what,” Paddy said in an acceptable Cockney accent, for he had worked for many years in London. “Them last ones is rotten.”

“Do up that tunic or you’ll be charged,” the sergeant snapped. McGrath fumbled with the buttons. The sergeant grunted and jerked his thumb for them to proceed, then turned away, no longer interested.

Paddy drove slowly until a bend in the road and a grove of trees shielded them from sight of the camp; snapped the reins and urged the horse into a trot.

“I thought I would die when that sergeant spoke to you like that.”

“Stupid pigs!” McGrath was suddenly angry. Angry at life, the concentration camp, at the people who had seized him and brought him and his family to this desperate place. “There, that stand of trees. Pull in there and we’ll get out of these uniforms. See if there is any money in the pockets. We are going to need a few bob for the train if we want to put some miles behind us before the alarm is raised.”

INTO THE LION’S LAIR

The low-lying English coast lay directly ahead as Aurora made a slow turn to starboard. With her engine thudding quietly she steamed toward Dungeness near the mouth of the river Thames, where the Trinity House cruising cutter was established at the rendezvous for London-bound shipping. Count Korzhenevski had the nautical chart of the coastal waters spread out on the table on the forward deck. The three Americans looked on intently as he tapped it with his finger.

“Here, off Dungeness,” he said, “is where we must stop to pick up the pilot. Every morning and every evening a tender from Dover tops up the number of men there, so there are always about fourteen pilots waiting. They will send one of them out to us when we heave to and signal. A pilot is of utmost importance now, because the river estuary here is a maze of shifting sandbanks. However, before the pilot joins us, I will ask you gentlemen to enter the main cabin and remain there as long as he is aboard. But once he is on the bridge, it will be time for Commander Wilson to appear in his role as deck officer to supervise casting off from the buoy. The crew has been directed to act as if they are obeying his instructions. Once we sail, Wilson will remain on deck and act as bow lookout until we approach this spot – where the river makes a sharp turn to the right. Before we reach the turn, he will move to the starboard side of the ship just below the bridge. Once he has taken up his position there, he will be out of sight of the pilot and can direct his attention to the defenses along the riverbanks. It is a matter of public record that a few years ago Prime Minister Palmerston ordered a spate of fort building; this was during the last French invasion scare. There is a new fort here at Slough Point, farther upstream at Cliffe Creek and Shornmead as well. But here is the place that you will really examine.”

The Count tapped his fingertip on the chart again and they leaned forward to look at the indicated spot on the riverbank. “There is a small defensive position at the water’s edge called Coalhouse Fort. The last time I passed this way it was unmanned and the guns were gone. That may have changed. But most important of all is what is around this next bend in the river, where the Thames turns sharply to starboard. The river narrows at this point, and right at the bend, dominating the river, is the most dangerous armed position of Tilbury Fort. There are many gun emplacements in it, as well as extensive walls, moats, and other defenses. On the other bank, just opposite Tilbury Fort, there is a new fort and gun emplacements here in Gravesend. Once past these forts, the Thames becomes very narrow and built up along both shores; consequently, it is of no military interest. Therefore, once we are past the fort, the commander should join his comrades in the cabin and transcribe what he has observed of the river defenses. The curtains will be drawn, because very soon after that we will be tying up at Greenwich. Is this all clear?”

“Very much so,” Sherman said. “What is not clear is what will happen after we arrive in Greenwich.”

“That is in the hands of the gods, my dear general. My classmate Commander Mark Johnstone is on the teaching staff there, and before we left Ostend, I sent him a cable about our imminent arrival. I hope that our stay will be a brief one, but we will just have to wait and see. On a previous visit I had him aboard for a little banquet and a few bottles of champagne. We will just have to see what happens this time. But the long and the short of it is that we must stop at Greenwich. After all, our presence on the river is predicated upon a visit to the Naval Academy, and that we must do.”

As agreed, Sherman and Fox stayed belowdecks and out of sight. Very soon after Aurora had tied up to a buoy and had signaled, a boat drew away from the waiting cutter and headed their way. They had a quick glimpse of the pea-jacketed figure sitting in the stern, then saw no more, for the steward closed the curtains as the boat approached. There were voices on deck and the stamp of feet as the Count showed the pilot to the bridge and stayed with him there.

The pilot had gray hair and a scraggly beard; his clothing smelled strongly of fish. Unhappily, the bridge was too small for Korzhenevski to get far from the man. He closed the door and put his back against it. The pilot took a newspaper from his pocket and offered it to the Count. “Just arrived,” he said. “Only two bob and it’s yours.”

Korzhenevski nodded and paid two shillings for the overpriced newspaper; he knew that this was a harmless bit of larceny that the pilots indulged in. Sailors who had been weeks at sea would be curious about recent events. Pocketing the coins, the pilot then peered through the front ports and turned to the helmsman.

“Don’t get this ship above five knots,” he said. The man ignored him.

“The helmsman, he don’t speak English?” the pilot asked suspiciously.

“No more than you do Russian,” the Count said, forcing himself to ignore the man’s stupidity. “I will translate.”

“Slow ahead. Five knots maximum speed. That’s the East Margate buoy ahead. Keep it to port for the Princess Channel or we will be onto the Margate Sands.”

The Count called down to the deckhands and they let go one end of the line through the eye of the buoy and pulled it aboard. Wilson in his role of deck officer pointed and tried to look as though he were in command. Gathering speed, the Aurora puffed slowly away from her mooring and out into the channel toward the mouth of the Thames.

The tide was on the ebb and the downstream current was very strong. The riverbanks moved slowly by; green fields on both sides, with the occasional village beyond them. When Wilson saw the turn in the river appearing ahead, he walked casually around the deck to position himself out of sight of the bridge.

The Count had been wrong; Coalhouse Fort was not deserted, but boasted a new battery of big guns. Wilson counted them and made a mental note.

Then they were coming up on Tilbury Fort and he gasped at the size of it. It was built on the spit of land just where the river narrowed, and it dominated the river – and could target any vessel coming upstream. It was star-shaped, with high, grim bastions looming above the water. Gun muzzles studded these defenses; more muzzles were visible behind the gunlines at the water’s edge. Wilson stared at the fort until it vanished behind them, then stepped into the main cabin and opened his drawing pad. General Sherman lowered his binoculars and turned from the porthole.

“Impressive,” he said.

“Disastrous,” Wilson answered, quickly sketching in the lines of the fort. “Any ship, no matter how armored, will never get past her unharmed. I can truthfully say that as long as that fort is there, London is safe from any invasion by sea.”

“Perhaps the fort could be taken from the land side.”

“Hardly. There is an inner and an outer moat – with gun positions in between them, a redan as well, then the brick bastions of the fort itself. They can probably flood the marshland beyond if they have to. I would say that this fort is next to impregnable – except possibly by a long siege—”

“Which is of course out of the question,” Sherman said, watching the outlines of the fort take shape on the paper. He touched the drawing, tapping the west gunline on the riverbank. “Twelve heavy guns here; I counted them. From the size of their muzzles they could be hundred-pounders.”

Wilson was still hard at work on his drawings when the engine slowed then stopped. Aurora bumped lightly against the fenders of the seawall as they tied up. There were shouted commands and the sound of running feet on deck. The Count came in and went to Wilson to look at his drawings. “Most excellent,” he said. “This voyage is starting very auspiciously. But the same is, unhappily, not true of the rest of the world.”

He took a newspaper from his jacket pocket and opened it on the table. “The pilot sold me this overpriced copy of The Times. This item will be of interest to us all.”

AMERICAN TRADE POLICY DENOUNCED IN COMMONS

Threat to British Cotton Trade Taken Under Advisement

“What is it about?” Sherman asked, looking at the lengthy article.

“I read it with great attention while we were coming upriver. It seems that Prime Minister Palmerston has accused your countrymen of dumping American cotton on the European market at ruinous prices, thereby undercutting the British cotton trade.”

“There is nothing new in this,” Fox said. “The British have been going to the Empire countries for cotton ever since the War Between the States began. Mostly Egypt and India. But their cotton is inferior to the American variety and more expensive to produce. Therefore, Yankee traders have been selling cotton to the French and German mills. The British do not like this. We have been here before.”

“I hope you are right. But in his speech Palmerston threatens the American trade if it continues in this fashion.”

“Any specific threats?” Sherman asked.

“Not really. But he is a man to be watched.”

“He is indeed,” Fox said, seating himself with the newspaper and giving it his close attention.

Korzhenevski crossed the room and took a sheet of crested notepaper from the sideboard. He wrote a quick note and closed it with a wax seal.

“Simenov has been here with me before, so he can find his way to the college. He’ll deliver this note to Johnstone and wait for an answer. I’m inviting him for dinner tonight. If he accepts, we might very well be out of here tomorrow. We’ll decide what to do as soon as Johnstone leaves. I’m also taking the precaution of sending a sailor with Simenov. He will be carrying a bottle of champagne. Harbinger of joys to come! Might I suggest, Commander, that you continue your engineering pursuits in your cabin? Thank you.”

Fox seemed more concerned with the newspaper than with his champagne, reading not only the article that had attracted the Count’s attention but all the other news as well. A distant look entered into Sherman’s eyes, one that Korzhenevski noticed.

“Is something disturbing you, General?”

“Something is, you are right. Is it really necessary for a ship to be guided by a pilot to proceed up the Thames?”

“Not only necessary but essential. The sands here are in constant motion, and it takes a pilot skilled in local knowledge to find the correct channel.”

“Does every ship need a pilot?”

“Not necessarily. On a clear day a small group of ships could follow the first one with the pilot in line astern.” The Count drank some champagne and easily followed Sherman’s thoughts. “You are right, this is a very serious concern. I suggest that you leave that matter to me for the time being. I am sure that something can be done.”

There was a knock on Wilson’s cabin door; Sherman, standing behind Wilson and Fox, looked up from the drawings when he heard the Count’s voice.

“One moment,” said Sherman. He went over and unlocked the door.

“Most industrious,” Korzhenevski said, looking at the growing sheaf of drawings. “I am pleased that our little voyage has begun so well. Now – I would appreciate it if you would turn over all of the plans, as well as the drawing instruments.”

“You have a reason?” Sherman asked, frowning.

“A very good one, my dear general. We are now in the heartland of a country which, while not an enemy country, would still object to the presence of foreign observers inside their military establishments. I am sure that Mr. Fox here will agree that the authorities would not take kindly to the presence of what they would surely see as spies in their midst. Commander Johnstone will be coming aboard soon, and our little ship must be Russian to the core. There are English as well as Russian books in my cabin – but that is to be expected. Mr. Fox, might I ask you to undertake a delicate task for me?”

“And that is?”

“Would you – I do not dare say ‘search’ – would you see to it that none of you possess any English documents? Or anything else – such as clothing labels – that might identify you as Americans.”

“That is a most reasonable request.”

His mien was most serious; Sherman nodded grim agreement. If they were discovered, it would be a severe and momentous disaster.

Dinner was a time of great stress. Commander Johnstone was no empty-headed aristocrat like the Honorable Richard MacTavish. He was a professor of navigation, well versed in astronomy and mathematics, and he shrewdly examined the three disguised officers when he was introduced to them. Johnstone only sipped his champagne as he and the Count became involved in a technical discussion of Russian and British naval merits. When the meal was finally finished and the port passed around the table, the Count gave them blessed relief.

“I’m afraid that Chikhachev here must relieve Simenov on the bridge – while Tyrtov and Makarov have their duties to perform.”

“A pleasure to meet you gentlemen,” Johnstone said; there was much heel clicking in return. As they filed out, Johnstone spoke to the Count. “You must write down their names for me for the invitations. Your arrival at this time was most fortuitous. There will be a formal dinner at the college tomorrow, celebrating the Queen’s birthday. You – and they – will be our honored guests.”

Sherman closed the door on the English officer’s voice and muttered a savage oath. Fox nodded agreement as they went down the passageway.

“Dangerous. Very dangerous indeed,” Fox said darkly.

Count Korzhenevski summoned them to the wardroom as soon as his guest had departed.

“This is going to be a situation where we must tread carefully,” he said.

“Any way of avoiding it?” Sherman asked.

“I am afraid not. But we can better the odds. Commander Wilson, for a number of reasons, should stay aboard. Lieutenant Simenov will abandon the engine room and go in his place. Mr. Fox is skilled in these matters and will play his role well. So it will be up to you, General Sherman, to be an actor in a game that is far removed from your career in the field.”

“I do not understand.”

“Let me clarify. If I am correct, when you as an officer are involved in combat, you receive reports, make decisions, and act upon them. It is legend that in the thick of battle you are the most cool, the most courageous of men. Now you must summon up your intelligence to face a different kind of battle. You must do the part of a middle-aged Russian naval officer – who may well have faced some of your fellow diners in battle. You don’t like them, perhaps you are suspicious of their true intent in having you there. We Russians can be very gloomy and suspicious – and that is how you must feel. Not displaying these emotions at all times, but feeling them. Do you understand?”

“I think that I do. It is something like being in a play, acting a role.”

“Perfectly expressed,” Fox said happily. “I think that tomorrow you will do fine, just fine.”

The meal, while a strain, went as well as could be expected. They were seated with the junior officers, far from the high table with its admirals and even a marine general. Toasts were drunk to the Queen, something the Americans had mixed feelings about. It was noisy and hot, which made it very easy to drink too much, so caution had to be shown. Sherman was seated across from a veteran naval captain who had many decorations and much gold bullion on his uniform. After his first terse nod of greeting, the captain had ignored the Russians and attended to the eating and drinking. Now, very much in his cups, he began to take a firm dislike to Sherman.

“You speak English, Russki? Do you know what I am saying?”

He raised his voice as though volume would increase comprehension.

“Nyet, nyet,” Sherman said, then turned away and sipped from his wineglass.

“I’ll bet you do. Sitting there and eavesdropping on your betters.”

Fox saw what was happening and tried to defuse the situation. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” Fox said. “Mon compagnon ne parle pas anglais. Parlez-vous français? ”

“And none of that frog talk either. Your lot should not be here. We whipped you like curs in the Crimea, now you come crawling around like spies…”

Korzhenevski, farther down the table, stood up quickly and barked what sounded like an order in Russian. Lieutenant Simenov pushed his chair back from the table and jumped to his feet; Fox and Sherman saw what was happening and stood as well.

“I am afraid that our presence here is an embarrassment and that we must leave,” the Count said.

“You’ll leave when you are damn well told to leave,” the captain shouted, climbing unsteadily to his feet.

It was Commander Johnstone who appeared suddenly and tried hard to calm the situation.

“This is not the time nor place for this—”

“I agree, Mark,” Korzhenevski said, pointing his thumb toward the door. “It would be wisest, though, if my officers and I just left. Thank you for your kindness.”

They beat a quick retreat, anxious to be clear of the situation, relieved when the door closed behind them to cut off the captain’s drunken shouts.

“That was not good,” Korzhenevski said as soon as they were out of the building. “There is still much bad feeling here about the Crimea, and this sort of thing only stirs up old hatreds. We don’t dare sail tonight, much as I would like to. Too suspicious. But we will start back downriver in the morning as soon as I can get a pilot.”

No one slept well that night. At dawn, one by one, they assembled in the main cabin, where the steward had set out a steaming pot of fresh coffee.

“I shall return with the pilot as soon as is possible,” the Count said. He put down his cup and slapped his side pocket, which clanked heavily. “I am prepared to bribe my way if I must. A continental custom which has not yet caught on in this country. Though people do learn very quickly at the sight of a gold coin. Lieutenant Simenov is watch officer, which means that the rest of you can stay out of sight.”

Less than an hour later Fox had just finished shaving and was pulling on his jacket when he heard the shouting at the gangway. He hurried on deck to witness an angry encounter. An English army officer had climbed the gangway to the deck – with five armed soldiers behind him. Simenov was blocking his way and shouting at him angrily in Russian.

“Da!” Fox called out, all he could think of at the moment. Simenov turned and called out to him. Fox nodded sagely and turned to the angry officer.

“Excusez-moi, mais nous ne parlons pas anglais. Est-ce que vous connaissez français?”

“No bloody frog – nor bloody Russian either. You are in England now, and if you don’t speak English you are not welcome. This is my authority!” The officer waved a sheet of paper under Fox’s nose. “An English officer has filed a complaint against certain officers of this ship. He says that you are spies. I want you to know that this is a military establishment and charges of this kind are taken very seriously. This is my warrant to search this ship.”

Fox accepted the sheet of paper, shook his head with lack of comprehension, and passed the warrant back.

“Follow me,” the officer called out, and the armed soldiers clumped up the gangway. Simenov barred their way.

“Nyet!” Fox shouted, and waved the Russian officer aside. Simenov started to protest – then realized the futility and danger of what he was doing. Reluctantly, he stepped back.