by James Hilton
Some of the crowd were for marching on the house and storming it, but the Red leader, a shrewd, capable fellow, was impressed by the political importance of the prisoners and anxious to act with due circumspection. Let a few local shopkeepers be butchered by all means, but countesses and highly-placed White officers were too valuable to be wasted on the mob. Besides, being a person of good memory and methodical mind, he seemed to recollect that there had already been some bother about that particular countess; she had been captured in Siberia, hadn’t she, and had been on her way to Moscow in charge of some local commissar when, somehow or other, the two had escaped from the train and had not been heard of since? The beautiful countess and the susceptible commissar—what a theme for a comic opera! General Polahkin, whose victory over the Whites had been due partly to military ability but chiefly to the sudden and almost miraculous repair of a couple of machine-guns, smiled to himself as he gave orders that the house should be surrounded, arid that, if its occupants gave themselves up, they should be conducted unharmed to the town jail.
This operation was carried out without a hitch, and towards three o’clock in the morning the little procession entered the town. There were about a dozen White officers, whose resplendent uniforms and dejected faces contrasted piquantly with the shabby greatcoats and triumphant faces of their guards. There were five women also—dressed in a weird assortment of clothes, some of them walking painfully in ballroom slippers, and all rather pale and weary-looking. All except one gave occasional terrified glances at the jeering crowds that lined the streets to the prison entrance. The exception was the woman whose name everyone now knew—the woman who (according to a story that was being improved on, saga-Eke, with every telling) had beguiled a commissar into escaping with her and had then, somehow or other, escaped from him! The crowd were not disposed to be too unfriendly towards such a magnificent adventuress, and if she had only played the actress well enough, they were quite drunk enough to have cheered her. But she did not act the right part, and her appearance, too, was disappointingly unromantic. She gazed ahead with calm and level eyes, as if she were not caring either for them or for anything in the world.
When the captives were safely locked in the prison, the crowd, suffering a kind of reaction, began a systematic looting of the shops. They were, in truth, disconcerted by the tameness of what had promised to be highly exciting, and now worked out their spleen as best they could. Po did not object; loot was, after all, the perquisite of the poorly-paid soldier. By dawn the town presented a forlorn appearance; every window in the main street had been smashed and the gutters were full of broken glass and miscellaneous articles that had been stolen, broken, and then thrown away. Some of the local peasants, professing violently Red feelings, had taken part in the looting, and they, perhaps, had made most out of it, since they had homes in which they could store whatever they took. One small cottage attracted attention by having the end of a piano sticking out of the doorway; the acquirer could not play, but banged heavily with his fists to indicate his delight.
The following day was to some extent anti-climax; the revellers were tired and spent most of the time sleeping off the effects of the carousal. In the afternoon, however, fresh Red reinforcements arrived from the west—men of even more violent temperament than those already in possession, and accompanied, moreover, by several fluent and apparently professional orators who harangued the crowd in the market-place with unceasing eloquence. Polahkin, it soon appeared, was unpopular with these new arrivals; they doubted his ‘redness,’ and were particularly incensed because he had permitted the White captives to retain their lives.
A.J., mingling during the day with the crowds in the town and sleeping at nights on the bare boards of an inn-floor, could sense the keying of the atmosphere to higher and more dangerous levels. He did not feel any particular apprehension, still less any indignation; he had seen too many horrors for either. Every barbarism perpetrated by the Reds could be balanced by some other perpetrated by the Whites; the scales of bloodshed and cruelty balanced with almost exquisite exactness. There was also a point of experience beyond which even the imagination had no power to terrify, and A.J. had reached such a point. What he felt was rather, in its way, a sort of selfishness; out of all the chaos and wretchedness that surrounded him he felt inclined to seize hold of anything that mattered to him locally and personally in any way. And so little, when he came to think of it, did matter to him. Up to now he had been a blind automaton, letting Fate push him whither it chose and calmly accepting any task that was nearest. He had not cared; at Khalinsk he had been kind and wise and hard-working, but he had not cared. Yet now, for the first time, he felt a curious uprise of personality, a sort of you-be-damnedness entering his soul as he paced the streets and observed, still quite coldly, the wreckage of a world that cared as little for him as he for it.
Only very gradually did he perceive that he wanted the woman to escape. To any normally-minded person it would have seemed an absurd enough want, for the prison was strongly and carefully guarded. But A.J., just then, was not normally-minded. The more he tried to reconcile himself to the fact that his former prisoner would eventually he shot, like hundreds of other pleasant and possibly innocent persons, the more he felt committed to some kind of personal and intrepid intervention. But how, and when? He guessed that the revolutionary ardour of the soldiers would soon boil over and lead to the overthrow of Polahkin and the massacre of the White prisoners; he had seen that sort of thing happen too often not to recognise the familiar preliminary portents. Whatever was to be done must be done quickly—yet what could be done? He did not know in which part of the prison she was kept, nor even whether she were alone or with others. No doubt, wherever she was, she was being well guarded as one of the star-turns of some future entertainment.
At the prison entrance there was always a Red soldier on guard, and it was through these men alone that A.J. fancied he could accomplish anything. He silent many an hour furtively watching them and speculating which of them might be most likely to be useful for his purpose. At last he singled out a rough, fierce-looking fellow whom, about midnight, when the street was fairly quiet, he saw accept a small package from a passing stranger and transfer it guiltily to his own pocket. A.J. took the chance that thus offered itself.
“Good-evening, comrade,” he began, walking up to the man a moment later and looking him sternly between the eyes. “Do you usually do that sort of thing?”
It was a blind shot, but a lucky one. The guard, for all his fierce appearance, was a coward as soon as he thought himself discovered. He obviously took A.J. for an official spy who had been set deliberately to watch him, and A.J. did not disabuse him of the notion. He soon drove the fellow to an abject confession that he had been systematically smuggling tobacco into the prison for the benefit of the White officers. “Only tobacco, your honour,” he insisted, and produced from his pocket the little packet he had just received. “You know, your honour, how hard it is for a poor soldier to make a living in these days, and the White officers who are going to be shot very soon, promised me twenty roubles for this little packet. After all, your honour, I don’t have the chances that some of our men get—I had to be here on duty all that night when they were looting the shops.”
“That was unfortunate,” said A.J. dryly. “All the same, you must be aware of the penalties for smuggling things into the prison?”
“Yes, your honour, but surely you wouldn’t wish to get a poor man into serious trouble—”
And so on. After a quarter of an hour or so A.J. felt he had succeeded pretty well. He had learned all about the positions and arrangements of the prisoners, their daily habits, and the way in which they were guarded; and, most important of all, he had given the guard a note to be delivered secretly to the Countess. He wrote it in French; it merely said that he was on the spot and ready to help her to escape, and that she must be prepared to do her share in any way and at any time he should command. He told the guard it was merely a
family message. “I am a Red,” he added, “but I do not see what harm there can be in treating a woman prisoner with ordinary courtesy. No more harm, anyway, than in smuggling tobacco for the men.” The guard agreed eagerly. “You are quite right, your honour—and I have said the same, even to my comrades. Why not be more civil and polite to people before you shoot them? It is not the shooting that makes so much bad feeling but treating people like dogs.”
The next time the guard was on duty A.J. received back his note together with an answer. It was a verbal one—merely a conventional ‘Thank you,’ which, though not very enlightening, seemed, in the circumstances, sufficient. He felt, anyhow, that something was being accomplished. He knew that she was in a ground-floor cell overlooking a yard which was patrolled by sentries day and night. Any romantic escapade with ropes and ladders was thus out of the question. The tobacco-smuggling guard, whose name was Balkin, had stressed how carefully she was watched, and after much thought and the formation of many tentative plans, A.J. reached the conclusion that escape could only take place, if at all, during some general commotion that would temporarily upset the prison routine. This, as clays passed, seemed more likely to happen, for the clamour of the extremists increased and there were strong rumours that at any moment Polahkin’s writ might cease to run. Then no doubt, there would be a brief civil war, culminating in a mob- attack on the prison and the massacre of its occupants.
A.J. argued thus: the attack on the prison would probably take place at night, if only because at such a time men’s spirits were always most inflamed with speechmaking and drink. The prison-guards might or might not attempt any resistance, but in either case it was unlikely that the regular routine of the sentry-patrol would remain unaffected. Most likely there would be either fighting or hilarious fraternisation. In the darkness a good many of the invaders would not know where they were, or where to look for the prisoners; there would be confusion of all kinds. Most fortunately, as it happened, the Countess’s cell was among the last that could be reached, being the end one in a long corridor. And let into the corridor wall close by was an ordinary unbarred window overlooking the yard. If only the prisoner were once outside her cell, it would not be too difficult to climb out through that window. A.J. did not wish to rely too much on Balkin’s assistance, for he did not seem a man of either trustworthiness or intelligence; the only promise to be exacted was that, as soon as there might be any hint of trouble, he should slip a small revolver through the bars of the cell. “You sec, Balkin, you are a kindhearted fellow, and I don’t mind telling you the truth—the poor creature wishes to kill herself rather than fall into the hands of the soldiers. Personally, I sympathise with her in that, and you also, I am sure, will feel the same. Is it not enough that she should die, without being torn to pieces to amuse a crowd? Let her have a decent death—the sort that a soldier, if he could choose, would ask for.” Balkin, greatly stirred, put his hand sentimentally on A.J.’s shoulder. “You are quite right, your honour. It is only fair that she should die properly. Why, I will shoot her myself rather than let her fall into the hands of those ruffians!”
“No, no—all you need do is to give her the revolver. She is no coward, and would rather do the job in her own way. It is more dignified—more seemly. Do you not understand?”
Balkin at length and with great melancholy admitted that he did understand; and he agreed also to take a further message to the woman. A.J. wrote it out and handed it over with the revolver.
That was in the morning; from all outward indications the crisis was likely to develop that night. Polahkin had already been openly insulted in the streets, and a brutal loutish Jew named Aronstein had been haranguing the crowd all afternoon. The actual coup d’état took place about seven o’clock. Polahkin was arrested and Aronstein duly ‘elected’ in his place. One by one all the official buildings in the town went over to the extremist party, and at last came the inevitable attack on the prison. Aronstein had promised the attackers that not a single counter-revolutionary life should be spared, and in such a mood of anticipated blood-lust the mob surged round the building. The guard at the entrance-gate offered no resistance, and within a few moments the invaders were pouring into the inner courtyard.
A.J., in a narrow lane behind the prison, waited with keen anxiety. At first it seemed that the whole affair was being conducted far too methodically, but soon the traditional chaos of all insurgency began to be evident. He could hear the shouts of the crowd; then he saw the sentries suddenly run from their posts in the prison-yard, from which the lane was separated only by tall iron railings. That was his signal for action. He walked along the railings quickly till he reached a certain spot; then he halted and listened. There was a loud commotion proceeding inside the prison—shoutings and screamings and revolver-shots; it was difficult to judge exactly the right moment. However, the lane looked quite deserted, and in the darkness it would be hard to see him in any case. He got hold of two of the iron railings and lifted them out of their sockets. He knew from previous observation that those particular railings were loose, for he had seen the sentries lift them out to admit women into the yard.
He waited for several minutes, refusing rather than unable to draw conclusions from what he could hear; he knew that noise could mean anything and everything; he knew also that Balkin was stupid and perhaps unreliable, that he might do the totally wrong thing, or else just nothing at all, either from error, slackness, or malice. He knew that the chance he had planned for was fantastically slender, that at a dozen points there were even odds of disaster. And he knew, too, that even if the miracle did happen, there were still further miracles to be accomplished in leaving the town and reaching comparative safety.
Then suddenly he saw a dim and shadowy figure rushing across the yard. He gave a loud cough; the figure stopped for a fraction of a second, changed its direction slightly, and came rushing towards him. He said softly: “Here—here—through here. Wait—T must put them back afterwards. Take this coat—I have another underneath. Quickly—but keep calm. Are you hurt at all?”
“No.”
“You managed it all right?”
“Yes—I had to fire into the lock three times—it’s surprising how little damage a bullet can do.” She laughed quietly.
“Don’t laugh. Don’t talk either, now. Put your collar up. If we meet anybody, we must be drunk. There are clothes hidden in a field for you.”
The greatcoat was useful in making her look, at any considerable distance, like an ordinary Red soldier; at any nearer encounter the semblance of drunkenness would give them their best chance. A Red soldier, half tipsy, taking a half-tipsy woman towards the outskirts of the town was not an unusual sight, and for the woman to be wearing a soldier’s coat was common enough in days when currency depreciation was making payment in kind increasingly popular.
They passed several people on their way and the stratagem seemed to succeed. One of the passers-by, a soldier, called out to ask what was happening in the town; A.J. replied, with fuddled intonation, that he rather thought the prison was being attacked. “Ah,” answered the other, laughing, “but I see you’ve evidently got something more important to do than join in, eh?” A.J. laughed, and the woman laughed too, and they passed on.
They reached the end of the town and climbed over the roadside into the fields. Hidden in a ditch were the clothes he had carefully obtained and carefully placed in position an hour before; it was a relief to find them, for there had always been the possibility of their being found and stolen in the interval. The clothes consisted of a more or less complete military outfit, including top-boots and a shabby peaked cap such as soldier or civilian might equally be wearing.
“Well?” she whispered, as he showed them to her. “So I am to be your obedient prisoner once again?”
He did not answer, except to urge her to dress quickly. Her own clothes, as she discarded them, he rolled into a bundle—it would not be safe to leave them behind. She was very calm; that was a good thing, yet
he wondered if she realised that difficulties were beginning rather than ending, and that in a short while hundreds of blood-drunken searchers would be scouring the district for the escaped White countess. One thing he was sure of—the peasant disguise would never work a second time near Saratursk. Everyone knew that she had escaped as a peasant before; everyone would be prepared for the same disguise again. There was only the slender chance that as two soldiers they might escape through the cordon into safer country.
“Please hurry,” he said again. “And we had better not talk much.”
“I’m ready now, except for the boots.”
“Let me do them.”
He knelt on one knee and laced them quickly.
She whispered, looking down at him in the darkness: “You are very, very kind.”
“It will be safer not to talk just yet—your voice, you know. And when you do talk, you must call me ’Tovarish’—it’s the word the soldiers use. We must be very careful, even in details.”
“Yes, of course. I understand. Now I’m ready.”
“Good. We must try to get a long way into the forests by daylight.”
“Still en route for Moscow, I suppose?”