Without Armor

by James Hilton

  The presence of such an improvised hiding-place for use in an emergency gave them a feeling of comfort and security, and to A.J.’s further relief the barge did not even put in at Samara, owing to high dock-charges, but went on several miles below the town to a deserted and lonely reach, where no stranger came on board and no suspicious inspection seemed to be taking place from either bank.

  They reached Syzran on the fifth day, passing under the great steel railway bridge on which, but a few yards above them, Red sentries were keeping guard, and reaching the end of the long river-loop. The air turned colder, but there was no further snowfall, and during the day-time the sun shone with a fierceness that was quite cheerful, even though it did not lift the temperature much above freezing-point. Already round the edges of the backwaters ice had begun to form. A.J. and Daly used sometimes to choose a sheltered and sunny place among the tree-trunks from which to watch the slowly-changing panorama; it was bitterly cold in the open air, but for a time that was preferable to the fetid atmosphere of the cabin. The river was so wide that they were safe from observation, and the country, especially on the left bank, so lonely that often whole days passed without sound or sight of any human existence on land. Compared with the chaos of which their memories were full, the barge-life seemed a kind and leisurely heaven. A.J.’s normally robust health benefited a great deal from the rest and the cold, keen air; at dusk and dawn he sometimes helped Akhiz with the rafts, and was amused to give proof that his own personal strength was not so very much inferior to that of the Tartar monster.

  He would, indeed, have been very happy but for renewal of his anxiety about Daly’s health; the strain of the journey seemed again to be weighing heavily on her. Yet she was very cheerful and full of optimism. They began now to talk as they had hardly dared to do before—of their possible plans after reaching safety. Denikin’s outposts, A.J. believed, could not be much more distant than a few days’ journey from Saratof; it would probably be best to leave the river there and cross that final danger- zone on foot and by night. Then it seemed to occur to them both simultaneously that they would be passing through the town of Saratof, and that somewhere in it lived the ex-butler and the little princess of whom the Valimoffs had so carefully informed them. Should they take the trouble and incur all the possible extra risks that a visit might involve? A.J. decided negatively, yet from that moment they began to feel that the ex-butler and the child were really living people, not merely abstractions talked about by somebody else. They even began to imagine what the girl might be like—dark or fair, pretty or plain, well-bred or spoilt.

  One cold sunny afternoon, as they sat together on the timber with no sound about them save the swish of the water and the occasional distant cry of a curlew, A.J. told her, quite suddenly and on impulse, that he had been born in England and had lived there during early youth. She was naturally astonished, and still more so when he told her the entire story of his early life and of the affairs that had led to his loss of nationality and subsequent exile. “But you are really English for all that?” she queried, and he replied that he was not sure how the technical position stood—there was little he could prove after so many years. “Perhaps I am as I feel,” he said, “and that is no nationality at all.”

  It was curious how their life in the future, that was to be so strange and different from any life they had known together so far, seemed as much an end as a beginning. They tried not to admit it, yet the feeling was there with them both; it was so hard to think of a world that did not consist entirely of the dangers of the next hour and mile, of a life in which most things could be bought for money, in which day after day would bring peaceful, prophesiable happenings, and every night a bed and sleep. She said to him once: “Dear, what shall we do? Shall we live in Paris? Would you like to live in Paris?”

  “I think I would like to live anywhere.”

  “Anywhere with me?”

  “I meant that. I can’t imagine life without you.”

  “Can you imagine life without all this worry and adventure?”

  “Hardly—yet. I don’t know.”

  “How long will it take—the rest of the journey—it we have luck?”

  “We shall be in Saratof within a week or so. Allow another week for reaching the Whites. I suppose then we could get through to Rostov or Odessa, and there are boats from those places to Constantinople, but we might have to wait some time to get one. There would be passport formalities and all that sort of thing.”

  “And from Constantinople?”

  “That again depends. Don’t let’s look too far ahead. At present I’ve got my mind on Saratof.”

  “Saratof and our little princess.”

  “No.” He smiled. “I don’t propose to have anything to do with her royal highness. And in any case she isn’t ours.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall always think of her as ours, even if we never see her.”

  One evening in mid-November when the barge tied up near a small village, A.J. heard a few men talking to Akhiz. They were saying that the war in Europe was over and that Germany had surrendered to the French and British, but the information did not create the expected sensation. Akhiz was unaware of a European war as distinct from any other war; the world, seen from his timber- barge, seemed always full of fighting, and he was entirely uninterested in details.

  They passed Volshk on the fourteenth day, but by that time the clearing horizon of the future was dimmed again, for Daly was ill. It was the cold, she confessed abjectly, and bade A.J. not to worry about her; she would be all right again when they reached a warmer climate. In former times, she said, she had never been able to endure the Russian winters; she had always gone either abroad or to the Crimea. Besides, she had possessed furs in those days—“and now,” she added, half-laughing, “only Red generals dare show them.” She was still very cheerful, and inclined to joke about her own weakness, but A.J. was uneasy, because he knew that the cold was not excessive for the country and the time of the year, and that there were at least five hundred miles to be traversed before they could expect warmer weather.

  The trouble was that the only alternative to the open air was the atmosphere of the cabin, which was always so sickening that it was quite as much as they could do to sleep in it during the nights.

  They reached Saratof on the twentieth day, in the midst of a heavy snowstorm. A.J. had been a little apprehensive of the landing, which was just as well, for it enabled him to spy out Red soldiers, suspiciously armed and eager, waiting on the quay at which the barge was to berth. He saw them out of the cabin window, and there was just time to warn Akhiz and hurry Daly and himself to the arranged refuge amongst the timber. Akhiz fulfilled his part to perfection, pulling a huge log back to cover up the entrance to the hiding- place. It was all accomplished in good time and without mishap; again A.J.’s chief fear was for Daly, who shivered in his arms with an unhappy mingling of fear and cold. A.J. whispered to reassure her; it was only a precaution, he said; the soldiers on the quay might not be in search of them at all; and in any case, there was no reason yet to be alarmed—they had come successfully through many worse crises. But Daly would not or could not be comforted; she whispered: “Oh, my darling, I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I haven’t any nerve left at all—I can’t help it—I’m just more terrified than I’ve ever been!”

  They felt the barge bumping against the quayside; they heard sharp voices questioning Akhiz and the latter’s slow, good-tempered answers; then they heard footsteps scampering on deck and over the piled timber. A.J. could not hear much that was said, but from the whole manner of the proceeding he guessed that a search was, after all, to be made.

  About a quarter of an hour later voices came quite near to them. One said: “Well, you know, this may be all right as far as we’ve seen, but look at all this timber—anyone could hide amongst it.”

  A.J.’s arm tightened round Daly, and from her sudden stillness he thought she must be half-fainting.

  Another voice said: “
Yes, of course, that’s true. And this fellow’s been putting in for nights at all kinds of lonely places—nothing at all to stop anybody from coming aboard while he’s been asleep.”

  Akhiz said: “Timber very heavy to move.”

  “She had a man with her.”

  Akhiz repeated: “Timber very heavy.”

  “Yes, you fool, you’ve said it once.”

  Then from various sounds and movements it was apparent that a few of the men were trying to move some of the logs.

  Later a voice said: “Well, how do you move the stuff then?”

  “Big crane comes along,” said Akhiz.

  “Well, keep a look-out when you unload, that’s all. I don’t suppose anyone can be here, but still, as I say, keep a look- out.”

  After which the voices and footsteps disappeared. That was during the afternoon, and Akhiz did not release his prisoners until dusk. By that time they were stiff with cramp and chilled to the bone. “Very heavy, eh?” whispered Akhiz, beaming at them, when he had pushed the log a foot or so out of place. He seemed delighted at his own share in the escapade, though still incurious as to what it was all about. The quays were quite dark; the whole town, which in daylight had looked so important and flourishing, was now an overmastering stillness. Akhiz gave them scalding tea in his cabin; A.J. then gave Akhiz the twenty-four roubles agreed upon, plus another six for his extra services in outwitting the searchers, plus a small tin of American baked beans. Then they bade good-bye to their faithful host and saviour, who kissed A.J. with tremendous fervour, and even then, at that last moment, forbore to ask where they were going or what they were intending to do. Finally Akhiz went on deck to see if the quays were clear for them. There were sentries patrolling around, on the look-out for pilfering, but it was not very difficult to choose a safe moment to cross the litter of railway tracks and reach one of the steep alleys leading up from the docks to the town.

  When they carne to the less deserted streets they were able to judge that Saratof was in a scarcely happier condition than Novarodar. The shop-windows were empty; the cafés closed and shuttered; no trams were running. It was all depressing enough, except for the fact that it was, after all, Saratof—the last important stage-point on their long journey from danger into safety. The Whites were but a few score miles away, which, after reckoning for so long in terms of hundreds of miles, seemed next to nothing at all; Denikin’s army, too, might have been advancing and have made the interval even less. As he trudged over the crunching snow, A.J.’s spirits rose as he contemplated the future.

  But there was a more immediate future to be decided. Refreshed and abundantly fit after the river-journey, he would have pushed on that very night, and Daly also was anxious to avoid delay. For a time they talked of reaching some village perhaps ten miles or so out of Saratof and seeking accommodation there. Villages were safer than towns; the people in them were usually more kindly, less terrified of the authorities, and less likely to be inquisitive about passports and travel-permits.

  But before they reached the suburban fringe of the town this plan became suddenly impossible, for Daly was clearly on the point of collapse. It was obvious that she could not walk another mile, much less the unknown distance to the nearest village, and there was nothing for it but to contemplate the risks of seeking shelter in Saratof itself. The town was noted for its strongly Red sympathies, and A.J. did not feel happy at the prospect of spending a night in it. He tried a few cottages, playing the part of the wandering but not quite penniless working-man who could pay a small sum for a bed for himself and his wife until the morning; but in every case he was turned away. One haggard housewife told him that nobody was allowed to take in strangers, and that if he wanted accommodation he had better apply to the Labour Bureau at the commisariat offices of the local Soviet. When he reached Daly, whom he had left a little distance away, he found her lying on the snow-covered pavement. He picked her up; she was shivering and trying to smile, but incapable of speech and only able to stagger along with great difficulty. There remained one last resource, which he had not wished to be driven to—the address of the ex-butler. He mentioned it, and she nodded agreement. Then he called at another house and enquired the way; by good fortune it was in the same quarter of the town, quite close.

  A few moments later he was tapping at the door of a small workman’s- cottage. An elderly, white-haired man appeared, to whom he said: “Does Stapen live here?” At that the man’s face took on an expression of sudden terror. “Stapen?” he exclaimed, acting very badly. “No, there is no one here of that name.” Then A.J. realised the fears that might be in the man’s mind, and added: “I was sent here by the Valimoffs, of Novarodar.” The old man stared incredulously and, after a pause, asked them inside. He had been almost dumb with fear, and now was in the same condition with astonishment. A.J. talked a little to reassure him, while Daly sank into a chair, too weak to take any part in the conversation.

  In the end their identities were satisfactorily established, and the old man admitted that he was himself Stapen, the ex-butler. He was also more than willing to help them, though he had very little food and no money. His wife was out at that moment, trying to get bread. Life was terrible in Saratof, and he prayed that Denikin’s army might arrive soon.

  Daly recovered a little in front of the fire, and Stapen recognised her—or so he said—he had seen her in the old days in Moscow. Daly also said (but perhaps from mere politeness) that she thought she remembered him.

  It was soon apparent that Stapen’s mind was obsessed with some other matter which he was afraid to mention until Daly broached it first. She said: “Well, and have you the little girl with you still?” Stapen’s voice dropped then to a throbbing whisper, he was evidently delighted that the strangers knew all about it, yet at the same time awestruck to be discussing it with them. He replied: “Yes, the princess is upstairs. She has been ill—she has had typhus—but she is now getting well. You would wish to see her, eh? Or no—she may be asleep—perhaps to-morrow will be better. You are going to take her with you when you go?” He turned to A.J. and added: “Ah, I knew the Valimoffs would make a good choice—how I have been longing for the day when I should hand her over to someone such as yourself!”

  His sincerity and devotion were beyond suspicion, but A.J. at that moment was hardly in a mood to be appreciative. He felt, indeed, a little impatient with the fellow. Did nothing matter except the rescue of a princess? He realised again how difficult and complicated would be the escape to Denikin’s lines if he and Daly were to be burdened with a small and illustrious child.

  “For the present,” he answered, rather coldly, “we can hardly look ahead as far as that. My wife is ill and needs rest.”

  Stapen bowed, controlling his excitement like a well-trained servant who allows it to be supposed that he had momentarily forgotten himself. Within a short time he had prepared a bed and Daly was being put into it. She whispered, as A.J. laid her head on the pillow: “Dear, why are you so angry with people like Stapen? You were angry with the Valimoffs too.” He answered: “I’m not really angry with them—I’m everlastingly grateful in most ways. It’s just that they seem to think other things matter more than you.”

  “Well, don’t they?”

  “Possibly, but I can’t be expected to agree to it.”

  “I don’t think you care, then, for this little princess?”

  “Not a bit. I hate her, even, because I see in her a possible danger to you. It’s all very selfish, I know, but I can’t help it. I won’t even try to help it. The world is so full of misery that one cant—one daren’t—one’s eyes to it all. The most to be done is to make sure of what one loves and never to let it go. All the rest must be put outside—entirely.”

  “Do you think Poushkoff felt like that?”

  “Probably. He loved you too.”

  She smiled and closed her eyes, and he went down to talk to Stapen. Her words, however, had made him rather more friendly towards the old man, who proved,
on acquaintance, the pleasantest and simplest of types. His wife, who came in later in the evening after failing to secure any bread, was very different, but perhaps necessarily so in order to strike a balance with a husband of such benignity. She was a shrewd and rather embittered woman, who gave A.J. hut the chilliest of welcomes. A fruitless four-hour wait in a bread- queue had put her into a mood of outspokenness that her husband sought in vain to check; she almost began by saying: “Well, if Denikin’s men are on the way, let hem bring some food with them. For my part, I don’t care whether we are governed by Reds or Whites, so long as working people can get enough to eat.”

  Afterwards Stapen apologised for her with stately courtesy. “She was always like that,” he said. “Many’s the time that my dear old master, Prince Borosil, said to me—’Stapen, you should whip her!’—and I promised I would. But, somehow, I could never bring myself to do it.”

  In the morning Daly seemed much better, and A.J.’s hopes began to be optimistic again. It was all, of course, a little more difficult now that they had met Stapen. The fellow assumed so completely that they intended to take the child along with them when they made their dash for safety; it was a dream he had been dreaming for months, and now it seemed about to be accomplished he could only build pretty details all around it. Would they take her to Paris? Or to Rome? Or to London? There were royalties and semi-royalties all over Europe who, it appeared, would be delighted to extend unlimited hospitality to such an exalted babe. For she was, Stapen explained in a whisper, within measurable distance of being heir to all the Russias. The Bolsheviks had killed so many of the ex-Emperor’s family and relatives—far more than anyone could estimate exactly—and the careful, systematic process of extermination was still being carried out. “That is why they are always on the watch for the princess,” he added, “but so far I don’t think they have the slightest idea where she is. They have her photograph, of course, but it is bound to be an old one, and she is different now, especially after her illness.”