The Longest Winter

by Mary Jane Staples

  It was going to be cold in this cave. He turned. The girls were pale glimmers of movement, but there was still just enough light for his eyes as he began to explore the place. He told the girls to stay where they were and keep their ears open. The cave narrowed at a depth of thirty feet, then opened out again and he saw the glimmer of still, dark water and a rocky ledge along the left-hand wall. He stripped off his knickerbockers and his still damp pants and vigorously massaged his chilled limbs. He put his knickerbockers back on but left the pants off. He was not very happy. They were in a damnable fix, no mistake. They had no food, no fire. The cave gave shelter but no warmth. Not until it was dark could they move out, and even then they would not be able to travel over these rocky foothills or the shelving riverbank unless there was a moon. Was there a moon? He cast his mind back over the last few nights. Damned if he could remember anything about bright moonlight.

  He stamped around, reluctant to confront the baronesses with cold cheer. He saw the opening of the cave, the light outside was russet. He heard Sophie’s voice, it sounded warm and reassuring.

  ‘We need not worry too much, someone is bound to be looking for us. Papa and Carl for certain.’

  ‘But they won’t look for us here,’ said Anne. ‘Never mind, I am much more comfortable now, and we still have James.’

  ‘And James still has us,’ said Sophie, ‘I’m afraid we’re an awful responsibility for him. We must bear up and carry our banners bravely. I will recite the clarion call of the Habsburgs defying the Turks as James rides into battle.’

  ‘Your imagination, darling, is sometimes stupefying,’ said Anne.

  James came stamping. The girls, for all their cheerfulness, looked peaked.

  ‘What is that you have?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘My pants,’ said James, ‘they were trying to give me pneumonia. Shall we see if we can get away when it’s dark enough?’

  ‘Where you go, James, we shall follow,’ said Sophie. ‘My faith in you is tenfold. With any other man I should be afraid of breaking my neck. And some men, you know, exercise what I call such a distinctive carelessness when climbing hills in the dark that they are constantly breaking their own necks. I hope you will be very careful.’

  ‘Sophie, you’re a fund of sweet light,’ smiled James, ‘and I shall take care that nobody breaks a neck. Certainly not you or Anne. I’m too fond of you both.’

  ‘And we are extremely fond of you,’ said Anne, ‘I don’t know what we should do if you weren’t here with us.’

  ‘The fact that you’re here at all is my fault—’

  ‘You’re not to say that,’ said Sophie a little emotionally.

  ‘I met that idiot Ferenac in Vienna,’ said James, ‘and for some reason he thinks I’m on his tail. He’s a political creature.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where you met him, what he is or what he thinks,’ said Sophie, ‘you are not to say this is your fault. You will upset me. I don’t like being upset. I cry.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Anne.

  ‘Yes, I do, and I will.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Anne.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Sophie, ‘the temperamental weapon of tears is woman’s only effective one. James, what am I talking about?’

  ‘How to keep smiling, I think,’ said James. His nerves were on edge, his ears attuned more for the extraneous than this localized banter. But Sophie, he felt, was trying to induce cheer and avoid the dismal. ‘I’ll go and put my nose out for a while.’

  He went to the entrance again. Outside the shadows were deeper, longer, the river a murmurous flow, the darkening pines quiet. He sat down just inside the opening, he looked and he listened. He stayed there until the sun had gone and twilight muted the colours. The temperature dropped. He stretched, rubbed his hands, blew on them and rubbed them again. The twilight deepened. Anne and Sophie walked and whispered. He listened for the extraneous sounds. The quietness outside carried an uneasiness with it. He stiffened as little noises suddenly carried too. They were the noises of moving men, from the foothills to his right. Damn, they had crossed the river themselves at some point. He retreated quickly and silently into the cave. Sophie and Anne came out of the darkness.

  ‘Say nothing, they’re not far away,’ he whispered. He took their arms and led them through the narrowing passage into the black vault beyond, so much darker as the light faded outside the cave. The damp eeriness made Anne shiver and Sophie felt cold goose pimples rise at the engulfing blackness. In this inner chamber the ground inclined slightly downwards. James could not see the silent water, not in this darkness, but he knew it was there, somewhere in front of them. He had to get the girls up on to that ledge, above the still, black pool, and into a recess, their only possible hiding place. The ground became slippery and he knew they were at the edge of the water. The ledge was to the left. He kept hold of the girls while he put one foot up. He found the ledge and brought his foot down.

  ‘There’s a shelf wide enough to stand on,’ he whispered, ‘and a recess a little way along. Hold still while I get you up.’

  He mounted the ledge. He reached down. Anne was a faint glimmer. He took her by the hands and pulled her up. He pulled Sophie up. They glued themselves to the damp wall and shuddered at its clamminess. But they made no sound and James loved them for their courage. He edged along, feeling his way, the girls following crabwise. He reached a rough, shallow depression in the wall and brought the girls into it, the shelf wider here. Anne gritted her teeth and Sophie fought to control her nerves as they all fitted themselves into the recess, James between the sisters, his arms around their waists, faces to the wall.

  Then they could only wait. Below them the icy pool waited too, hungry to receive warm bodies.

  They heard nothing but their own breathing for long minutes. They heard nothing of the men who silently approached the cave entrance. Sophie’s heart hammered as the silence screamed at her and three bodies froze rigidly as with a rush and a clatter the outer cave was invaded. Boots pounded the stone floor. Ferenac, with two men, had burst in. Anne’s right hand was over her mouth, stifling her frightened breath, and Sophie was conscious of the warning communicated by the tightening of James’s embracing arm. No sound, stay still, stay still.

  They stayed still, rigid bodies pressed to the wall. There was a light in the cave. The men had a torch. Oh, dear God, thought Sophie, they are men determined to get us. Why, why?

  The light swept around the vacated area. Oh, by God, thought James, had they left anything there? Shoes? No. His pants? No. He had them folded and tucked inside his jacket, and the girls had left their hats and parasols in the tavern. But their handbags, which they had clung to with all the resolution of their sex? God, their handbags!

  His urgent hands investigated. Sophie and Anne, in a nightmare of fear, frenziedly wondered what he was at. James discovered identifiable shapes and breathed with relief. The light moved, the beam fingering the blackness, finding the narrow passage.

  ‘Damn them. Where are they?’ It was Ferenac’s voice, speaking in German. It sounded livid. He was answered by a mutter. ‘The next, then,’ said Ferenac impatiently, ‘they’re in one of these holes.’

  But the man with the torch was moving down the cave, sweeping the light from side to side. It chased over walls, it pierced the darkness of the passage. It reached into the black vault and slow footsteps followed it. The beam swung, steadied and played straight down into the area of refuge. There were other footsteps and Ferenac’s voice, echoing around the vault.

  ‘Water,’ he hissed furiously, ‘stinking water. But we’ll find them, they’ll be in some hole we’ll have to crawl into. They’ve got Dobrovic’s gun and that gives them an advantage in the right place.’ The light lingered on the black water, mesmerized by its menacing stillness. ‘Come on. What does it matter? If we don’t get them tonight, Avriarches will tomorrow. Wherever they are, they’re stuck. Come on.’

  The beam retreated. The blackness descended. They
heard the men moving out. The hardness of a revolver pressed consciously now against James’s ribs. Until Ferenac had mentioned it he had forgotten it. He wouldn’t even make a decent Boy Scout.

  ‘Wait,’ he whispered to the trembling girls, ‘wait just a little longer.’

  ‘Oh, James . . .’ It was a distraught, almost imperceptible gasp from Sophie.

  But he would not be trapped into moving yet. Ferenac had spoken in German. Why? To lull his prey in a language they knew? To bring them out of hiding as soon as they thought it safe? He would be wary of that revolver. Or were his companions German-speaking? Whatever the reason, it made James keep the girls on that ledge for long, agonizing minutes before he at last moved. Then he brought them free of it and helped them down, everyone moving cautiously. They edged clear of the water and around the wall to the passage. James knocked his head against projecting rock, but that was an insignificance compared with other things. They went through the passage into the outer cave. Outside the twilight had turned to dusk and the cave had the atmosphere of night. But at least they could see each other. Sophie winced.

  ‘James, you’ve cut yourself,’ she said, her voice strained.

  ‘Just a knock,’ he said. She and Anne were trembling, but he could have forgiven them an attack of hysteria at this point. He wiped away a trickle of blood on his forehead and said, ‘Stay here a moment, I must take a look.’

  Cautiously, warily, he put his head out. The dusk was bringing the night, dark night. He could see no moon. The river was almost invisible and the littered foothills seemed highly discouraging in the gloom. He could hear no sound except the murmur of the fast-flowing river. He listened intently for a while, then returned to the baronesses.

  ‘I think they’ve gone,’ he said. Anne, overwrought, leaned against him. He put one arm around her. Sophie essayed a shaky smile. James gave her an encouraging one. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘it was a near thing, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Near?’ said Sophie. ‘It was next door to doom for a moment.’

  ‘Oh, I was so scared,’ sighed Anne.

  James took her face between his hands. Her cheeks were cold.

  ‘I’m proud of both of you,’ he said and lightly kissed her. Sophie bit her lip and turned away. It was childish, she knew, but she would rather have liked a little affection herself. It was that kind of a moment.

  ‘I heard that man mention a gun,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I have one,’ said James, ‘I took it from the fellow who ran his face into that door. I ought to have thought about using it if they’d spotted us, but this is my first manhunt, and certainly the first on the wrong end, and I only remembered the revolver when Ferenac spoke about it. I also forgot to make sure until then that you hadn’t left your handbags lying around here.’

  ‘Oh, I see now,’ said Anne.

  ‘I must agree, I did think it the wrong time for you to be familiar, James.’ Sophie managed a weak laugh. Their narrow escape was inducing light-headedness now. ‘Do you think we shall be able to get away in a little while?’

  ‘Come and look,’ said James. At the entrance they peered into gathering darkness. In the west the sky was purple-black. Above them it was becoming inky. Without the aid of moonlight they would never be able to see their way over this terrain. Nor could they think about recrossing the river or climbing the slope to the road. And even allowing that they might make some progress along the foothills, every noise they made would carry. Which, if Ferenac and his men were still roaming about, would bring disaster. James felt the whole business was an absolute swine. How the devil was he going to get the girls out of it?

  ‘We need a moon,’ he murmured, bringing them back into the cave.

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ said Sophie, ‘and instead of everything being rather frightening it would all look romantic.’

  ‘It would help us to see and save us breaking our necks,’ said James, ‘which is what I promised.’

  ‘Men think in very practical terms, you know, Anne,’ said Sophie.

  ‘I am thinking in terms of a warm fire and hot food,’ said Anne. ‘Oh, it is so cold in here, isn’t it?’

  It was. And they were all hungry, thirsty and drained.

  ‘Supposing you two try to get some sleep?’ said James. ‘We’ll move as soon as it’s light. I’ll sit by the entrance for a while. Just in case.’

  ‘James, exactly why are they after us?’ asked Sophie. ‘I think you know. Please tell us.’

  They had a right to know, he thought. They had the courage to know.

  ‘I believe Ferenac intends to assassinate the Archduke Franz Ferdinand,’ he said, ‘and I also believe he’s aware I suspect him. Which is why his solution was to put me out of the way. Unfortunately, this has involved you two.’

  ‘James, you aren’t serious?’ said Anne incredulously.

  ‘He once said a good archduke is a dead one. I think he’s very serious himself.’

  ‘It makes sense of his desperate desire to get hold of us, for he knows you would go to the police,’ said Sophie. ‘James, I think I’m getting very frightened.’

  ‘If he’s that kind of a man,’ said Anne, ‘I think I’m going to be scared out of my wits.’

  ‘I don’t feel too happy myself,’ said James, ‘but he’s got other things on his mind as well as us. We only have to worry about shaking him off. We’ll do that as soon as it’s light. It won’t be difficult. Don’t worry, we’ll manage. Get some sleep. You must.’

  Sophie and Anne were too tired to argue. They became a huddled bundle on the floor close to the wall, their heads pillowed on their white handbags. Anne shivered for a while, despite the warmth of her sister’s body, but she dropped off, drawn into slumber by the compulsive inducement of exhaustion. Sophie lay awake, worried about James, surely colder by himself than she and Anne were together. The hardness of the ground made her hip bone ache but she did not move. Suddenly, surprisingly, she slept.

  James, sitting close to the entrance, got up and walked about, warming his chilled blood. He blew into his hands. He glanced at the glimmering figures of the recumbent girls. They had given him brave companionship. The menace of Ferenac was an obscenity, but political fanatics were always the most pitiless. Who was the man Avriarches he had mentioned? Avriarches, felt James, carried further menace. What day was it when Franz Ferdinand arrived in Sarajevo? Tomorrow? The day after? Or was he to be killed by Ferenac in Ilidze? But Ferenac would not go to either Ilidze or Sarajevo if he thought the fugitives had escaped to inform on him. No, he would not go anywhere until the situation was clearly resolved for him.

  Sophie and Anne moaned a little. They were restless on their cold, hard bed. They did not often come face to face with this kind of crisis, one that was such a frightening assault on mind and body. They moved in a rich, cultured and privileged society, remote from the rigours and hardships of the rest of the world. But it had not turned them into spoiled and bloodless caricatures. They had survived Ferenac and his hunters with courage this day, and without complaints or tears. James knew he must return them unharmed to their bright citadel of life, they deserved no less.

  He heard a sigh, a rustle. They were finding the stone floor primitive, discomfort battling with exhaustion.

  ‘James?’ Sophie whispered his name.

  ‘Can’t you sleep?’ He went over to her. Anne was fitfully dozing beside her.

  ‘I’ve been asleep. It isn’t the softest of beds, though.’ Sophie kept to a whisper, not wanting to wake Anne. ‘James, they won’t come back here now, I’m sure they won’t. So you must get some sleep too.’ As naturally as she could she went on, ‘It’s not much good any of us being prim and proper, you know. You must lie down with us, we’ll all keep each other warm. Please?’

  She was being entirely sensible. His bone-weary condition tempted him. So did the warmth she exuded. She reached, took his hand and made the decision for him. He came down between her and Anne as she made room for him. She felt the coldness of his
clothes. He must be frozen. She put her body bravely to his and her warmth generated both comfort and pleasure. He relaxed, using his folded woollen pants as a pillow. They pressed close. It was as instinctive as practical. In the darkness Sophie blushed to her roots. James was so undeniably masculine, so firm against her. She had been worried about him, now she worried about herself. There was a desire to be held, a desire to be wanted. She could not resist responding to the moment. She put her arms around him and drew closer. Warmly she snuggled. Sweet heat surged into her. She hid her crimson face in his shoulder because of the delicious excitement the physical contact brought.

  James’s chilled veins thawed and warm blood flowed.

  Anne gave a restless moan, sought the comfort of another body. The three of them lay close. Sometimes they slept, sometimes they fitfully chased the elusive. The warmth was only partial, the hard ground inescapable. Aching hips awoke them, they turned, they twisted and they dozed in spasms.

  Sophie turned for the hundredth time. There was coldness all down her front, warmth at her back. In turning she found warmth for her front. She cuddled, snuggled, found blissful comfort for one more short space and thought how good, how lovely.

  James awoke. A dark head rested on his arm, a soft curving body slept warmly against his. Cold cramp made him curl his toes and stony ground tortured his hip. He moved. Sophie gave a dreamy whimper and clung. He stayed still. His hip went numb. Sophie murmured. He closed his eyes.

  Sophie awoke. The fissure was grey with dawn light. Cold draughts besieged her back, but the warmth in her stomach and thighs was so good. Her open eyes vaguely surveyed a crumpled tweed jacket. It belonged to James. It was James. She was shamelessly, tightly aligned with him, her arms around him. A little tremor quivered through her and sensations of sweet pleasure disturbed her. His head lay on his folded woollens, his face was a little gaunt and his chin blue. The cut on his forehead was marked by dried blood. How hard his body was. Colour suffused her. So this was James. He was sleeping like the dead even on this uncharitable ground, with Anne cuddled up behind him. He was not an ordinary man. He was much more like the new image forming in her mind. And her images were never of ordinary men.