Bloody Sunset

by Bloody Sunset (retail) (epub)

  ‘And how will you get back?’

  He shrugged, munching apple. ‘Small problem, there. But if I joined you, the problem would only be postponed – and trickier then, with women and children on our hands.’

  ‘We’ll find a way, Bob. Two heads are supposed to be better than one.’

  ‘So let’s put them together now. From here, Nick, now…’

  ‘Easy. We’ll go by way of Enotayevsk.’

  ‘Well, naturally. First thing anyone would think of – go a hundred miles up-river. Then come floating down it again, I suppose?’

  ‘That’s a thought, isn’t it?’

  ‘In a punt? The girls reclining in the back end under parasols?’

  ‘Bob – you know, you can joke as much as you like, but if you were with me the possibility – or alternative – of escape by sea does become more real. With your professional skills and—’

  ‘And your daydreams, Nick. Down the Volga and out to sea past Astrakhan, Bolsheviks everywhere you look and half the Black Sea Fleet… Seriously, if that’s your reason for wanting me with you—’

  ‘It’s not. Although there could be something in it, you don’t have to put it quite so baldly… No, my reason is that I’d like your help, that I’d like to have you with me. Two heads are better than one: and in a tight spot it’s not so bad to have someone you can trust to watch your back. But also – look—’ he was whispering now – ‘from your own point of view, first I can’t see what other course is open to you, and second – well, you say your duty’s to get back. All right, fine – but don’t forget, your commodore and the General gave their approval to this mission. The General even mentioned that King George of England would be – gratified… So, tell me this – which is better, to go back saying the boat and two lives are lost, I’ve left that damn Russian to look after himself – or mission accomplished?’

  * * *

  Like a hothouse. Jungle-type heat and humidity. No breath of wind, no movement permissible or safe, nothing to do but sit and sweat. He’d put his shirt and trousers back on; they weren’t dry, only hot and damp, but they’d be like this again in minutes even if you’d put them on bone-dry, and anyway – protection against the mosquitoes and maintenance of morale…

  Work was continuing, around the scene of the CMB’s destruction. They could have had divers down: and a diesel-engined craft of some kind had visited, stayed an hour and gone away again. Voices were audible occasionally, but they were quieter – the excitement having worn off, he supposed – as well as the effect of this enervating heat.

  The Count leant over, flipped up one of the sleeves of Bob’s reefer, which was still steaming gently on the trampled reeds.

  ‘Better pull those stripes off, hadn’t you?’

  ‘If I need it at all.’

  ‘In the cold nights you will. Tonight anyway, crossing this marsh. We might find you something less conspicuous tomorrow.’

  ‘Is it all that conspicuous?’

  A nod. ‘Obviously naval, and very good material. You could claim to have stolen it, but then it wouldn’t fit you as it does.’

  ‘Right.’ He pulled it on to his lap, opened his seaman’s knife – Admiralty issue, in naval parlance a ‘pusser’s dirk’, worn on a lanyard around the waist – and began to slice the interwoven RNR gold-braid stripes off the thick, damp serge. Muttering, ‘You seem to be assuming I’ll be with you.’

  ‘Not assuming. Hoping.’ He slapped his neck and swore. ‘We’ll have malaria after this, for sure.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be at all surprised.’

  Leonide’s father suffered from malaria. So did a lot of the local people, of course, but she’d mentioned that he had very bad spells of it from time to time: she’d advanced this as an argument in favour of keeping shirt-sleeves buttoned at the wrist and never wearing short trousers. What she’d have said if she could have seen him sitting here stark naked, earlier on – well, one would never know… He frowned, wrenching the last inch of the second stripe off, and recognizing that she and her family would very soon be thinking he’d run out on her. He’d said – his last words to her – ‘See you in a few days. Probably four or five.’ But it would be weeks, not days. Even if he didn’t go up-river with the Count, it would be weeks before he saw her. Not that this mattered, in terms of any great romance or thwarted love – the truth was that he’d been preparing to slide out of the relationship – in a friendly way, of course, and not expecting heartbreak on her side either – and still feeling a certain degree of responsibility for her safety, in that very uncertain Baku situation. He knew he was not ‘responsible’, had certainly had no idea that she’d been coming over from Krasnovodsk, but it wasn’t inconceivable that in her own mind she’d been killing two birds with one stone when she’d decided to come to Uncle George’s assistance, might have thought his interest in her was deeper than it ever had been.

  Well – right at the start, perhaps – in that first week, he’d been fairly smitten…

  Anyway, the last thing he’d want now was to have her think he’d been careless of her feelings.

  Shutting his eyes, against heat and glare. Sweat streaming: he’d given up trying to mop it. No movement of air at all, down at this ground level… He remembered that the Count had reckoned on taking minimally seven days on this task but just as likely a fortnight and possibly as much as three weeks. And that had been just to get from here to Enotayevsk, get the women out of hiding and bring them back here. Whereas now one had probably to reckon on an overland trek – coastwise, perhaps, via Guriev.

  From Guriev one could telegraph to Baku, perhaps. Or make contact by wireless. Establish a rendezvous, push off in a fishing-boat – or something…

  Extraordinary to have only just thought of this! Brain half cooked, probably. First you half-drown, and then – he ripped the last inch of the last stripe off – damn well bake… From Enotayevsk to Guriev, though, would be something like – visualizing the map – well, three hundred miles, roughly. Across the Kirghiz Steppes. Best form of transport would surely be camel-back. If the Count had enough money to buy camels. But it might be crazy to think of crossing that particular stretch of country without a strong bodyguard: especially with women and girls in your caravan…

  ‘Bob. If you were to decide to join me, we’d need a new name for you. As you know, there’s no such name as Robert or Bob – and we’d have to pass you off as a Russian, obviously.’

  ‘What about my accent?’

  ‘Well – it’s very slight. More inflection than accent. I suppose it could become a bit of a problem, in certain circumstances. So we’d need a background for you that would explain it. I wonder…’

  ‘At a pinch, might I be a Persian?’

  ‘Do you talk Persian?’

  ‘No. But—’

  ‘Talk any languages other than Russian and English?’

  ‘Only schoolboy French.’

  ‘Ah – my French isn’t bad… But—’

  ‘Doesn’t help us, does it. I was going to say – on our way up from the Gulf, when I wasn’t shaving and wasn’t obviously in uniform, I was mistaken for a Persian. And I wouldn’t be meeting any others up there – would I?’

  ‘Probably not. Well, now…’

  ‘Then if I needed a new name, as it happens there’s a place called Robat, on the Afghan-Persian border. Oh – I think it’s just inside Baluchistan. The three frontiers all meet at that point. But I could come from there. I’d be a man of mixed blood, but consider myself Persian and use the name Robat – wouldn’t necessarily have been mine since birth, only what I’ve been known as – because that’s been my stamping-ground. I may have been an outlaw – led guerrillas – d’you think?’

  ‘Clever.’ The Count nodded. ‘Avoiding the risk of forgetting some other name at an awkward moment. And to have been a guerrilla leader – excellent, the Bolsheviks might see some use in you.’ The green eyes smiled. ‘What else, out of that fertile imagination?’

  ‘Would anyone w
ant more?’

  ‘They might. And the more detail, if it’s believable, the more you’re – well, credible. So – for instance – how come you were in Askhabad?’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘You and I must have met somewhere – huh?’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ He screwed his face up, thinking about it. Feeling his jaw, at the same time – quite a substantial first day’s growth of stubble – and thinking about this mythical Persian guerrilla. Revolutionary – a Red now, if that was the side on which he believed his bread was buttered…

  ‘I’m pro-Bolshevik, obviously. Keen to spread the gospel into Persia. That’s the basic thing, and why you’ve brought me along with you – you being a deeply committed Bolshevik yourself… What did you say your name is, by the way?’

  ‘Vetrov, Anton Ivanovich. Better memorize it.’

  ‘Anton.’ Bob nodded. ‘Anton of the winds.’ He’d remember it now. The Russian word veter meaning wind, and as a memory-jogger the complete lack of any here… Memory working well now anyway: throwing up the next idea… ‘Anton – my own recent history could be that I was with Kuchik Khan. Is that name familiar?’

  ‘No, I don’t—’

  ‘Persian brigand. Guerrilla – like me. His last effort was trying to stop Bicherakov – and Dunsterville – getting from Kazvin to Enzeli, on their way to Baku. Kuchik was holding an all-important bridge at Menjil, on that road. In some strength, too. Bicherakov had only a thousand Cossacks with him, and Dunsterville had no more than a handful of Hussars and Hampshires. But he did have a couple of flying-machines with him, and they’d spotted a spur of mountain slope – untenanted at the time – from which artillery could dominate the Persian positions. Well, Kuchik Khan had a German so-called adviser, a Major von Passchen, and this Hun came along under a flag of truce to tell Bicherakov he was heavily outnumbered, didn’t have a hope if it came to a fight, but they’d let him and his Cossacks through if they undertook to have nothing further to do with the British. So it’s plain what he was there for. Anyway, Bicherakov’s artillery had meanwhile occupied that key position, he told von Passchen to go and jump in the Caspian, opened the attack, Kuchik Khan’s horde ran like riggers, and – well, that was it. Adding the fiction now, I’d have realized Kuchik wasn’t worth bothering with – when I need a force down there I’d do better to raise it myself, from scratch – and this was when I moved up to Askhabad. Then Fralin the Cheka commander recruited me – and there you are.’

  ‘And after the coup we escaped together.’

  ‘Right. But talking of Fralin reminds me – your story, Anton… You were working under him – but had you come down from Tashkent with him?’

  ‘No. He took me on in Askhabad, too. I’m a Bolshevik but I’m not Cheka – never was.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’d wondered – how you’d explain not having gone back to Tashkent, if…’

  He’d stopped. Shook his head. ‘Problem – no papers. Wouldn’t even get off this bog without any – would I?’

  ‘Into a Bolshevik prison, you would.’

  ‘Exactly. So…’

  ‘They took your papers from you in Askhabad, during interrogation. They were going to hang you – you never got them back. I was cleverer, had mine in my socks – they look like it, too… But I’d back you up on this, obviously – my God, you saved me from the gallows, I owe you my life!’

  ‘It was a pleasure, Anton. Any time.’

  The Count laughed. Reaching over, offering a handshake…‘Enotayevsk then, Robat. Marvellous…’

  6

  Trekking north-westward – keeping the Pole star fine on the starboard bow, as it were… By midnight it was getting easier, with less of the bogland and fewer streams and salt-lakes that had slowed their progress and forced them into detours earlier. Bob’s shoes were still squelching wet, though. Tennis shoes, for God’s sake. The Count had been absolutely right – Bob not having thought about it until he’d mentioned it – that the idea of a Persian guerrilla (or anyone else, for that matter) traversing this wild expanse of territory in English-made plimsolls was ludicrous. You’d be less conspicuous rigged up in a clown’s outfit with a red nose and a ginger wig: and anyway – as he’d pointed out rather contemptuously – how could anyone have come all the way from Askhabad in those?

  The intention was to go shopping at Seitovka. They’d be taking a train from there too. Heading north-west at this stage because according to the Count’s mental map the village of Krasni-Yar would be to the west of where they’d landed – well inland, having made use of the skiff to start with, beaching it where the Count had been on the point of doing so when the mine had gone up. Bob had agreed it would be as well to keep clear of Krasni-Yar or any other villages or settlements during the dark hours – especially as they were coming from the direction of the sea, and every living soul for miles around would have heard last night’s explosion. The idea was therefore to head northwest for about ten miles, circling around any inhabited places along the way, then west until they came to the road leading to Seitovka from Krasni-Yar, and follow that. With luck and no hold-ups they might average, say, three miles an hour, reaching Seitovka not long after dawn.

  The criticism of Bob’s footwear had come up at about the time the destroyer had been pushing off. About 4 pm, by the Count’s watch – Bob’s having stopped, and declining to start again despite efforts to dry out its works. As far as he remembered, that was when the subject had come up. Memory was somewhat vague: parts of it dream-like, reality and dream merging confusingly in retrospect, what with sleep and half-sleep, and the greenhouse heat, and the probably lingering effects of earlier trauma. He’d slept for about four hours – according to the Count’s timing – from about noon to 4 pm, which had been the time when he’d woken to hear the destroyer’s crew getting ready to pull out. Sleeping with his head among the reeds, in as much shade as existed, right in among their roots, and a smell like compost: then the tug’s departure first, that slow, powerful thrashing northward, and soon afterwards the sounds of a boat being hoisted, then the loud, rhythmic clanking of the destroyer’s steam capstan hauling in her cable. And the Count’s murmur, ‘I’ve been thinking, while you snored. You should have a more suitable jacket, Bob – anything, but not that one. And something red – like my scarf, or a shirt. You need a hat or a cap too – nobody goes bareheaded.’

  He’d suggested facetiously, ‘Bowler with a red feather in it?’

  His head had stopped hurting, he’d realized. Thanks to the long sleep, no doubt. And thank God for large mercies…

  ‘There must be a shop, in Seitovka. It’s the only village of any size anywhere in that district, there’ll be a store to serve the peasants’ needs. Peasants and fishermen, I suppose… Not that the countryside’s exactly crowded, in these regions.’

  ‘Have we got enough money for all this?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ A smile. ‘Yes, we have, Robat.’

  ‘For train tickets too?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How often would trains go, from Seitovka?’

  He’d shrugged. ‘As frequently as they go from Astrakhan, probably. At least one a day, might be more. It’s the first stop after Astrakhan. The line runs north to start with, then at Seitovka bends to the left and follows the river valley north-westward for – oh, three hundred versts or so.’

  Geography lesson, then. This had been after the destroyer had gone; he remembered listening to all the sounds of its departure, therefore wouldn’t have been listening to the Count as well. So probably it had been when they’d been watching the sun go down and the mosquitoes had been at their worst. They’d been eating the last of the Count’s apples at that time, too – for thirst-quenching purposes that were essential, all the water here being so brackish as to be barely drinkable and, when you did drink any, counter-productive, increasing one’s thirst more than satisfying it. It must have had a beneficial effect in replacing body-fluid lost through sweating, all the same, and it was easy enough to come by
: all you had to do was dig a six-inch hole with a knife, and watch it fill. Then it was like taking medicine. Thirst in fact had been the greatest source of discomfort by late afternoon – worse than the mosquitoes, and flies, and the background anxiety which haunted one’s fitful dreaming too – of having, in the long run, no way out of this…

  The geography lesson, illustrated by scratchings in the mud, had started with the Volga: that it was now at its lowest, as much as forty feet lower than in the spring, so that at this time of year the main stream was only a mile or so in width – although deep enough to be navigable by quite large steamers, and recently of course by minor warships – with smaller streams winding in isolation through the rest of the twelve-mile-wide bottom-land. The main stream was on the valley’s western side – the Enotayevsk side, that was.

  ‘It rises somewhere north-west of Moscow – am I right?’

  ‘At Tver. Quite small up there, of course. Three and a half thousand versts away – uh?’

  ‘Two thousand miles… Some river!’

  ‘As you say – some river… But the railway, now…’

  Lesson continuing. This lower, widest part of the Volga came down from Tsarytsin, about three hundred miles north-west of Astrakhan, and the railway from here ran up the east side of the valley, leaving it at about the halfway mark where it slanted off northward towards Saratov. And down at this end of it, after Seitovka the next two stopping points were at Selitrenoe and Sasykolsk, respectively fifty and ninety miles from Seitovka. Enotayevsk lay roughly between those two places, but on the Volga’s western bank, so they’d have to cross the river after leaving the train.

  ‘I’ll buy tickets to Sasykolsk. It’s slightly closer to Enotayevsk – and in fact beyond it, and there’s a fishing-station not far away, might get some boatman to take us across.’

  ‘Just walk up and buy tickets, will you? Nobody’ll ask questions?’