White Eagles Over Serbia

by Lawrence Durrell

  The day dawned cloudy with a touch of damp which heralded a rain-storm, and he occupied himself by examining the country to the north of the cave with the same methodical intentness as he had devoted to the railway the day before. The country hereabouts was knotted up into a chain of rolling hills crested with great forests of beech and here not a living soul met his gaze. The wind rattled and roared on these uplands, filling the melancholy emptiness with the sound of shaken foliage and creaking branches. Once on a neighbouring hillside he saw a line of five men riding on horses with high wooden saddles. They were armed and through his glasses he could distinguish the grey tunics of soldiers and even detect the red star which each bore in his cap. He watched the column move slowly out of sight along the eastern flanks of the mountain opposite. Their movements suggested those of a leisurely patrol which has no determined end in view and Methuen noticed that the leader of the file did not even have his carbine at the ready, but wore it loosely slung over his back. They did not seem to fear an ambush on these empty mountains.

  The scenery now became more beautiful than ever, though profoundly lonely, save here and there for a beautiful black squirrel leaping from branch to branch, or a huge brown vulture floating through the azure overhead. The steep slopes over which he now made his way were covered with forest land more varied in its composition. The beech predominated, it is true, but everwhere now his eye picked out oaks and thoms, glaucous ashes, and the bursting fountain-like clumps of birch which grouped themselves along the skyline as if inviting him further into those lawny glades. The dull haze began to lift under the stimulus of an east wind from the plains as he reached the highest part of that green plateau and from here he was able to command an immense view—a stretch of blue contoured mountains stretching away towards Macedonia with here and there a silver scribble of river to break up the monotony of the mass. He studied this landscape carefully and patiently through his glasses though without uncovering anything more exciting than a few dust clouds on a strip of road, and a team of mules skirting the side of what looked like a deserted quarry.

  Here he spent some hours resting in the sweet-scented bracken before turning back to his hideout. It was puzzling that this plateau should yield no sign of life beyond that single patrol. He had with him a silk handkerchief printed with a commando map of the area and he worked out his references as well as he could, marking the silk lightly with a pencil. He calculated that in these two days he had explored an area of roughly five square miles around the cave without finding anything suspicious. Could it be that all Dombey’s reports were false? Troops of course would move along the valleys where road communications made for speed; but bandits of any kind would certainly operate on the hills where the cover was so good. Why was there no sign of them?

  He arrived back at the final spur beyond the monastery by three and was making his way back to the cave by a series of by now familiar coverts when it occurred to him to see if the body of the old monk was still lying where he had left it; he accordingly climbed the next hill from the back, making his way up a dry river-bed, and appeared in the clump of bushes behind the tree against which the unfortunate fisherman had been sitting. His nerves gave a jump of surprise when he saw no sign of the monk’s body under the tree. After carefully looking about him he rose from cover and raced down the bank to the river. The body had vanished, and though he searched carefully in the grass he could see no trace of footprints. Perhaps the people of the village had come out and fetched the old man in—but if so where were their footprints? He was about to give up his search and return to the river when a speck of black on the water, a hundred yards downstream, caught his eye. He drew in his breath and hastily focused his glasses on the spot. The monk’s body lay wedged between two rocks at a shallow place in the river, bobbing and shivering grotesquely in the swift current. Someone had thrown it in—but who?

  Methuen arrived back at the cave a troubled man; obviously there was someone moving about in this valley who was more skilful than himself at keeping out of sight; the sense of danger returned, and with it a feeling of hopelessness, for here he was, after all, playing a lone hand in a territory which, while it offered nothing substantial for him to see or do, nevertheless was bristling with hidden dangers. He wondered whether his presence had already been observed by the invisible someone who shared this empty valley with him; perhaps the cave had been compromised? Perhaps … But to-night, at any rate, he must leave the cave and lie up by the roadside in order not to miss the dawn rendezvous with Porson. He busied himself with the second half of his report for Dombey and by the time dusk fell he was ready for the trek back to the road.

  He had made out an elaborate shopping list of his wants which included a number of tinned delicacies and even bread, and this he included in his packet, asking that they should be dumped for him the following Wednesday. Then, because he was excited at the prospect of spending the night by the road, and because his restlessness demanded some sort of alleviation, he slipped down to the water and collected his rod, seeing with concern that it showed some signs of rust at the joints. Nevertheless he carried it upstream for fifty yards to where a willow-tree overhung a mossy pool and here he indulged that lithe nervous wrist of his, which could almost make a fly write his initials upon the water.

  The evening was cool and the sky had cleared. The fish were indulgent and rose to his hook in an agreeable manner, so that he very soon had half a dozen largish trout beside him on the bank, gasping under his duffle coat. These he packed in moss and leaves, and tied the makeshift parcel with some string he had found in his kit. They would, he calculated, make an annoying present for the Ambassador if only he could get them to Porson safely.

  Dusk was settling into evening before he finished packing and hiding his possessions in the cave. He set off across the hill to the Ibar gorge taking a new direction along the wooded crest of the hill above the cave, very much on the alert at this time when visibility was so poor and an ambush so easy to contrive. But his fears appeared to be misplaced for he reached the point where the Studenitsa falls abruptly over the high Ibar gorge without mishap. A half-hour of slipping and sliding down the mossy glades brought him to a point overlooking the road without his having once been obliged to leave cover.

  Here he stayed for a while watching the patrols moving along the stone cuttings of the railway track opposite. Above the roar of the river he could hear the noise of voices and here and there a cigarette-point glowed in the gathering darkness. He worked his way along among the saplings and bushes, keeping the road below him until he came to the white milestone. A hundred yards beyond it was the tree into which he must climb beside a gushing spring of mountain water. Here he found a grassy hollow and lay down to doze until dawn.

  He must have been more tired than he realized, for he fell asleep, lulled by the delicious cool treble splashing of water on stone, and it was past midnight when he was woken by a swarm of mosquitoes which droned about his ears and seemed able to sting through his shirt. He drew the duffle coat round him and tried to sleep but there was no protection for his neck and ears, and after a little while he gave it up as a bad job. What should he do? He longed to smoke but dared not; and he was alarmed to see how long he had slept. If he once fell asleep he might miss the car altogether. Stretching himself, he decided to climb into the tree now. Why wait? At least in that precarious perch he would be too much on the alert to sleep.

  Setting his parcel of fish inside his tunic, and buttoning it over the bulge, he crossed the road and hoisted himself into the tree, climbing along the lower branches until he sat perched over the middle of the road, yet hidden in the dense foliage. Hardly had he done so when he heard the noise of a car and saw the yellow splash of headlights approaching from the south, dipping and vanishing among the curves of the road. “It can’t be Porson,” he told himself, but nevertheless his pulse quickened with excitement.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Rendezvous

  The white diffuse light
approached less quickly than he had anticipated, shivering along the dark cliff walls, at times disappearing altogether only to reappear once more round a corner like a glow-worm. He settled himself in the deepest part of the tree’s foliage, yet being careful enough to keep an empty space below him into which he could lob his packet should the car turn out to be Porson’s. He could hear the engine now more clearly and he decided from the hoarse note of the sound that it was not a touring car but a lorry which was approaching—probably carrying wood northward. As it swept round the last bend, however, it seemed to throw the beams of its headlights almost directly into the tree in which he was perched, silhouetting every leaf in its white incandescence of light, so that Methuen all at once felt completely naked and exposed to view. His eyes, accustomed now to darkness, took a moment or two to get used to the blinding glare; and he kept as still as possible, lest any movement of the foliage should betray him.

  But one thing he was profoundly thankful for—his sudden change of position: for the lights penetrated directly into the thicket in which he had been lying before. He would have been forced to beat a retreat into the deeper part of the wood, and could not have done that without being seen. He was just congratulating himself on his good luck, however, when the lorry drew to a halt, its headlights still biasing, by the gushing spring and with a clang the drop-cover at the back opened to release—not a load of wood alas!—but a company of blue-clad police which scrambled into the road with weary oaths. For one second he thought that perhaps he had been spotted and fumbled for the safety-catch of his revolver, but he was reassured when the men advanced to the spring to drink and wash themselves; the headlights were switched off, and the dark was suddenly full of pin-points of red light from cigarettes.

  He had caught sight of a small group of leather-men who were obviously in charge of the party, and who now sauntered up the road together talking. After a ten-minute halt this small group returned to the lorry and shouted harsh orders. The headlights were switched on again and Methuen saw two of the men in leather coats unrolling a map in the glare. He heard one say: “We should be in position by dawn to comb this area. This is where he will be—somewhere within this area,” and a shiver ran down his spine for it seemed to him that they must be talking about him. “We have time,” said one, and at another order the lorry’s lights were again switched off.

  The police settled by the side of the road in little groups, some to lie and doze, and some to talk and argue in low voices. They were hailed from the rock-cutting over the river, and one of the leather-men stepped forward to answer the shout. “Police patrol!” he shouted, and climbing into the lorry, switched the lights on and off half a dozen times—obviously a pre-arranged signal.

  Methuen was by now acutely anxious, for if Porson should arrive at this moment it would be quite impossible to communicate with him; moreover, if this patrol should stay here until daylight he would find himself trapped in the tree for the whole of the next day. His feeling of vulnerability was increased by the fact that he had noticed how heavily armed the police were—with tommy-guns and grenades. It was not much consolation to realize that their presence here in force certainly proved that something was going on in the mountains—the mountains which had seemed to him empty of all life. He wished now that he had not cumbered himself with the heavy parcel of fish, and he cursed his own stupidity under his breath.

  An hour passed and still the patrol showed no signs of moving; the hands of Methuen’s watched pointed to half-past three. The first faint streaks of light had begun to come into the eastern sky. A set of headlights started to blink on the road to the south and he set his teeth—hoping that the next arrival was not Porson. This time, however, it was a lorry full of timber which did not stop.

  In the light of its headlamps he caught sight of the small group of leather-coated officers, sitting apart from the main body, discussing something in low tones. Then, as the noise of the lorry boomed into silence along the rock-tunnels he heard to his relief a voice cry: “Attention now! All aboard!” and the night was alive with the noise of boots on stone. The lorry was started up, and after its complement of men had been loaded, someone barked a harsh order. Methuen smiled with relief to hear the whine of the clutch as it engaged, and to see the white blanket of light from the headlights move under him and plunge the tree once more into blessed darkness. The machine lurched raggedly off down the road and he was able to stretch his cramped limbs along the branches.

  Silence settled once more over the road and Methuen found himself dying for a drink. He did not dare, however, to climb down from his perch, and lay his face to the icy gushing water of the spring. Its ripple tantalized him, and with an effort he forced himself to ignore his thirst and to concentrate on the gradually lightening landscape before him; the peaks of the mountain gorge were being silhouetted ever more clearly against the lightening sky. It was like watching an etching going through its various states. “Please God,” he said under his breath, “tell that young brute Porson not to let it get too light.”

  The hour selected for the rendezvous was four, and as Methuen watched the hands of his watch creep to quarter past the hour he was once more seized with anxiety lest the contact should not be made. Perhaps Porson had had an accident; the simplest mishap could have delayed him by as much as an hour. Perhaps … but his speculations were cut short by the whirr of a car engine coming up fast from the south. In the pale lavender dawn light the headlights looked wan and pale, and he could see the faint plume of dust rising behind them. He gritted his teeth now in an agony of apprehension, preparing himself for disappointment, repeating to himself over and over again: “I bet it isn’t Porson. It can’t be Porson.”

  But his heart gave a great leap when he saw a second spurt of dust come round the furthest bend in the gorge, some quarter of a mile behind the first. The seconds ticked away and the headlights played their fantastic game of hide and seek along the dark road. Then, with a roar, the old Mercedes blundered out of the final rock-cutting and advanced towards the spring. The hood was down, and both Porson and Blair were wrapped up against the dawn-chill in weird Balaclava helmets which gave them the appearance of demented airmen trying to get airborne. Porson was grinning elatedly up at the tree, though it was clear that he could not see Methuen among the leaves; Blair looked pale and excited. Methuen conquered a desire to shout aloud to them and as the car slid under him he dropped his parcel with a thud squarely into the back. Dust rose up into the leaves around him. The klaxon hooted twice, and he was just able to see a packet tossed out into the long grass by the white milestone when the second car burst into view. It was crowded with sleepy detectives in trilbies, lying dozing in different attitudes, like a litter of cats, while the radio scratched away with some Hungarian gipsy music relayed from Belgrade.

  Methuen lay in the choking dust cloud for a clear minute and a half, listening to the drone of the engines diminishing, and gathered himself together for the next move. He was rather alarmed at the painful cramp which had beset him—for he was a practised shikari and had spent many a night perched soundlessly in a mechaan, waiting for tiger, without suffering unduly from fatigue. “Must be old age,” he said grimly, and looking about him carefully, began to edge his way out of his hiding-place.

  Dawn was coming up fast now, and it was with relief that he retrieved the bundle left by the car and took to the deeper woods once more, climbing with steady tireless pace on the moss carpets beside the cataracts and pools of the Studenitsa, refreshed by the spray which blew into his face at every step.

  He found a small fern-encircled nook at the top and took a short rest, which gave him an opportunity to examine the contents of the parcel which Porson had dropped him. He saw with delight that some of the items on his own shopping list had already been anticipated. There was a bundle of freshly-baked bread and some olives; two or three tins of meat; and—but this was divination—some soap which he had forgotten to bring with him. There was also a woollen helmet and a furt
her supply of solid fuel. At first there was no sign of a written message but after an anxious hunt he found a thin sheet of paper covered with numerals and recognized with a thrill of pleasure the prearranged code from Walden. It would take him a little time to work out, and he addressed himself to the last slope after eating some of the bread and olives from the brown-paper parcel.

  All was silent as he crept up the river bank, skilfully fording the stream at the familiar point and sneaking up to the cave-mouth under cover. He had set some twigs over the entrance in a special way so that any chance visitor to the cave must disarrange them, and he saw now with relief that nobody had visited his hideout in his absence. The snake had not appeared as yet, and he lit the fire in the early chill of dawn to make something hot to drink. Then he sat himself down with pencil and notebook and his copy of Walden to decipher the message Porson had left him. It took him some time to establish the text clearly, and as it grew under his hand he could not resist an occasional whistle of surprise. There were some new develepments of startling interest.

  “Spoke to Don in Belgrade by phone code” it began (Don was Carter) “and have the following for you from the Shop. Submarine has left dockyards and reported in Adriatic. Actress Sophia Marie’s suicide announced over radio the morning we left for Skoplje, due to ‘overwork’. No news of Vida. Military report sinister activity your area. Three regiments of troops and some police converging on you from Sarajevo, Uzice, and Rashka respectively, obviously surrounding mountain-range. Ambassador anxious your return and suggests you hop Wednesday car down to Skoplje rather than wait. Don points out that what up to now has been police activity is becoming military operation including one unit of mortars and six machine-gun sections. Hopes you are not responsible for increased activity. Don cables that no advance made on radio messages except that Professor asks you to bear in mind that in original saga king’s birthright was hoard of precious stones.”