“Bobby . . . Bobby!” cried Maggie, “—where are you, my man . . . Bobby?”
Already Flora felt the tug at her neck indicating that the serendipitous dessert was over. As quickly as she was able, Maggie urged the animal’s huge phlegmatic bulk into motion and led her to the barn, calling and looking out frantically as she went.
The moment Flora was safe in her stall—it was obvious from a quick shout and glance about that Bobby was nowhere to be seen—Maggie flew to the house.
“Bobby, Bobby,” she cried, “please be here . . . where are you, Bobby!”
But the house was as empty as the barn and the yard.
She hurried back outside as fast as she was able. But Maggie herself was seventy-six, and though in perfect health was already tiring from the exertion and mounting anxiety.
Now she made for the little pasture between the cottage and the village where on most days of the spring and summer Flora could be found grazing on Devonshire grass rather than nasturtiums.
The way was not hard to find. A well-worn dirt path led from the back of the barn, through a light wooded region for about half a mile, emerging into an open series of pastures and fields, at the edge of one of which sat Bobby’s two fenced acres.
Nor did she have to seek long for her husband. Reaching a narrow wood footbridge, without railings over the small stream which also provided Flora’s pasture its water, she heard a dull moan from somewhere below.
“Bobby . . . Bobby, is that you!” she cried, stopping midway across it.
Again the moan sounded, this time a little louder.
Maggie glanced frantically about, then down below where she stood on the bridge. There was Bobby lying half in the middle of the stream!
She ran back off the bridge, then scrambled down the embankment, which thankfully was not particularly steep or rugged, to Bobby’s prostrate form.
“Bobby, my dear man,” she cried, kneeling beside him and smothering his face in kisses,—”what ails you?”
“’Tis aye good t’ see ye, lass,” he breathed, closing his eyes in relief at sight of another human face.
“But, Bobby, how on earth did you wind up down here!”
“Flora gave me a wee bump as I was leadin’ her across, an’ the next thing I knew I was tumblin’ down an’ couldn’t stop meself.” His voice was weak and came in short puffs.
“Well, you dear man—let me help you to your feet,” said Maggie, placing an arm under one of his shoulders and trying to lift his frail form.
“Nay, nay, lass,” he said, “’tis no use. If the leg isn’t broke, ’tis jist as useless t’ me now as if it were.”
For the first time Maggie noticed how pale his face was. His skin was cold and clammy.
“Oh, Bobby, Bobby . . . what can we do!”
“Go fer Master Charles an’ Lady Jocelyn. They’ll know what t’ do.”
“But I can’t leave you.”
“Ye got no choice, lass. At least the leg’s in the cool o’ the stream. Now go, lass. But give me one last kiss t’ sustain me.”
Maggie’s only disobedience was in that she gave ten instead of one, then turned and scrambled up the bank and ran for the Hall as fast as her old heart and tired legs would take her.
92
Gavrilo Princip
The young Bosnian student whom Amanda had seen around the house began eyeing her more regularly at meals and speaking to her whenever he chanced to find her alone. This Gavrilo Princip was younger than Amanda by four or five years and his English was not the best. And though he had a certain wild and frightening look, she did not think to be afraid, since he was one of the apparent regulars of the place. His dark skin, perpetually stubbly face—as if he had always shaved about five days before—and deep-set narrow black eyes might have caused some young women alarm. But thus far he had kept mostly to himself and she had not taken much notice of him. Everyone else seemed to know him, although he only had one close friend, a Herzegovinian Muslim by the name of Muhamed Mehmedbasic.
One afternoon when the others were away, Princip approached her. Would she like to go out with him for a visit to the coffeehouse where all the communists gathered?
The mere word struck mystery in her heart. He observed her reaction.
“These are exciting times,” he added. “This is where the revolution in Russia is being planned—right here in Vienna.”
“Revolution!” she repeated in shock.
“Of course. Surely you cannot be so naïve in England as not to know it is coming.”
Amanda shrugged noncommittally. She and the Pankhursts had spoken of such things, but they had always seemed to her remote and far removed from her actual life. Now here she was in eastern Europe where everything she had only heard about was actually happening. It was both exciting and frightening.
“And some things even closer to Vienna than that,” he added mysteriously. “Come . . . see for yourself,” pressed Princip. “This is real socialism, not just the women’s rights you suffragettes think of.”
“How do you know of my connections with the suffragettes?”
“Ah, Princip knows all!” laughed the Bosnian. “Come!” He tried to take Amanda’s hand to lead her out of the house. She pulled it back, yet nodded with a smile.
Thirty minutes later they were seated at the Kaffe Kellar sipping strong cups of Kapuziner. Amanda gazed around with wide-eyed fascination. It was exactly as Princip had described. A thin haze of blue smoke hung over the dimly lit room, where no less than five languages could be heard in heated debate around various of the tables. Amanda took it all in with the captivation of having entered a dark and shadowy political underworld. Princip seemed to know many of those present, and several came up to him and spoke in languages and dialects Amanda could not understand.
“How would you like to see even more of the country?” Princip asked after several minutes.
“I don’t know . . . how do you mean?” replied Amanda.
“Come with me. I am going to Sarajevo where I have business with some associates. We are then going on to Moscow.”
“Moscow!”
“I can tell you want to go with me.”
“But why are you going there?”
“In Russia we will achieve more than mere votes. We will turn society upside down. Come with me—it is your chance to make history.”
“Make history?”
“Yes—don’t you want to be known, to be famous, to change the course of history? Your name will be remembered alongside mine for all time.”
The words rung a faint familiar chord in Amanda’s brain, reminding her of a time long ago and a small girl’s dreams. But from the mouth of Gavrilo Princip, it all sounded wrong.
“Will there be others?” she asked. “I couldn’t go with you . . . alone.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be proper.”
Princip laughed. “You English with all your rules. It will not matter much longer anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because everything will be changed.”
Amanda took in the Bosnian’s words in light of all she had learned recently about the Fountain and its new order. Was Gavrilo Princip talking about the same thing? As he looked across the table, the fire in his eyes showed at least that whatever his ultimate intent, there could be no doubt that he was deadly serious.
93
Bedside
Bobby McFee was resting comfortably in his bed in Heathersleigh Cottage.
Charles sat beside him, spooning tiny bits of water into his mouth, though whether Bobby himself was conscious of the operation it would be difficult to tell. As weak as he was, transporting him home, then setting the leg had been difficult procedures. Besides being in obvious pain, Bobby was utterly exhausted. He now lay limp, pale, and motionless. Catharine had gone for the surgeon, though it was doubtful he would do more than commend Jocelyn’s work and pronounce extended bed rest as the most needful restorative.
Jocelyn and Maggie had just left the room and walked slowly into the sitting room.
“His body has had a dreadful shock,” said Jocelyn in a low voice. “More than anything now, Maggie, he needs rest and nourishment.”
“I’ll get as much liquid down him as he’ll take . . . hot soup, tea, broth, whatever I can. How serious do you think it is?”
“His leg is badly broken,” said Jocelyn. “With the wooden splint we made, and keeping it well wrapped and still, the bones will heal. But it will be slow. He will not walk for three months or more.”
“My poor Bobby.”
“The worst of the pain is over,” said Jocelyn, trying to reassure her. “The swelling is not as bad as it might have been because of the stream. He was fortunate for the leg to land submerged as it did. He is only weak, but not suffering.”
Maggie sighed. Jocelyn’s words gave some comfort. But her heart was torn for the poor man she had loved so many years, who had always been so lively and vigorous.
“The doctor will be here shortly,” added Jocelyn, “and we will see what he says. You know about these things as well as I do. But one of us will come and sit with you so that you will not be alone through it. One of the four of us will be with you until Bobby is at least recovered from the exhaustion and shock.”
“How can I thank you, Jocelyn, my dear?” said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears. “You are so good to us.”
“You and Bobby have been the best friends and neighbors ever a family could have,” replied Jocelyn.
The two women embraced warmly and long without further words, then set about together making a pot of soup.
94
Alone and Far From Home
As to the question of whether or not Princip was connected with the Fountain, Amanda did not have long to wait for an answer. Later that same evening she overheard the Englishman talking in angry tones with Mehmedbasic.
“Get rid of your friend, Muhamed,” Barclay was saying. “I do not like his look.”
“Princip is harmless.”
“Harmless is the last word I would use to describe him.”
“Besides, he is with Die Schwarze Hand.”
“Yes, and the Black Hand is rapidly getting out of control,” insisted Barclay. “Our involvement with them is nearly at an end. We cannot afford to have either of you here any longer. You bring danger to us all. I mean what I say—I want him gone. I know more about some of your activities than you may realize. We cannot afford to provide sanctuary for hotheads.”
“I will talk to him,” replied the Muslim.
The following morning Mrs. Thorndike announced that she would be leaving Vienna at week’s end.
Unconsciously, Amanda sensed several sets of eyes around the large wooden table subtly turn in her direction.
Mrs. Halifax spoke up before anyone else had a chance to reply.
“You will be staying on with us here, won’t you, Amanda?” she said. Her tone of voice suggested that it was already a foregone conclusion. “I’ve already spoken with Mrs. Thorndike about returning to England without you . . . now that you are involved with our cause.”
“I . . . I don’t know,” said Amanda, taken momentarily by surprise. She knew Hartwell Barclay’s eyes were upon her. She shrank from glancing in his direction.
“Please stay, my dear,” went on Mrs. Halifax. “The Fountain needs you. Mr. Barclay has told me that you plan to begin writing leaflets and articles enlightening people back home.”
“We . . . we only spoke of it a time or two—possibly, I suppose.” Amanda began to feel drowsy again. It always happened when Mr. Barclay looked at her that way.
What did she have to go home to anyway? Where would she live? What would she do? And with just forty-three pounds left to her name . . . what other choice did she have?
By week’s end Mrs. Thorndike was gone.
Amanda awoke the following morning feeling more isolated and alone than ever before in her life. But for better or worse she had cast her lot with these people. There was no going back on her decision now.
Within the week Amanda Rutherford was busily engaged in writing an anti-English leaflet on which Hartwell Barclay placed great hopes for the swaying of public opinion in Great Britain against the man who had spoken out against the Fountain.
95
Attempted Abduction
Four nights after Mrs. Thorndike’s departure, Amanda awoke suddenly.
It was the middle of the night. A sound had startled her out of a deep sleep.
Now came a shuffling footstep. She froze in terror where she lay. Someone was in her room!
“Amanda,” came a muffled voice in the dark . . . a man’s voice.
“What . . . who’s there!”
“Gavrilo.”
“Gavrilo . . . what on earth!” she exclaimed, suddenly afraid and drawing the feather comforter tight around her.
“I am leaving Vienna,” he said.
“What do you—what are you doing in my room?”
“Come with me,” he said. She felt his voice drawing nearer.
“I can’t go with you, good heavens!” she replied. “Please . . . please go away. It’s the middle of the night.”
“I want you to come with me.” The Bosnian’s voice was urgent, agitated.
Suddenly Amanda felt a cold hand clamp over her mouth.
“I want you to come with me, do you understand!”
Amanda tried to scream. A sharp pain jabbed into her side. She felt herself being pulled from the bed.
“Now get up!” said Princip. “Get dressed. You are coming with me.”
Amanda nodded in mute terror. She felt the hand relax. Slowly she groped toward the edge of the bed. She saw the figure in the dark and now smelled that he had been drinking.
“Go away while I dress,” she said.
“I am staying here,” he rejoined angrily. “It’s dark—just get dressed . . . hurry.”
Amanda tried to obey, but her hands were trembling such that she could hardly find her clothes. Several long, agonizing seconds passed. She located her dress and began to slip it over her head on top of her nightgown.
Suddenly overhead the light flashed on. Amanda spun around.
In the doorway of her room stood the towering form of Hartwell Barclay.
“Princip, get out!” he ordered, undaunted by the gun the Bosnian was holding on Amanda. The eyes of the two men locked. The encounter lasted but a second or two. Then Princip turned with a curse of hatred and left the room.
“I am very sorry, Miss Rutherford,” said Barclay. “Are you all right? Shall I call one of the ladies to attend to you?”
“No . . . no, thank you, Mr. Barclay—I will be fine,” replied Amanda. “Thank you—I was terrified for my life.”
“He will not bother you again.”
Amanda returned to bed, tried in vain to read herself to sleep, and passed the rest of the night in fitful dozing.
In the morning Princip had disappeared along with his friend Mehmedbasic. Amanda saw neither of them again.
Shortly after breakfast two mornings later Mrs. Halifax was glancing through the newspaper. “Look,” she said, “a photograph of Franz Ferdinand. He and Sophie are arriving in Vienna today from Chlumetz.”
“Who is he?” asked Amanda.
“The emperor’s nephew and heir to the Austrian throne. They are traveling south to Sarajevo, the Bosnian capital.”
Hearing the name of the city again reminded Amanda what Princip had said to her at the Kaffe Kellar. She wondered if that’s where the two strange young men had gone.
“Why are they going to Bosnia?” asked Barclay.
“It says that General Potiorek has invited Franz Ferdinand to maneuvers of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Army Corps.”
“I can’t imagine why he would go to Bosnia at a time like this.”
“A goodwill gesture, I suppose—let the heir to the throne be seen in the provinces.”
“Perhaps . . . yet
it sounds a bit foolhardy as well.”
96
Assassination
A message arrived in Vienna from Serbian premier Pashich to his minister in the Austrian capital.
Archduke Franz Ferdinand, nephew of Austro-Hungarian emperor Franz Joseph and heir to his throne, must be warned, Pashich urged. He must cancel his planned visit to Sarajevo. A plot was brewing. His life could be in danger.
The minister in Vienna, however, himself a Serbian nationalist, did not deliver the premier’s message.
Thus, the trip went on as planned. With his wife, Sophie, the duchess Chotek of Hohenberg, Archduke Franz Ferdinand traveled south to the province of Bosnia for the ceremonial visit to view the military maneuvers.
The provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina were far more Serbian than Austrian. Their inclusion in the empire of the Austro-Hungarian dual monarchy had been a matter of bitter resentment in Serbia for years. Most Serbs cherished the dream of a Greater Serbia, which would one day unify all Serbian peoples.
When the fifty-one-year-old archduke stepped from his train onto the platform of the Sarajevo station on June 28, 1914, therefore, he stepped into the middle of a city where he represented the accumulated hatred of the entire Serbian race against the Habsburg dynasty.
General Potiorek was at the station to meet the royal party. A brief stop followed at the Philipovic army camp. Franz Ferdinand reviewed the troops. Everything seemed calm and orderly.
The party got into six waiting cars for the drive along the Appel Quay to the City Hall. There they would be received by Sarajevo’s mayor. Franz Ferdinand and Sophie rode in the backseat of a grey touring car, whose fabric top had been rolled back so that they might be seen by the people along the route. The day was warm and sunny.
The streets were crowded. Among the spectators, mingling unnoticed, moved seven young men who had long trained for this moment. Their backgrounds and nationalities were diverse, but their purpose was one. Each of the seven carried a vial of cyanide wrapped in cotton to swallow when their business was done. None planned to live beyond this fateful morning.
Wayward Winds Page 37