Kutzie, naked, gagged and unable even to murmur, was carried out from the barn and pitched on to a huddle of grunting pigs. It was one of the most callous things that Roger had ever seen done; but he knew that his own prospects of survival lay in the Sergeant’s and Corporal’s willing acceptance of his orders, and that, had he even been the Angel Gabriel, he could not have prevented them from making certain that the brutal Kutzie endured a prolonged and horrible death. As it was, with happy laughter, they showed their delight in this method of paying off old scores, and were obviously prepared to accept Roger’s future orders without argument.
Having disposed of the Baron and Kutzie, they again spent a few minutes listening tensely. On the opposite side of the courtyard from their barn, but somewhat nearer the castle, there stood a building in which they knew that the serfs had their quarters. From it there now came faintly the sounds of sad, but melodious singing.
With a nod of satisfaction, Roger led the way to another barn, where he knew the horses to be stabled. In it there were seven animals. Selecting three, he had them given a good feed of oats then, with their muzzles bound to prevent them from neighing, he had them harnessed to a troika which had been dragged from a nearby coach house.
He had no idea where the French army was but, taking the stars for a guide, he intended to head south-west, feeling confident that, if they could avoid running into enemy patrols, by moving in that direction they would, sooner or later, come upon their compatriots.
Having wrenched off the bells that would have jingled from the inverted U-shaped arch over the neck of the central horse of the troika, they piled into the carriage. Roger took the reins and they set off.
A three-quarter moon had come up and its light reflected from the snow made the scene almost as bright as day. As the troika emerged at a fast trot from the trees surrounding the castle, in the far distance Roger saw a black patch moving rapidly across the white, frozen waste. Almost immediately he realised that it was a body of horsemen and they were coming towards him. With sudden consternation, it flashed upon him that they must be the Cossacks whom the Baron had feared might pay the castle a visit. At the same moment, Fournier cried:
‘Them’s Cossacks! You can tell by their little horses.’
Hauling hard on the near rein, Roger nearly turned the troika over, in his frantic haste to slew it round and make off in another direction before they came face to face with the Russians. He could only hope that, against the background of the dark trees, the trioka would not have been noticed. Urging his three horses into a gallop, he took a course parallel to the edge of the wood.
For a few moments all seemed well. Then, just behind him, Vitu cried, ‘Mort Dieu! They’ve seen us. They’ve changed direction too.’
Roger threw a quick glance over his shoulder. From a trot, the Cossacks had spurred their mounts into a canter. There were about twenty of them and a tall officer some ten paces in front of the others was calling on the troika to halt.
For a moment Roger thought of pulling up and running off into the wood; but, lame as he and his companions were, they would be overtaken in no time—that is, if the Russians bothered to come after them. If they did not, without food or shelter and unable to walk either fast or for any great distance, the fugitives would freeze to death.
Realising that there was no escape, Roger lay back on the reins and brought his team to a standstill. With fury in his heart he watched, as the Cossacks, crouching low over their little steeds and giving vent to wild cries of elation, came charging up to the troika. With superb horsemanship they brought their shaggy, steaming ponies to an instant halt.
Leaning forward in his saddle, the officer asked Roger in Russian, ‘Who are you? Why did you attempt to avoid us? Where are you off to?’
Roger’s Russian was good enough for him to reply. ‘To Vilna, may it please you, Sir.’
Stained and bedraggled as the uniforms were that he and his companions were wearing, they were still easily recognisable as French.
Slapping his thigh, the officer gave a hearty laugh. ‘What? On the way to your enemy’s headquarters? Is it likely that I’d believe that? You are Frenchmen, and my prisoners.’
4
A Desperate Gamble
It was futile to argue. Even if Roger could have passed himself off as a Lett or Ukranian who had taken a French uniform from a corpse, he could not possibly explain away his companions.
As he gave a resigned shrug, the officer said, ‘We were making for Baron Znamensk’s castle, since it seemed as good a place as any in this neighbourhood to pass the night. Turn your troika and accompany us.’
Roger did as he was bade; but, as the little cavalcade headed for the entrance to the clearing he was suddenly struck by a thought that, during the emergency of the past ten minutes, had not crossed his mind. It so appalled him that for a moment the blood drained from his face.
To have been cheated of his hopes of freedom at the eleventh hour and taken prisoner by the Russians was ill fortune enough. But a return to the castle must inevitably lead to the discovery of the Baron’s body, and nobody would have any doubts about who had murdered him. Freda of the huge bottom and breasts would be screaming for vengeance and Roger could see no reason whatever why the tall Cossack officer should not grant it to her by having Fournier, Vitu and himself promptly shot.
Ten minutes later, when they arrived within sight of the castle, Roger saw that his worst fears looked like being realised. Several of the barred ground floor windows of the squat ugly building were lit up and men with lanterns were moving about near the big barn.
As the cavalcade came to a halt in front of it Freda, her huge breasts wobbling and her long, fair hair streaming be hind her, came running up to the Cossack officer, pouring out a spate of German. Following her came two men, bearing a rough stretcher, upon which reposed the dead body of the Baron. Pointing at it, then at Roger and his companions, she denounced them as her husband’s murderers and demanded that they should be handed over to her for treatment suited to the heinous crime they had committed.
The greater part of this was lost upon the Russian, because he could not understand German; but the dead body and Freda’s tirade against the three Frenchmen whom he had caught escaping left him in no doubt as to what had happened.
In this situation, where their guilt was so damningly obvious, Roger had only one slender advantage. At least he could speak fairly fluent Russian, and so could communicate freely with the arbiter of their fate. When the Baroness had at last to pause for breath, he said calmly to the officer:
‘Of course we killed this pig of a Prussian. And I make no pleas that we did so in self-defence. We deliberately trapped and slew him. Had you been in our situation, you would have done the same. Never have I met a monster who better deserved to die.’
The Russian gave him a puzzled look. ‘So you admit to this murder? I suppose you realise that, unless you can produce some quite extraordinary justification for your deed, I shall have you hanged?’
‘Officers,’ Roger declared quietly, ‘are not hanged, but shot.’
‘True,’ nodded the other. ‘And, although your epaulettes and gold braid appear to have been torn from your uniform, by your manner and speech I should have realised that you are not a common soldier. But rank does not convey licence to murder. I am the Hetman Sergius Dutoff. Who are you?’
Roger made a low bow to hide the sudden glint of hope that had sparked in his eye on learning that he had to deal, not with an ordinary, country-bred Lieutenant of Cossacks, but a Hetman—an aristocrat with whom he might have acquaintances in common. For that might just sway the balance in saving him from a firing squad. As he lifted his head, he said proudly, ‘I am Colonel le Chevalier de Breuc, a Commander of the Legion of Honour, and an aide-de-camp to the Emperor Napoleon.’
‘Indeed!’ the Hetman exclaimed. ‘Then you are a prisoner of considerable importance. Even so, this matter of Baron Znamensk’s murder cannot be ignored.’
&nb
sp; ‘I did not expect it to be.’ Roger shrugged. ‘With your permission I suggest that we go into the castle and there discuss it over a bottle of wine.’
‘By St. Nicholas!’ the Russian laughed. ‘You are a cool customer. But your idea is sound. I could do with something to warm me up.’
The Baroness and her serfs had not understood one word of this conversation. Again she began to scream at Roger and pointed to her husband’s dead body. Roger swung upon her and said sharply, ‘Be silent, woman! This Russian lord demands food and wine for himself and his men. Afterwards he intends to investigate the way in which your husband met his death. And that will probably result in having me and my companions shot.’
Mollified by this, the Baroness led the way into the castle, and gave the requisite orders to her servants. Fournier and Vitu, both looking extremely worried, were detained by the Cossacks in the lofty, sparsely-furnished central hall that had for decoration on its tall walls, only a few moth-eaten stag, boar and lynx heads. The Hetman and Roger followed the Baroness into a dining room that led off it. The furniture was hideous pitchpine and the place stank of past meals, mingled with the urine of dogs.
An uncouth servitor brought a flagon of Franconian Steinwein. Then, with the Baroness as an onlooker, the two men settled down to talk. The Russian made it clear that he intended to mete out summary justice should Roger fail to convince him that he had had good grounds for taking the law into his own hands. Roger had never been more acutely aware that his life hung on his ready wits and tongue; and, that should he fail to convince the Hetman that he had executed rather than murdered Znamensk, he, Fournier and Vitu would be dead before morning.
To begin with, Roger deliberately delayed the actual inquiry for as long as he could, by asking Dutoff when he had last seen Prince Peter Ivanovitch Bagration, the German-born Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Army. Dutoff knew the General well; so, it emerged to his surprise, did Roger. He then enquired after other friends he had made during his last stay in St. Petersburg: Count Alexander Vorontzoff, the brother of the Russian Ambassador in London; Captain Musiavoff of the Semenourki Regiment of the Imperial Guard; the ex-Prime Minister Count Pahlen, in whose country house he had stayed for a month; and even the Czar Alexander himself, to whom he had been presented.
Dutoff could not fail to be impressed by learning that this haggard, down-at-heel Frenchman was persona grata with so many people of the first importance in his own country; and Roger then went on to describe the awful treatment that he and his companions had received at Znamensk’s hands. But the Baroness, who had been sullenly watching with increasing anger as she saw the sympathy with which the Hetman was listening to Roger, suddenly broke in on their conversation with a spate of vitriolic German. Since she could not make herself understood in words, she pointed at Roger and significantly drew her finger across her throat.
The Russian nodded at her reassuringly, brushed up his fine moustache and said, ‘Colonel, all you have been saying leaves me in no doubt that you have lived in St. Petersburg, enjoyed the friendship of many powerful nobles there, that you are both a member of the aristocracy and a very gallant soldier. Moreover, you have my deepest sympathy for the brutal ill usage to which you have been subjected. But the fact remains that only a few hours ago you and your fellow prisoners trapped the owner of this castle and inflicted on him a most painful death. For such a crime, much as I may regret it personally, I see no alternative but to have you and the other two shot.’
Roger sighed and spread out his hands in a typically French gesture. ‘Should you decide that to be your duty, I’ll not complain. But I pray you, consider the circumstances. Firstly, are you prepared to avow that as a private individual the Baron had any legal right to hold me, Sergeant Fournier and Corporal Vitu prisoner?’
Dutoff shook his head. ‘No, none whatever. He should have turned the three of you over to the nearest Prussian or Russian military headquarters.’
‘Good. And you will also agree that we had the right to escape if we could?’
‘Every prisoner of war who has not given his parole has that right; but not to commit murder as a means of regaining his freedom.’
‘But the circumstances were exceptional,’ Roger argued. ‘This monster and his men picked us up on the battlefield the night following that ghastly conflict at Eylau. He did not go there as a patriotic Prussian, seeking to secure as many French prisoners as he could for his country before they were found and rescued by their own countrymen. He went to collect men whose wounds would not incapacitate them permanently, with the intention of detaining them here all their lives as serfs to work on his land.’
Frowning, the Hetman sat back, took another swig of wine, then said angrily, ‘Such conduct is inexcusable. Clearly the Baron disgraced his order as a noble. But these Teutonic Knights are far more barbarous then we Russians are said to be.’
For a moment he was silent, then he added, ‘All the same, Colonel, murder is murder. Your attempt to escape was fully justified; but not the snaring and killing of this man in cold blood. Whatever cause you had to hate and fear him, nothing can excuse your having taken his life. Although I can understand little of what the Baroness here says in her outbursts, it is obvious that she is demanding justice, and it is my duty to see that she receives it. Would you prefer to be granted a respite until dawn or have me order my Sergeant to get this unpleasant business over now?’
Roger had played his best cards; his social standing with highly-placed friends in St. Petersburg, his having been made a prisoner unlawfully, his descriptions of the floggings to which he had been subjected, as fair reasons for using violence against a man who had decreed life-long slavery for him. But all to no avail.
Now, he had one card only left up his sleeve and it was a most dangerous one. But, having been condemned to death, he felt that no worse could befall should he play it and it failed. Their glasses of wine being empty, he turned to the glowering Baroness and said, in German. ‘The Russian intends to have me shot, but first I have something to say to him, so tell your man to open another bottle of wine.’
Staggered by his impertinence and apparent indifference to his fate, she spoke to her man, who uncorked a second flagon and refilled their glasses. Turning to the Hetman, Roger said:
‘Before you have me shot, I would like you to know what led up to our killing the Baron. He had a bailiff named Kutzie—a rough diamond but not a bad fellow. Although they searched us after they picked us up on the battlefield, I had some fifty Napoleons in gold in my money belt, and I managed to hide it from them. When our wounds were sufficiently healed, we began to consider plans for an escape. As the three of us were lame, we knew that we could not get far without being overtaken, unless we had horses. With my gold I succeeded in bribing Kutzie to come to us after dark this evening, and help us to get away in the troika.’
For a moment Roger paused, then he went on. ‘Somehow the Baron found out. You would hardly credit what he did to the unfortunate Kutzie. But come with me and I’ll show you.’
Standing up, Roger led the way out. His heart was now beating violently, because he had not the least idea what had happened to Kutzie since he had been thrown naked into the pigsty; so he was taking a most desperate gamble.
Kutzie might have come to, broken free of his bonds and escaped, to be lurking somewhere in the shadows awaiting a chance to be avenged on the Frenchmen who had condemned him to such a ghastly death. Should the pigs have ignored him, he would still be there, alive and kicking; and, as soon as the gag was removed he would, somehow, succeed in conveying to the Hetman the truth about what had happened.
Should either prove the case, Roger had little doubt that he and his two fellow prisoners would shortly be blindfolded, put up against a brick wall and executed by a firing squad.
Despite the intense cold, as he led the way across the forecourt sweat broke out on his forehead. Although Dutoff had obviously taken a liking to him personally, he was clearly an officer who put duty bef
ore other considerations. With a certainty upon which he would have wagered every penny he possessed, Roger accepted it that, if Kutzie were still alive, he, Fournier and Vitu were as good as dead.
From the sty there came a grunting, for which Roger thanked all his gods. That indicated at least that the pigs were awake, so Kutzie was unlikely to be lying among them unmolested. But was he still alive, and capable of blurting out the truth about how he came to be there? That was the all-important question.
Raising a lantern that he had brought from the house, Roger leaned in awful anxiety over the low wall of the sty. To his immense relief, he saw that Kutzie was far past uttering any sound. He was already almost unrecognisable: his body torn and bleeding as the swine, grunting round him, gorged themselves upon his flesh.
The Baroness, who had accompanied them, gave a scream, covered her eyes with her hands for a moment; then, lowering them, glared at Roger and cried, ‘So this is more of your abominable night’s work. You reveal it only because you are already condemned and evidently take pride in your ruthlessness.’
He shook his head, and replied in German, ‘Nein, Gnädige Frau Baronin. This is your husband’s doing. I bribed Kutzie to help us to escape, but the Baron found out, and this is the way he chose to punish his unfortunate servant.’
‘It is a lie!’ she screamed. ‘Kutzie would never have betrayed his master.’
In sick disgust at the horrible sight, Dutoff had turned away. Ignoring the Baroness, Roger said to him, ‘Well, Hetman, what do you say now? Were we not justified in putting an end to that monster, after he had jeered at us about having ruined our plan to escape and told us of the awful vengeance he had taken on his wretched henchman?’
The Russian nodded. ‘You have made your case, Colonel. It would not have been in human nature, given the chance, to have refrained from according the brute his just deserts. The three of you will, of course, remain my prisoners; but I will write a report in which I’ll say that, knowing we were likely to come here and deprive him of you, his hatred of the French was such that he decided to kill you; but you killed him in self-defence.’
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