by Max Hennessy
‘We can’t just go south without doing something!’ he kept saying harshly. ‘We can’t just let the swine push us out without a struggle!’
His manner was desperate and he spent most of his time working out plans for offensive movements that nobody felt would ever be used.
‘Higgins,’ Kuprin said in his halting English. ‘I think this Prideaux knows only to go forward. To this Prideaux is only one way to fight – to charge with banners flying.’
‘I think the bastard wants a V.C, like his father,’ was MacAdoo’s angry opinion.
For several more days nothing was done and the first frosts came, striking at dawn, and there were winter tits and magpies in the woods round the town, under a high endless arching sky that had an icy dark-blue radiance in the transparent air. Prideaux was depressed by the lack of firm orders and fretted by his desire for action, and Finch – one eye always looking over his shoulder towards the north, it seemed – was nervously irritable with everyone. He was drinking a lot these days and spent as much time as he could in the town. Everyone knew he was with his countess in the Tsar Alexander I, and there was a great deal of speculation as to who ran the regiment on the days when the Colonel wasn’t about – Finch or the Countess.
To Murray-Hughes, returning from the front, however, the barracks was a haven of refuge after the chaos to the north where the refugees overflowed from the station yards into the towns and occupied every fragment of shelter. He had come all the way as a passenger on a regimental train, pushed aboard at the last moment by a harassed colleague of Barry’s, who was trying to keep things moving southwards, and had spent seven days, jammed in a crowded compartment, in a ribbon of traffic, stopping, starting and crawling forward, almost as stunned as the stream of refugees around him. To Kuprin, who met him at the station, he seemed only to want to get to England.
* * *
‘Thank you,’ Moyalan said as Kuprin stopped. ‘Now, let us move on to the events of the night of November 3rd.’
‘The night of the mutiny?’
Moyalan paused and looked up at Kuprin. ‘You remember the date?’
‘But of course!’
‘Where was Colonel Prideaux at this time?’
‘He had gone to Khaskov with Major Finch. They had gone to try to get orders for the regiment.’
‘Nothing had been received – not even now?’
‘The rest of us did not really expect anything,’ Kuprin pointed out. ‘The British were there only to instruct and advise, not to fight. It was only Colonel Prideaux who had convinced himself that his case was different. He was hoping to persuade General Inde to allow him to move north to the front.’
‘How did he seem at this time?’
‘He seemed – how do you say it? – at the end of his tether.’
‘Afraid?’
‘Oh, no. He simply felt that in the north there was a chance to prove himself and that he was missing it.’
‘Was there such a chance?’
Kuprin shrugged. ‘None at all. The situation was confused. We never saw the R.A.F. any more and it was even impossible to obtain supplies, because the railway staffs had too much sympathy for the Reds, and things were being sold or sent to places where the Red Army could capture them.’
‘And Colonel Prideaux was hoping to put this right in Khaskov?’
‘He had taken Major Finch with him to do that. He himself had gone with only one object in view – to get an interview with General Inde and obtain permission to move north. He had said again and again that he had not come to Russia to take part in a retreat.’
‘So that during the mutiny in the Slavska Barracks, the Colonel and Major Finch were not in Nikolovssk?’
‘That is correct.’
Moyalan paused, glancing at Kirkham, then he went on slowly:
‘Earlier, Mr. Murray-Hughes, a witness for the plaintiff, suggested that this absence of the Colonel indicated that the mutiny was not against him but against Major Higgins who remained behind. Was that so?’
Kuprin smiled. ‘I am quite sure the men did not know the Colonel was away,’ he said. ‘It was supposed, I imagine, that Major Finch was running the regiment as usual. He was very slack.’
‘Thank you,’ Moyalan said. ‘Now, will you tell the court what happened?’
Kuprin shrugged. ‘It had been brewing for some time,’ he went on. ‘The infantry in the town were useless by this time. We all knew that. One of the regiments, in fact, had already refused to obey its officers; and the 79th, the Dimitriev Regiment, which was stationed with the Kouragines at the Slavska Barracks, had been affected. Its commanding officer had already moved his fortune to Turkey and was anxious to go after it.’
‘And on the night of the 3rd?’
‘B Squadron took the guard, but for some time, without Major Finch’s knowledge, Major Higgins had been taking precautions against surprise by having a British officer on duty at all times, in addition to the Russian officers. On this night, the Russian officer in command of the guard was Baron de Andrade and the British officer was a Lieutenant Packer. The men had been paid and there was some drinking.’
‘Where were you?’
‘I was in the barracks. There was a party on at the Vronskins’ but I didn’t go. I was worried. Perhaps because I was a Russian and I felt things that the others didn’t feel.’
‘What about the other officers?’
‘They had all gone to the party, except for B Squadron officers and Lieutenant Packer.’
‘But they had taken the cars with them?’
‘Major Higgins had decided that the three remaining cars must be kept close at hand at all times.’
The jury was leaning forward now and the elderly ex-officer was showing encouraging signs of disapproval when Prideaux’s name was mentioned.
‘Very well,’ Moyalan said. ‘Let us continue: Were the British and Russian squadrons in the same barrack block?’
‘No. The British were in a smaller block about a hundred yards away and separated by a wall. Major Higgins had felt for some time that there might be trouble and he didn’t want the British soldiers caught asleep. So, some time before, he had had them moved.’
‘Did the Colonel protest?’
‘No. He had agreed. It was a sensible move.’
‘Were any other precautions taken?’
‘Major Higgins had arranged that there was always a British N.C.O. and three men awake at the British block at night. The machine guns were kept in this block also.’
‘Where did you sleep?’
‘In the same block. As interpreter, I had no squadron duties and no men. And as my father and my brother had both been murdered by their own troops, I had always determined that it should never happen to me. I found an excuse to attach myself to the British for quarters.’
‘What about the other Russian officers?’
‘They slept together in a dormitory, instead of in the separate rooms they should have had. It was considered safer. They kept their revolvers by their pillows.’
‘Thank you.’ Moyalan laid down his papers. ‘Let us come now to the mutiny itself. Please tell the court what happened on that occasion.’
Kuprin nodded. ‘Lieutenant Packer was called away,’ he said. ‘It was obviously an arranged thing to get him out of the way, because the men had got hold of vodka and their party had turned sour.’
‘Sour? How?’
* * *
It wasn’t hard, Kuprin thought, to see that things were going to be difficult. He had thought of warning Packer but some of the British officers had always regarded the Russians with contempt and Packer was one of them. He was very young, and Kuprin had a feeling that his contempt made him feel older and bolder.
He sat in his room reading for a long time then, feeling depressed, he decided to go to the gathering at the Vronskins’ after all.
The party had just begun to go with a swing when he arrived. MacAdoo, with a true transatlantic sense of the necessities, had gather
ed a few local girls and had been trying to fill them with vodka so they’d pluck up enough courage to allow themselves to be taught the one-step and the fox-trot, and one or two Cossack officers who had also been invited had been giving songs, drinking a glass of vodka before each item and crossing themselves before the gilded ikon in the corner. For a while Kuprin was caught up by the gaiety, laughing as Potter vamped on the piano and sang ‘Let Me Like A Soldier Fall’ in tones of exaggerated high tragedy, then he saw that Murray-Hughes had appeared and was arguing with MacAdoo. He appeared to want Hardacre, the Colonel’s signaller, and seemed a little drunk.
‘He’s off-duty,’ MacAdoo was saying angrily. ‘Whooping it up with his buddies, I expect. Even Hardacre’s entitled to a bit of goddam time off. If you want him, go and look for him. See De Andrade.’
Still unsettled and curiously aware of approaching disaster, Kuprin offered to take Murray-Hughes to the barracks.
‘O.K. Take the Stutz,’ MacAdoo suggested. ‘The Colonel’s away. He won’t be needing it.’
* * *
It began to snow lightly as they set off to the barracks, the flakes coming down out of the darkness, feathery and wet. The air was sharp, though, and the town looked beautiful under its mantle of white, full of comfortable houses with frosted panes and warm yellow lights that tugged at Kuprin’s emotions, while beyond lay the hills in bold blacks and purples.
Kuprin was uneasy, and the snow did nothing to relieve the tension in him. He became aware of the noise from the barrack blocks long before they arrived and, deliberately, he stopped the Stutz in the roadway outside. Impelled by a strange caution, he had halted the car just beyond the gate in the shadows, but before it had come to a stop, rolling on its springs, Murray-Hughes had jumped out and was striding purposefully towards the gate. Kuprin waited nervously as he disappeared, a sense of foreboding forcing him to keep the engine running. He could hear singing from the buildings and shouting, and what appeared to be the sound of beds being pushed about.
Then, while he sat brooding, a shot was fired, the sound splitting the silence, and as he came upright, staring round him, he saw Murray-Hughes re-appearing from the darkness at a run.
He almost fell into the car. ‘Get Higgins,’ he panted, but without asking questions Kuprin was already swinging the car round.
‘They were all in there,’ Murray-Hughes gasped as Kuprin struggled with the gears. ‘Hardacre, Chapman and Jones and three or four others. They were singing “The Red Flag”. In the room upstairs and on the landing. I saw them. They wouldn’t let me in and they’d got De Andrade in there somewhere. Then someone took a pot shot at me. There’s going to be trouble.’
The car was facing the right way now, its lights yellow against the snow, and as it sped back past the gate, Kuprin saw a man burst out of a door in the guardroom arch, and managed as he passed the light to recognise him as De Andrade. Behind him, another man, a corporal, leapt down the iron stairs and his sabre caught the light as it swung. De Andrade was still moving forward as the blood burst from his face but his run had changed into the shambling loose-limbed gait of a rag-doll, and even before he fell, the sabre came round again and Kuprin knew that he was dead.
As the corporal stood over the body, staring down at it, unaware of the car outside, Kuprin jammed on the brakes and the vehicle careered wildly on the snow. As it came to a stop, Kuprin drew his revolver and, without hesitation, without emotion, pulled the trigger. The corporal’s head came up and the sabre fell from his fingers, then he took a heavy step backwards and went down like a toppled tree to lay sprawled, his arms and legs spread-eagled, his eyes staring at the sky.
Quite calmly, Kuprin holstered the revolver and set the car in motion once more, accelerating swiftly to get away from the barracks.
‘You killed him,’ Murray-Hughes whispered, staring back as he clung to the windscreen to avoid being flung out of the bucketing car which was bumping off unnoticed now down the rutted road, Kuprin wrestling with the wheel as it slid on icy patches of packed snow.
Kuprin nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, curiously calm because he had been expecting it all along. ‘I killed him. We must get Higgins.’
* * *
They were just proposing the toast when they arrived back at the Vronskins’. MacAdoo was standing on a table holding a glass of wine and Katerina was by the fire with Higgins and Potter, her face pink with embarrassment.
‘Ladies and gentlemen…!’ MacAdoo was just speaking as Kuprin and Murray-Hughes broke in, their clothes plastered with snow, and the whole picture seemed to freeze at their expressions, and the grin died on MacAdoo’s face at once.
‘Higgins!’ Kuprin didn’t waste words. ‘Is mutiny! De Andrade already is dead!’
Immediately, the party broke up. MacAdoo jumped from the table, his bulk knocking a chair flying as he landed, and Higgins leapt for the door, followed by Potter and the other officers. As he turned, Kuprin saw the shocked look on Katerina’s face, then he, too, swung away and vanished after the others.
The Rolls, its square studded snout plastered with snow and with Murray-Hughes and half a dozen officers brandishing Webleys in the back, was already jolting down the two hundred yards of road towards the barracks as Kuprin got the Stutz started. As he drew to a stop outside the barracks, he saw the Hispano had halted alongside the guardroom, its machine gun trained on the door. Along the wall, half a dozen men stood with their hands in the air, with Potter moving purposefully in front of them, checking their clothes for hidden arms. In front of them lay the body of De Andrade, half-covered now by the falling snow, stark and sickening in the sheer terror of the clawing fingers, and beyond him the dead corporal, his face still wearing an expression of surprise.
The Rolls was moving across to the barrack blocks, and Kuprin could see shouting men running before it, black against the settling snow, then Higgins appeared out of the darkness.
‘Kuprin,’ he said. ‘Get across to Busby and rouse out A Squadron. Take Murray-Hughes with you.’
Kuprin nodded and, revving the engine, drove across the barrack square with screaming tyres. Halting by the low wall that separated the British block from the others, he drew his revolver, alert for enemies in the shadows.
‘Go,’ he said. ‘Over the wall!’
Murray-Hughes’ jaw was hanging open.
‘Me?’ he said.
‘I do not leave the car. Go now. Quickly.’
Murray-Hughes stared at him for a moment then he nodded and, climbing on to the rear of the car, he swung over the wall and disappeared from sight. Kuprin waited only until he heard shouting and saw lights appear then he drove back to where Higgins was waiting with the other cars outside the guardroom.
Hardacre was standing with Jones and Chapman and half a dozen other men. He looked drunk and still had a bottle in his fist. ‘Up the Revolution,’ he was shouting gaily.
‘Get that bottle off him, Willie,’ Higgins snapped and Potter wrenched the bottle from Hardacre’s fingers and flung it aside. Hardacre grinned and began to sing ‘On Ilkla Moor Baht ’At’, a song which Kuprin took to be some sort of revolutionary chant.
‘Shut your mouth, Hardacre,’ Potter snapped. ‘You’re in enough trouble already.’
Hardacre’s voice wavered and he became silent, his eyes suddenly alarmed.
‘Get in there, Kuprin,’ Higgins said as Busby came pounding up at the double with a squad of men. ‘Go in with Willie and a few of Busby’s men and see what’s going on. See if you can separate the troublemakers.’
* * *
The inside of the block was a shambles. The squadron commander, Captain Nazhintzev, and his lieutenants, Yurevski and Sukhouminov, were waiting behind their door with drawn revolvers.
‘It’s all over,’ Kuprin shouted, banging on the panels. ‘You can come out.’
They emerged, half-dressed, their eyes wild. ‘They killed De Andrade,’ Nazhintzev said.
Kuprin nodded. ‘I saw them,’ he agreed. ‘Get outside. Join Higgi
ns. See if any of the N.C.O.s are still loyal.’
The men’s quarters were a wreck. There were bottles everywhere among the scattered equipment and one or two prostrate figures too drunk to stand up.
‘Outside,’ Potter was roaring, his indolent figure transformed. ‘Outside! Rouse ’em out, Sergeant-Major!’
A few sullen-eyed men still stood in the corners, and Busby and Kuprin drove them before them towards the door and into the barrack square. Outside, Sergeant Sidebottom and several other N.C.O.s, backed up by squads of British soldiers, were separating them into groups. The armoured cars were drawn up near the doorway now and Higgins, his face devoid of expression, was standing beside them. Kuprin’s eyes were wet with disgust at his own countrymen’s behaviour.
Many of them were calling out revolutionary slogans at the officers standing in the shadows and several managed to slip away in the confusion and disappeared towards the town.
‘Let ’em go,’ Potter said, his face grim, as Kuprin made a move to head them off. ‘We’re better without ’em!’ Kuprin’s captives were pushed towards the main group where Hardacre, looking scared now, was turning out his pockets with Chapman and Jones and the others, watched by the alert Busby.
‘Pamphlets,’ Busby said grimly, handing papers to Higgins. ‘Communist bloody pamphlets, sir!’
Higgins stared at Hardacre. ‘Have you been handing these around, Hardacre?’ he demanded.
Hardacre was frightened now and very sober, his face wet where the snow had melted on it. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Some of the lads in the Dimitriev Regiment gave them to me. I told them they were talking a lot of cock if they thought they could do anything with our lot. I just stuffed them in me pocket.’