Hell Train (11 page)

‘I admit, as our retinue set off on the state visit, I had guilty thoughts of Elizabeth’s glance. Is it man’s vanity alone that encourages him to think he may attract the eye of a beautiful girl, even if she is far above his station in life? Stranger things had happened. The Archduke himself had fallen in love with a woman who was said to be far removed from his social class.’

‘Time is running short,’ said the Conductor curtly. ‘You must finish your story and then reach your decision.’

‘Why is it so important that you should hear me out?’ asked Franz, puzzled by the Conductor’s attitude.

‘I am not obliged to tell you, sir,’ he replied. ‘Suffice it to say that the outcome is of the gravest interest to me, as you may come to understand. Pray continue, but do so quickly.’

‘Very well,’ said Franz, turning back to face the darkness, the wind whipping his hair. ‘Now we come to the fateful moment that tore my very soul apart.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE SACRIFICE

F
RANZ LOOKED LIKE
a man hunted by his past. He had trouble continuing until the Conductor laid a placatory hand on his shoulder. ‘Please,’ said the Conductor, ‘you must reveal the nature of your burden to me.’

‘Very well—where was I?’

‘The Archduke’s state visit.’

‘That’s right. The Archduke met me from the train in his blue-grey tunic with the red piping and gold buttons, his moustaches freshly waxed. I held the door open for him and he entered the vehicle in great style. Although there were many who opposed him in the city, there were an equal number of ardent admirers. But I had little knowledge of the city and its factions. I had no idea it was a powder-keg waiting to be ignited.

‘While we were waiting to set off I heard him say, “There is an extraordinary scent of roses in here. Are we near a garden?” I looked down and guiltily noted that my right shoe was still covered in rose oil.

‘The Archduke had been warned not to travel to Sarajevo. I understand little of politics—to me, the mechanics of an automobile could teach me more about the world than the rifts and alliances of the Balkan states. But I knew Bosnia-Herzegovina had been declared a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire by the Emperor, and that it had caused unrest among the Slavic people and the Russian Tsar who opposed it. What I did not know was that assassins lay in wait for us upon our route that day.

‘There were six automobiles in our procession, and there were six assassins spread out along the Appel Quay that ran beside the river. These assassins belonged to an organisation called the Black Hand, and each was under instructions to attack us when they saw us approach. Following a request from the Archduke, I rolled back the roof of the car so that the crowds could get a better look at him and his wife, Countess Sophie.

‘At around 10:00am the first of the protestors struck, although we did not find this out until later, because it transpired that this man had turned coward and failed to throw his bomb at the procession. Supposedly, there had been a suspicious policeman standing close by, who had unnerved him.

‘Fifteen minutes after this, the second assassin hurled a grenade at our motorcade. I saw the small grey object flying toward the windscreen of the car and accelerated, watching as the bomb flew over our heads. It bounced upon the rear of our vehicle and disappeared under the car behind, the third in the procession. The grenade had a ten second fuse, and exploded under the wheels of the automobile, seriously wounding its occupants and peppering a number of bystanders with shrapnel.

‘We were travelling at a fairly high speed, and the route was thronged with a heavy number of spectators who, we were to discover, slowed down the progress of the conspirators. The bomb-thrower tried to take his own life by swallowing a cyanide capsule, but the chemical was out of date and merely caused him to vomit. He jumped into the river Miljacka, beside which we were travelling, but the water was a mere four inches deep, and so the police were able to pull him out and arrest him.

‘The Archduke decided that we should head for the hospital to visit the victims of the bombing. General Potiorek, who was traveling with us, said that we would need to avoid the city centre to do so. I understood later that he had a plan that we should continue along the quay all the way to the hospital. Unfortunately, he did not inform me of this idea, and I turned right into Franz Josef Street.

‘There was a run-down café there, where a small, sickly lad of nineteen who had been turned down for membership of the Black Hand sat, disappointed and embittered. He thought that the death of the Archduke would magically release the shackles that bound his people to the empire. He had missed his chance to attack our convoy, and had given up when he saw our automobile turn into the street.

‘The second I realised that we had made a wrong turn, I put my foot on the brake and began to back up. I admit I was disturbed that there might be another attack, and in my rush I stalled the car’s engine, locking the gears. From the corner of my eye I saw the sickly fellow rise to his feet and raise his arm toward us. He was holding a pistol, and used it now to knock a fellow bystander out of his way. I saw all this as if time itself had suddenly slowed down.

‘I attempted to reverse more quickly, but the rose oil on my shoe had made the leather sole more slippery, and my foot slid off the accelerator. In that brief moment while the automobile was stilled, the lad took aim and fired twice. His bullets found their mark; both the Archduke and his wife were shot. Franz Ferdinand’s neck was pierced and gushed blood. Count Harrach’s face was splashed with it. The Count put a white handkerchief on the Archduke’s jugular vein to stem the flow of blood. I heard his wife call out, ‘For Heaven’s sake, what happened to you?’ but she had been shot in the stomach, and fell from her seat. We thought she must have fainted, but the Archduke knew what had happened and begged her not to die for the sake of her children. His ceremonial hat slid from his head—I remember there were shiny sapphire feathers all over the car floor.

‘I pulled to the side of the road and we tried to remove Franz Ferdinand’s tight blue tunic, but we could not find a pair of scissors with which to cut it open. He died before we could get to the wound. The crowd rushed forward, and in the process my leg was crushed.

‘When I returned home, I discovered that my beloved Hannah was dead. She had walked into an ornamental lake and lain down in it, breathing the water down into her lungs to take her own life. No-one could tell me if she had heard about the Archduke’s assassination before she died, or if her wits had simply wandered after fearing that I would stray.

‘The Archduke’s chauffeur, Leopold, had miraculously reappeared—there seemed to be some mystery in his absence to which I was not privy—and I was asked to stand down. Later, I understood that all despatches would suggest he was with the Archduke when he died, and I, a lowly mechanic, was erased from history. You see now, sir, the burden I carry.’

‘I think I understand perfectly.’

‘I am responsible for nothing less than the deaths of thousands—millions for all I know—for just two months after Franz Ferdinand’s death, Austria-Hungary declared war against Serbia, and this great conflict in which we now find ourselves began, and it seems it may never stop until all the world is dead.’

‘You could argue that the Archduke’s assassination was not the only starting pistol for the war in which we are now engulfed.’ said the Conductor. ‘I believe there were other causes for the commencement of the conflict: nationalism, imperialism, militarism.’

‘No, sir, I will not be absolved so easily. The fact remains that if the Archduke Franz Ferdinand had not been struck down, we would not have declared war on Serbia when we did, and thereby set into motion a chain of disastrous alliances that spilt Europe in twain. And his death could have been avoided.’

‘I sympathise with your fatal role,’ said the Conductor, unlatching the door of the observation car and slowly sliding it open. ‘You saw the day’s events reversing themselves, your foot not slipping from the accelerator, the perfume bottle not spreading oil across the sole of your shoe, the glance from the Princess not incensing your wife. A single look was all it took, and now the world has been shifted on its axis. It has taken the road to Hell and damnation.’

‘You read my mind,’ said Franz, looking down at the racing tracks. ‘I have suffered with this pain for two long years. With each passing day the death toll rises, and I think to myself that it could all have so easily been avoided.’

‘But that is what fate always makes you think,’ said the Conductor. ‘That is the role of destiny.’

‘Be that as it may, I now find that this is not a burden with which I wish to live any longer.’

‘The world does not know that you are responsible for its greatest tragedy,’ the Conductor admitted. ‘Unless you plan to tell them?’

Franz felt inside his jacket and removed an envelope. ‘Again, you read my mind. I have taken the time to write down my true version of the events. Can you make sure that it reaches the right authorities?’

‘You know there is a way for you to be absolved.’ The Conductor urged him on. ‘You cannot change what will be now—you have unwittingly helped me in my own cause by speaking of this—but you can bring your own misery to an end.’

‘Yes,’ Franz agreed, looking down. ‘I belong with the innocent dead.’

‘They will take comfort in the knowledge that you have joined them. All you have to do is take one simple step. All this pain can be over in a moment.’

Franz shifted his weight and extended his crushed foot above the abyss. The train was hammering over a raised section of the track. Far below, the black woods fell away to a rock-strew ravine beset by hungry wolves.

Franz turned to look into the Conductor’s coal-dark eyes. ‘We humans are weak,’ he said sadly. ‘One glance from a woman is all it takes to destroy the world of men.’ And with that he let go of the hand-rail, falling out of the train. His body tumbled over and over, and was rushed away into the ravine.

The Conductor locked the observation car gate and turned away, smiling faintly to himself. ‘An act of self-destruction, Franz,’ he whispered with relish. ‘A sacrificial suicide is all it takes to oil the wheels of fate once more. Now that your offering has been made, we can test the mettle of our new passengers. How I always love the start of the journey.’

He set off along the carriage, content in the knowledge that the game had been set in motion. ‘So,’ he said to himself, ‘it begins.’ Looking toward the guard’s van, he sensed that something terrifying had just been woken, and his smile widened.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE SCRATCHING

T
HOMAS AND
M
IRANDA
sat beside each other. The Conductor had set out two wooden chairs, one on either side of the trestled coffin.

‘Well, this is a fine way to travel, I must say,’ Thomas complained. ‘Separated from the other passengers, in the company of the dead.’

‘If you had made better plans, we would not have been reduced to this,’ said Miranda. She sighed. ‘My mother had high hopes for me. She saw me in the millinery business, running my own company in Regent Street with a staff of young ladies at my command, outfitting the children of the high-born; not married to a country vicar, serving teas, surrounded by colicky babies. Thank God she cannot see me now.’

‘Yes, I know all about your mother’s plans,’ Thomas murmured. ‘They were the death of your father. The women in your family have always been strong-willed.’

‘Only because the men were weak. My mother is an Emancipationist, but freedom requires capital.’ Miranda reached out her hand and pressed it against the cool mahogany of the coffin. ‘Royalty, Mr Scheffen said. That’s why we must accompany him.’

Thomas recognized the gleam in his wife’s eye and feared it. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He died tragically young. He is to be buried in his family regalia.’ She looked back at the coffin with dark shining eyes. ‘With his gold medals, his sceptre and sword, a hilt studded with precious jewels. They must be guarded from thieves and brigands. We are in bandit country. It is a task that carries responsibility. This is why we were selected. We are English, after all, and therefore entirely trustworthy.’

The van swayed and Miranda’s head, filled with dreams of pomp and ceremony, began to droop. Thomas was left alone to watch the coffin. The train was slowing down. He rose and peered from the only window, little more than a narrow slit. There was a large sliding door, but it was bolted shut—somewhat insecurely, it seemed to Thomas.

A dense billowing fog was sinking down from the surrounding palisade of pine trees to envelop the train. The wheels turned ever more slowly, the pistons sighing like bellows.

The
Arkangel
crept cautiously through the fog. Thomas cupped his hands against the glass, trying to see, but visibility had dropped to almost nothing.

‘As silent as death,’ he whispered. ‘Can’t find a thing out there.’

Miranda’s chin was touching the green-beaded bodice of her dress-coat. He returned to his seat beside the coffin. The train had fallen silent, but for the creaking of the carriages.

He listened intently, and heard a faint sound. A scratching, like a squirrel scrabbling for a nut, or a rat dying in a wall. He rose once more and tried to trace the sound. There were very few items in the guard’s van that might hide a rodent.

There it was again.

It seemed to be coming from inside the coffin. But that wasn’t possible. Thomas put his ear to the casket.

Skritch—skritch.

Startled, he jumped back.

‘Miranda!’ He touched her shoulder and she raised her sleep-filled eyes to him.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Can you hear something?’

She listened for a moment. ‘No, not a thing.’

Thomas hushed her and raised a finger. ‘There it is again! Listen...’

She humoured him by listening, but heard nothing. Turning, she saw the murk outside forming dew against the glass. ‘It’s the fog. It muffles everything.’