White Eagles Over Serbia (17 page)

“I want time,” he said, sitting down at the table once more. “I want time to consider.” There was a tap at the door and a man in a stained military tunic came in and saluted. “Five planes, sir. They saw nothing.”

Black Peter made a gesture of despair. “How could they
help
not seeing,” he said. “Go away,” he added to the messenger. “Go away”; and in tones of weary resignation he said: “Ignorant peasants, what do they know?”

A table had been cleared in the corner and Methuen was told to sit down and wait for some food, an order which he obeyed with alacrity. The nervous relief at not having committed any major blunders had intensified his hunger and weariness, and placing his folded arms upon the table he leaned his head forward and fell into a sleep which was only broken by the arrival of a bowl of soup swimming with meat and fragments of bread. The drone of voices at the other end of the tunnel had undergone a subtle transformation and now that he was awake once more he realtized with a start that Black Peter and the old man were not talking to each other in Serbian any more. They were talking Bulgarian, obviously under the impression that their conversation could not be understood by their guest. Methuen smiled grimly to himself and heard Black Peter say: “No, you always accept things at their face value. Why should headquarters send him separately, since they are sending these men to-night over the mountains? Why could he not have come with them? And the story about Marko's death … that's another thing that makes me doubt.…” The old man said “Ach!” several times in deprecating tones. “Black Peter sees spies everywhere,” he said.

Peter blew a puff of smoke from his nose and said: “And the Englishman?”

“Anyway, he was very obvious.”

“Perhaps this one also is an agent.”

“Then take no chances. Treat him the same.”

The old man raised his right hand and did a graceful little sketch in the air of someone firing a pistol; it was a fluent, graceful little gesture, which Methuen caught out of the corner of his eye as he bent to his soup. He realized with a thrill of horror that they were referring to Anson's death. “At least,” said the old man, “Branko will do the job cleanly and efficiently—like the monk.” He laughed a small creaky laugh and went to the window—which was blank and did not pierce the rock. In this embrasure, however, an ikon stood and the old man studied it with loving attention while he continued to speak, softly, insinuatingly: “The decision is yours, Black Peter. If you are worried about him let us do away with him. But I think his information is correct. You heard the planes.”

Peter sighed and relapsed into Serbian again. “Very well,
barbar,”
he said. “But I shall be on my guard,” and coming over to the corner of the cave where Methuen still sat eating he clapped him on the shoulder and said: “We accept your story.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank him,” said Black Peter curtly, and leaning forward he rapidly ran his hands over Methuen's coat. With a swift gesture he pulled the pistol from its sling and held it up to examine. Methuen went on with his soup. “It's a new American model,” he said. “We have bought some in Paris.”

“This is a silencer,” said Black Peter.

“Yes.”

“I will keep it for myself. You may have mine.”

“Very well.”

He stood up and faced Black Peter, smiling mildly, but inwardly furious to lose this treasure. “Now,” he said, “surely it is time to do some planning for our move to-night.”

“You should sleep first.”

“Where?”

Black Peter shouted once more for the ruffianly Branko and said: “Take this man and let him sleep until midday. Watch him. Bring him back.”

Then he turned aside to his great map-littered table, humming a song.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Black Peter Has Doubts

H
e slept for a good six-hour spell and the sun was high when he awoke on his bed of straw at the end of a long tunnel. As he sat up and yawned he felt a pair of strong arms gripping his shoulders and in a moment his wrists were tightly tied together behind his back. He turned and stared into the hairy face of Branko his jailor. “What is this?” The old man drew the knots secure and tested them with a grunt before answering with laconic abruptness: “Order.”

“But Black Peter said—”

“He has changed his mind. Until we can check on you.”

Methuen swore loudly and lay back once more. The old man squatted on his haunches and cut an apple into squares with his knife. He proceeded to eat it noisily. “This will gain you nothing,” said Methuen. “Absolutely nothing. Can I talk to Black Peter?” Branko shook his head. “He is busy.”

Methuen felt the pangs of a gradually dawning despair; he should, he realized now, never have come up here. He should have been content with the knowledge he had gained. Now all his plans might miscarry unless he could gain the confidence of Black Peter.

He requested and was given a long drink of water; and after some thought he stood up and walked to the mouth of the tunnel. Branko followed his every step. The grassy hollows round the great stone obelisk were alive with men and mules engaged in the various activities of a camp. There must have been a good spring somewhere hereabouts, for a long line of men were watering the animals; others were setting up shelters and lighting fires. Immediately opposite was another hollow tunnel, obviously the entrance to some old abandoned working, and here Methuen saw the flash of yellow light from carbide lamps. Two sentries stood on guard at the entrance with tommy-guns. Shadows flapped and staggered inside the mouth of the cave and Methuen made out the giant form of Black Peter. “There he is,” he said. “I must talk to him.” His jailor tried to detain him but he shouldered him aside and walked to the cave-mouth where the sentries barred his way. He called out: “Black Peter! I must talk to you.”

The leader of the White Eagles was seated on a wooden chest, deep in conversation with two ruffianly-looking men. “What is it?” he said impatiently, and catching sight of Methuen, “Ah! it is you. Come in.” Methuen pressed himself past the cold muzzles of the tommy-guns and walked into the flapping circle of light. “Why am I a prisoner?” he said. “You are not,” said Peter gruffly, “but I want to be sure about you. Too much is at stake.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the inner tunnel and Methuen saw for the first time the long stacks of wooden crates which he presumed must contain the gold bars. “Is this the treasure?” he said and Black Peter stood up, struggling between his desire for secrecy and an obvious pride. He followed the direction of Methuen's glance and sighed as he said: “Yes.”

“Gold bars are heavy,” said Methuen.

“I know. But there are other things too. Look here.” Black Peter took him gently by the shoulder and piloted him deeper into the cave. It was rather like a wine-cellar. Hanging from a long chain of racks Methuen saw what at first he took to be inner tubes of car-tyres, but which proved on closer inspection to be rubber coin-bandoliers, each designed to carry five hundred gold coins. “I see. Each man will carry something. You can't travel fast, then.” A furrow appeared on the forehead of Black Peter. “That is the problem. And look here.”

Piled in one corner (as bolts of cloth are piled in the corner of a tailor's shop) he saw what at first he took to be a series of strips of sequin-covered material which glittered like fish scales in the yellow light. “What on earth is it?”

Great blocks of gold coins had been joined together into strips, joined by tiny gold staples. Each piece measured about a square foot and in the centre of each was a hole. “I don't understand,” said Methuen and Peter gave a hoarse bark of laughter as he picked up one of these glittering sheets and slipped his head through the hole in the centre. It was like a coat of chain-mail, only made of coins. “Each man will also wear one of these golden shirts; and look, there are others to put over the mules like blankets. Methuen gave a low whistle. “But the weight,” he said. “You can't do a good day's march with this.” Black Peter looked at him for a moment without speaking. “You will see,” he said confidently. “You will see.”

There was a ripple of movement outside and the sound of voices. Black Peter cocked his ear and said: “The scouts are coming in. They will confirm your story about the troops. Come.”

They left the cave and at once a group of bearded peasants rushed across the grass to Black Peter and began to gabble unintelligibly, waving their arms and flourishing weapons of all kinds. For a moment they were inundated with questions and cries and even Black Peter could understand little of what the men had to say. It was useless calling for silence so with admirable presence of mind he lit a cigarette and sat down on the grass; at once he was encircled by the scouts who squatted round him as if round a camp fire, and fell silent. “Now,” said Black Peter, and one felt the authority behind his deep melodious voice, “let us speak in turn so that we see the true picture of events. You, Bozo: what have you to tell?”

One by one he heard them out, puffing reflectively at his cigarette, betraying no concern and no impatience. Then he turned to Methuen, who sat close beside him, still uncomfortably pinioned and said: “You are right. We must move tonight.” He dismissed the scouts and sat for a while in deep thought on the grass.

He rose at last and walked to where a shattered fragment of the old wall made an admirable natural dais and climbing on to it, with his back to the cliffside, blew three shrill blasts on a whistle. At once the camp hummed with life, as an ants' nest does if one drops something down it. From all quarters men came running to gather before him, and Black Peter waited for them without any trace of impatience. Methuen could not help admiring his perfect self-possession and calm. When the whole band was assembled silently before him Black Peter stared at them for a full half-minute before beginning to speak. He was obviously a born orator and experienced in his effects.

He began by praising their heroism in facing the dangers of guerilla life in a territory as difficult as Yugoslavia; he reminded them that the journey they were about to undertake would be in many ways the most dangerous and exhausting they might ever make. “The treasure is heavy, we know that. Our march will be slow. And I must warn you that it may be interrupted, for the Communists are approaching this mountain from three sides, hoping to cut us off. One thing we must remember. Usually it is the guerillas who can move fast, and who travel light, while regular troops are encumbered with heavy equipment. But in this case we will be the slow ones, the heavily laden ones. We will be like ants laden with ears of corn too big for them. Therefore we shall need discipline. Therefore we shall need skill in place of speed.”

A hoarse murmur greeted him, and he waited for silence before continuing. “Many of you know the route I propose to follow; at the head of each column will be a guide who knows the country well. I think we should avoid the cordon easily if we do not lack courage, and by dawn on Saturday we should reach a mountain path known to nobody which runs above the Black Lake. Then to Durmitor and the
karst.”
Everyone spat with pleasure at this and Black Peter went on in a fusillade of sound. “We shall not lose the King's treasure, that at least is certain. Rather we shall die, rather we shall take it into the Black Lake with us, locked in a death-grip with the enemies who have ruined our country.” A hoarse ragged cheer broke out and some of his audience shouted: “Well spoken!” and brandished their weapons.

A grim smile played about Black Peter's mouth for a moment. Then he went on seriously: “One thing makes it difficult for us now—namely aircraft. Some of you saw those planes this morning looking for us. If they should find us they would be able to attack us from the air and who could escape? For this reason I ask you: when the planes come do not all start running about in every direction to hide. Let each man stay absolutely still where he stands. Let him become unmoving as the Janko Stone, for the planes cannot see stillness in men—only movement. This is so important to understand that I have taken an extraordinary measure. Three guards have orders to take up a central position if planes are heard, and to shoot immediately at anyone who is seen moving. Now I don't want anyone to be hurt. But whoever moves endangers the life of each one of us, and he will be shot. Do you agree with me?”

A wild chanting cry went up from the assembled band of ruffians: “Well spoken, Peter!” “Well said, Brother Peterkin!”

He waited once more for silence and then in a crisp and altered tone, added: “That is all I have to say. You have one hour in which to eat and rest, and then we must begin the loading. Each man knows what he must carry and what each mule must carry. To-night we shall be joined at dusk by a party of our own men from the mountains above Sarajevo. We leave at darkness.”

“At darkness!” he repeated as he stepped down from the dais and shouldered his way through the press to where Methuen sat on the grass. The ropes had begun to cut into his forearms and he was dying for a smoke. Black Peter stood looking down at him for a moment with a smile. “It is very clumsy,” he said at last, “and typical of Branko. Here.” He undid the ropes at the back with the aid of his henchman and said: “We'll tie your hands in front. Then at least you can smoke if you wish.”

“Am I expected to march like this?” asked Methuen testily.

“Yes.”

“I can use a gun far better than most of these ruffians of yours. You may need me.”

“If we do we will release you.”

Methuen stood up and sighed. Black Peter took his arm and said lightly: “Do not take it too hard. It is a natural precaution. Suppose you were an agent—and I may tell you that we have already had one visitor of the kind. You might escape and take back our position and strength to the Communists in the valley.”