White Eagles Over Serbia (18 page)

“Do they not know it?”

Black Peter started to walk slowly to his own headquarters, taking Methuen familiarly by the arm as he did so and piloting him along. “I don't think they do as yet. But we can't be sure. We have been out of touch with Usizce for several days—I suppose because of all this increased activity. I think that the Communists suspect something big afoot; but they don't as yet know what. They think we are planning to start a revolution in Serbia. Ach! I'm tired.” They had entered the room which served him for a battle headquarters, and he slumped down at the table once more. The old man lay asleep in the corner on a tattered-looking couch. Black Peter uncorked a bottle of plum brandy and placed two small glasses on the table. “Sit,” he said, “and drink and let us talk about something else apart from this project of ours. I've been six months up here living like a goat. Pretty tiring I can tell you.”

It turned out in conversation that Black Peter was not entirely without culture of a sort. He had been trained as an engineer in both Belgrade and Vienna, and at the outbreak of war with Germany had been in charge of a building project in Bosnia. His wife and child had perished early in the war and he had joined the ill-fated Royalist band of General Mihaelovic which called itself Chetnik, and which had been abandoned to its fate by the Allies. With the disappearance of the Chetnik organization and the murder of its chief by the Communists, Black Peter had gone underground and worked for a spell as a cobbler in Usizce.

Then the
émigrés
in London had started trying to patch together the old Royalist movement from the shreds which remained. Black Peter was called and told of a discovery in south Serbia which set his heart aflame once more. Here was a chance to serve the Royalist cause once more. He spoke with touching simplicity of the dangers undergone and the difficulties surmounted in order to infiltrate a well-armed band into a single mountain area. Many of his comrades had been captured; mistakes had been made. “The gravest mistake has been hurry,” he said. “Too many men, too many arms in too short a time. I wanted another six months to do things gradually without awakening suspicion. But they want me to hurry. Always hurry. Now we are in danger, as you know. We may have to fight our way through to the coast.”

“That would be impossible,” said Methuen. “With the whole army after you?”

“Perhaps. But you do not know the route we are planning to follow. You could not bring an army to bear on us at any place because we travel on the top of the mountains; the only time we come down is to-night, the first valley. The rest of the way you could only bring perhaps two battalions into contact. As far as we are concerned the army can race up and down the roads as much as it wants.”

“And at the coast?”

“You are a pessimist,” said Black Peter impatiently. “You see all the difficulties; but at the coast, my friend, we have a point of rendezvous so perfect that … well, I won't tell you any more. I will only say that there is not a soldier within a dozen miles of our point of embarkation.”

All this, which sounded on the face of it utterly fantastic, was in fact plausible—so Methuen at least thought as he saw in his mind's eye the great hairy chain of groined mountains running westward upon the map like a cluster of spiders; the eyries of barren white limestone known as the
karst
which succeeded the heavily wooded and deeply glaciated chain of hills upon which they now were.

“Drink,” said Black Peter. “Leave the worries to me.” The old man snorted in the corner and muttered something to himself. Methuen smoked on in silence while Black Peter turned his attention to his papers, carefully burning them in a biscuit-box and sifting the ash with a poker before calling for an orderly to take them away. “This pistol of yours is a jewel,” he said, taking it up from the table. “I let you keep your glasses as a special favour.” Methuen smiled. “Will you tell Branko that?” he said. “Because he has relieved me of them.”

Branko was summoned and forced to disgorge his loot, which he did with clumsy reluctance, growling under his breath like a mastiff. Black Peter watched him in silence and then curtly dismissed him. “You see?” he said, turning back to Methuen, “I am a just man, and an honest one.”

“And my pistol?” said Methuen.

“That is different. I want it.” He gave a harsh laugh and slapped Methuen consolingly on the back. “Never mind. We will see. Who lives longest shall keep it for himself.”

It seemed a fair enough solution, though Methuen was already busy with plans for escape. Indeed he was beginning to feel that he had committed a cardinal error in coming to the headquarters of the White Eagles. He should have taken the knowledge gained back to Belgrade with him and not ventured his neck in so risky an exploit. But when he started for the Janko Stone he had not realized that he might find himself a virtual prisoner marching to the coast with a column of armed men, an unwitting target for the attentions of Tito's whole army. His blood curdled when he thought of the Ambassador's face. His only hope was to escape and keep the dawn rendezvous on Sunday with Porson; yet as things were it was not going to be easy. One false move and the suspicions of his captors would be aroused. That might lead him to share poor Anson's fate. And then, on the other hand, it was absolutely vital that some knowledge of the treasure should reach Dombey and the Foreign Office. All sorts of diplomatic repercussions might be expected if the Royalist movement abroad were suddenly to come into large funds. Policy might have to be altered to meet this new contingency. And if the White Eagles did not get through with their precious freight? If he himself perished with them nobody would be any the wiser. Only sooner or later Mr. Judson's disappearance would have to be accounted for. “O Lord,” said Methuen despondently to himself. “I seem to have made an awful mess of things.”

They ate their midday meal at a clumsy table in the sunshine outside the cave as Black Peter wanted to keep a wary eye on the loading of his mule-team. They ate slices of fat pork-meat heavily spiced and a good country wine with it. Such conversation as there was was punctuated by interruptions. Orderlies came backwards and forwards with reports sent in by scouts; the guides clustered round for detailed instructions as to the route which they had difficulty in following on the map—being unused to such civilized amenities as maps and compasses. Meanwhile the loading went forward steadily and Methuen could not help but admire the excellent camp discipline which he observed; for method and order this ragged band of guerillas would not have disgraced a regular army unit.

As the light slanted towards afternoon he watched a breathtaking transformation of the men and mules into glittering armoured knights and their caparisoned steeds. The shirts of gold gleamed in the sunlight. The mules at first showed fright as the great blankets of gold coins were thrown over them, but their team-leaders soothed them and gradually accustomed them to the new sensation. Panniers were packed, and the great wooden saddles were heaped with the wooden boxes containing the treasure. Black Peter occupied himself tirelessly with details, walking from group to group, admonishing, cajoling and teasing. It was obvious that the men adored him and would follow him anywhere. He was a marvellous natural soldier, thought Methuen with a touch of envy and admiration. It was amazing to watch the whole band a-glitter in gold coats of mail, leading their glittering animals. Once there was an alarm as the sound of planes was heard; but the sound passed away to the east of the camp without anything being spotted in the sky.

As dusk was falling small knots of armed men began to come into camp from several different quarters of the compass. Each new arrival was signalled by sharp cries and whistles, and some two or three were greeted by Black Peter as old friends.

Methuen had braced himself for the arrival of the escort, for surely among this band was someone capable of detecting the falseness of his cover story; someone from headquarters who would give him away.… His anxiety mounted as Black Peter advanced to meet some of these new arrivals, to greet them with affectionate tenderness, kissing their faces and hugging them with bearish enthusiasm.

Methuen walked slowly across the grassy depression and climbed the hillock on the other side from where he could just see the upper part of the Janko Stone. A ring of sentries lay in the grass facing inwards towards the depression in which the camp was situated. Nobody was allowed beyond a certain radius, lets he showed himself in the skyline, and in consequence the whole wild panorama of peaks and mountains was out of sight. Methuen would have liked to climb up as far as the obelisk but he was prevented. Branko walked behind him all the way.

Escape was out of the question. And if he were discovered to be an agent sudden death might follow immediately. Methuen braced himself against an ordeal by interrogation which he felt must soon come. In order to compose his mind he examined an old working in detail, admiring the rich and varied seams of rock which the spades of forgotten men had uncovered; snowy quartz, fragments of rich iron ore glittered over by the scales of mica, pale green serpentine, and dappled jasper. He stopped to pick up a beautiful piece of chalcedony, a network of glittering crystals, which he handed to his jailor, saying: “Look at the riches of this place.” Branko grunted doubtfully as he turned the specimen over in his fingers. “And look there is gold,” added Methuen, picking up a piece of fractured iron pyrites with its enticing yellowish gleam. “Gold?” said Branko with interest. “Yes. Here, take it.”

These pleasantries were interrupted by a guard who sought them out and said curtly: “Black Peter wants to see you at once in the cave.” Methuen drew a deep breath and braced himself. “Now it is coming,” he thought as he walked slowly back into the depression which was now swimming with golden warriors and richly caparisoned mules, turned to a dazzle by the last fainting rays of the sunlight.

The cave had been stripped of everything now, and a huge bonfire burned in one corner on which the old man was putting various oddments of equipment and some papers from a wallet. Black Peter sat at the table with a preoccupied air and motioned Methuen to the chair which faced him.

“Well,” said Methuen.

“I was hoping some of these people might be able to confirm your story.”

“So was I.”

“They can't. They've been in touch with headquarters, but not for a day or two; and their field of operations has been around Sarajevo.”

“O damnl” said Methuen with a wild joy in his heart which he disguised by holding up his tethered wrists for inspection. “Must I really go about like this? After all the camp is surrounded by sentries. One can't even get up to the Janko Stone to look at the view—much less escape, just supposing I wanted to do so.” Black Peter nodded vigorously, and then shook his head once more. “I refuse to take chances,” he said with slow obstinate determination.

The room had slowly been filling up with guerillas and it was obvious that he had not more time to spare for Methuen. “Go and get ready,” he said. “We march in a little while.”

Methuen walked into the starry darkness with a light step. He was overwhelmed with relief. His shaggy janitor now led him to the cave which contained the treasure, and having first untied his hands, slipped a coat of coins over his head. The weight was really staggering—it could hardly have been less than that of a medieval suit of armour. To this was added a double bandolier of coins which rested on his hips. “My God,” said Methuen, “one can't carry ammunition as well as this.” Branko gave a chuckle. “You won't be expected to use any. As for us we are strong.”

“We shall see,” said Methuen. The latest arrivals were being loaded with their bandoliers and he noticed that ammunition had been cut to the minimum. It did not argue well for any action they might have to fight on their way to the coast; and food? He had noticed a flock of sheep among the mules and presumed that they would drive a few with them and kill them whenever they camped. “This is going to be some journey,” he said soberly and Branko grunted as he replied: “Come along man. Our ancestors did as much and more.” Methuen looked suitably shame-faced as he replied: “Yes. It is well said.”

Outside the cave in the starlit night the mule-teams had formed up and the camp was bustling with life. Having loaded Methuen up Branko took the opportunity of attaching a long piece of rope to his left arm. This would enable the jailor to walk behind his charge in the night and yet keep a secure hold upon him by means of the rope. They were not going to have him slipping away in the darkness.

Now the melodious voice of Black Peter came at them out of the darkness and a great silence fell. “Men!” said the invisible orator. “Everything is prepared and we are about to set out. I must remind you that none shall speak, and none shall smoke until I tell you. To-night and tomorrow night will be dangerous. Say prayers for your loved ones and for the King in whose name we will perform this exploit or perish.”

Branko now led him across the dark grass to join the little group which stood about Black Peter like an unofficial bodyguard. “We will march with them in front,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and they set their faces to the west, climbing the slopes under the Janko Stone slowly and laboriously, in their coats of mail.

There was a young moon half-hidden by clouds and looking back from the great obelisk Methuen saw the black serpent of the mule-train coiling behind them on that windless mountain. In the darkness around they could see the great clusters of peaks and canyons which surrounded the Janko Stone. The grass was damp from the heavy mountain dew. Black Peter headed the procession with a cluster of armed men round him; then came Methuen and his jailor, closely followed by the leader of the first mule-team.

The path led steadily down towards a watershed and the going was not as even as Methuen had hoped as he stumbled along with Branko tugging at the rope. They walked in complete silence except for an occasional hoarse word of command or a whispered confabulation about their direction among the little party which led the way. For the greater part of the descent they were in the open and it was fortunate that the moon was hidden by clouds, for once or twice they heard the noise of an aircraft overhead—and perhaps the glitter of moonlight on coin might have been visible. Once they had descended into the shadowy watershed visibility became limited and in the inky darkness there were one or two minor accidents—a broken girth, and a man who fell down a steep bank and knocked himself almost insensible with his rifle-butt. But in general their progress was steady and the disciplined behaviour of the men excellent. Methuen kept up as well as he could, glad to be on the move once more, but with his brain swimming with half-formulated plans and hopes which he did not know how to achieve.