Look to the Wolves

by Look to the Wolves (retail) (epub)

  ‘What about the railway towns?’

  ‘In this area that means Karlovka and Konstantinograd. I suppose when they’ve secured Poltava – which for all we know they may have done already –’

  ‘They’ll come down the railway.’

  A nod. ‘When they’re ready.’

  ‘The railways are vital.’ Markov was adjusting the lamp’s wick. ‘Literally. When you look at a map, they’re like the arteries in a body.’

  ‘Not a bad analogy. Over these plains they’re the only way you can move an army fast – and supply it, reinforce it and so forth. Also they carry the telegraph lines – when infiltrators or saboteurs haven’t cut them. They have been, of course, keep doing it, that’s why nobody ever knows what’s going on… But believe me, Aleksei Mikhail’ich, you’ll be well away before their armoured trains come blasting down this line.’

  ‘I have to believe you. Otherwise – well…’ The doctor pulled out a pocket-watch, tilted its face to the lamp – ‘might as well die of typhus… But right now – since minutes make hours and hours make days—’

  ‘Yes. We should start.’ The matron reacted quickly, as if she’d been thinking so for some while. ‘Annushka, we’d better see to our patients.’ She asked Schelokov, ‘Are you setting out at the same time as we do?’

  ‘Why not, Mamasha.’ He leant back, pulled aside a flap of the tent and peered out. ‘It’ll be dark enough by the time we’re on the road. And it’s snowing. Good.’ He looked round at the Tartar: ‘Horses, my friend. Tents…’

  * * *

  Half an hour later they were on their way, Schelokov driving the dvukolki and Bob on the bench beside him, wearing a fur shapka instead of his naval cap. The matron had promised she’d look after his cap for him, in the hope they might meet again – ‘somewhere, some day…’ His own farewells with her and the others had been brief, but lengthy and emotional between them and Schelokov. Then with the Tartar driving the heavier cart, the fourgon, with the two wounded men and the nurse Annushka in it, and the matron handling the two-wheeler with Dr Markov as her passenger, the small cavalcade had trundled away, lurching over the road that linked the river bridge to the railway crossing, and then dwindling south-eastward, parallel to the tracks. Schelokov waited until they’d vanished from sight, into the gathering darkness and the blinding effect of snow driving almost horizontally on the icy north-east wind; then he flipped Mishka’s reins, bumped the dvukolki down into the road and to the left, towards the crossing.

  ‘All right, Robert Aleksandr’ich?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll gladly take over, when you like.’

  ‘Yes. Later. But I’ll tell you how we’ll go now. After we cross the railway here we’ll keep to the road until we have trees close on our left. Then we’ll turn off that way, circle this end of the wood and turn up on the west side of it. That way we’ll have the whole forest between us and the patrol who fired at you.’

  ‘Should be sheltered on that side, too.’

  ‘Perhaps. But we need it to snow, to cover our wheel-tracks. In fact that’s very important, Robert Aleksandr’ich… Peculiar first name you have, if I may say so.’

  ‘There’s no equivalent in Russian. But the short form in English is “Bob”.’

  ‘Bob. Easier to remember, at least.’ He flipped the reins: ‘Come along, Mishka. Pick your feet up, old dear… Bob – those rifles you didn’t think we’d need. Be a good fellow, get them out from behind you there, load them and put them down beside us?’

  * * *

  Dozing. Not having had all that much sleep lately. But with a whole day of sleep ahead – once they got to wherever…

  ‘You awake, Robert Aleksandr’ich – Bob, I should say?’

  ‘Yes, what’s—’

  An arm out, across his face: ‘Trees. See them? I’m going to turn off here. Whoa-up, Mishka…’

  It was still snowing. The trees were a dark mass on the left, dark even in pitch darkness. The darkness was under the forest’s overhang, of course – no more than fifty or even thirty yards ahead. Schelokov muttered, ‘Here we go, then.’ Pulling round to the left, Mishka’s hooves scrabbling on the low bank and the cart lurching into the dip, then up and over. Schelokov talking to the horse meanwhile, a stream of flattery and encouragement.

  ‘Not quite the sort of horsemanship they taught you at the Nicholas School, I imagine.’

  A snort… ‘One learnt to ride a horse as if one was part of it. That was the main thing. Bookwork didn’t take much of one’s attention, I can tell you. Younkers, they called us. Cavalry language for cadets. When you were commissioned you became a cornet – second lieutenant is the equivalent. Riding a horse, use of swords and lances: and the very peak of it all was the mounted charge. The order was Out swords, lances for the battle! Nobody will ever hear that bellowed out again.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘We were outdated before the war even started. But we did some good work, for all that. Won some battles, I’ve led a charge, let me tell you – and there are damn few alive who have… Latterly they had us fighting mostly on our feet, of course. Except for scouting, from time to time.’

  There were trees on both sides now, and it was slower going over this uneven ground. Although the snow would have provided a cushioning effect, and the road hadn’t been exactly a billiard-table. Schelokov added, ‘You’re quite right, though – from that to driving a bloody donkey-cart… In the best of causes, mind you. But still… Tell me this now, Bob. I understood about one word in five when you were explaining yourself to Katya and Maria – that you were sent from Constantinople to Sevastopol, then—’

  ‘You talk English, then?’

  ‘Understand, a little. Couldn’t put more than three words together into English… What I was about to ask, though – d’you have carte blanche to wander around rescuing this girl and that?’

  ‘No. My job was to get those two out, that’s all. Now I ought to be getting myself out – double-quick.’

  ‘So – you’d say you were inadvertently delayed here for a while, is that it?’

  ‘Haven’t given a thought to it, to be honest… But – yes, I suppose – if anyone demanded an explanation.’

  ‘Which isn’t likely, do you mean– or are you saying you don’t give a damn?’

  Meaning – now he came to think about it – well, the second proposition, really. The Everard Philosophy, you might call it. Remembering Everard’s professed disregard of regulations and Admiralty approval – or rather disapproval.

  He explained, ‘Truth is, I’m due for release from the Navy almost any time now. Our war’s finished, and it’s all I joined for.’

  ‘What’ll you do, then? D’you have money – land, in England?’

  ‘As it happens, I’ll be going into business.’

  ‘What sort of business?’

  ‘Well, my father was an importer and exporter, and in shipping and marine insurance. In Russia – all his life. Made a success of it, and quite a lot of money.’

  ‘Good for him – but he’ll never see a rouble of it now!’

  ‘He won’t – I’m sorry to say – because he’s dead. But years ago – after the 1905 revolution, to be exact – he decided to transfer all his assets and income to a company in Scotland. Investment company, based in Glasgow. Some lawyers there are looking after it at the moment.’

  ‘So he saw the writing on the wall.’

  ‘He saw it could happen again, yes.’

  ‘And consequently you’re a rich man?’

  ‘There are considerable resources. So – great opportunities… It’ll be exciting.’

  ‘Well. I congratulate you. Your father was a wise man and you’re a lucky one. Everything to live for, eh?’

  He hadn’t discussed any of this with anyone. Not even with Nadia. But here – in a Russian forest in the middle of the night, probably because of the sense of isolation – like being in some other world, talking about that other, utterly remote one… And it meant more, now
, was exciting – because there was the hope – expectation – of having her to share it with.

  Schelokov added: ‘We must try to ensure you do get back to it.’

  * * *

  When he woke next the cart had stopped. Schelokov had woken him.

  ‘See there?’

  The pinpoint of a fire, inside the wood. The mare had seen it too – having let her head droop, she’d now lifted her muzzle from the snow to gaze in that direction. ‘Deserters’ camp?’

  ‘Or some of our friends in bivouac.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they have sentries posted?’

  ‘Should – but there aren’t any here. We’d have been challenged – or shot at.’

  Silence for a minute. Watching and listening… Then: ‘Deserters, or some such. May as well push on.’ Slap of the reins on Mishka’s rump again… Getting the cart started was the hardest work, of course. ‘Good girl, good girl.’ Glancing to the right again, at the flicker of firelight showing sporadically between the trees. ‘Very good girl. Pick of the bunch, you are, old dear…’

  ‘Shall I take over?’

  ‘If you like. If you’ve slept enough.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry – but I was tired.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry for.’ Schelokov passed the reins to him. ‘Keep the edge of the forest on our right. I don’t know that I’ll sleep, but if I do and you have any doubt of anything don’t hesitate to wake me. Otherwise when you get to the top end of the woods. Then we’ll decide whether to camp there or cross a few miles of open ground first.’

  ‘How many nights like this one, would you think?’

  ‘If it goes well – two, after this… But listen – if it stops snowing, that’s it, we stop. So wake me for that too.’

  ‘Because of our wheel-tracks – if it stops snowing?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘From that point of view, travelling by cart’s not such a good idea, is it?’

  ‘No. But even on foot one leaves tracks. And one has to weigh advantages against disadvantages. The main consideration as I see it is that we may have other people to bring back with us—’

  ‘Oh – of course—’

  ‘– and they may not all be fit. So transportation—’

  ‘Of course…’

  A silence, except for the rumbling of the cart, and Mishka’s plodding hooves. Then: ‘Driven one of these before, have you?’

  ‘I’ve driven pony-traps often enough. Much the same.’

  It was heavier-feeling, that was all. Especially with all that fodder in it. But once the cart was rolling and when you weren’t taking corners the weight made no difference – except maybe to Mishka, who’d no business to complain, when it was her own rations she was hauling.

  Schelokov had reached down for the rifle on his side. He was holding it across his knees, clicking the safety-catch on and off, leaning forward to peer out into the curtain of quietly falling snow and the solid-black backdrop of the forest.

  Bob lifted the reins, as Mishka stumbled. ‘Hold up, girl…’ Now the cart’s wheels hit it – left one first and then the other, lurching over. He asked Schelokov, ‘What happens if we break a wheel?’

  ‘Well – there’s no spare. We should have sleds, of course.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘So happens we don’t. Unfortunate, this time of year, but – there you are… We do have tools, though – and a sailor’s supposed to be able to turn his hand to anything, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’ve heard the theory.’

  ‘But – on the subject of eventualities generally, Bob – there’s one thing I’d like to say to you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Speaking of bringing them back with us, as we were… Well, when we get near Valki, I can take you to the place where Aleksei Markov’s letuchka was, and it’s where Letuchka chetiri would have established themselves when they arrived to take our place. Not in Valki itself, there was typhus there – as there is now in most villages… But the point is, we can’t expect to find them still in that precise location. They’ll have moved out – well, probably southward, the way they were supposed to have been withdrawing.’

  ‘And in fact haven’t.’

  ‘As you say. But another aspect of it is that if they are still in that vicinity it probably isn’t because they want to be.’

  ‘You mean – for one reason or another they haven’t been able to move out.’

  ‘Yes. And – it’s none of my business, Bob, but it’s obvious you have some – some degree of – personal involvement. I’m trying to forewarn you, therefore.’

  ‘Not to count chickens.’

  ‘Exactly. But I’m not just saying it – the plain truth is they should have joined our friends down there quite a while ago – and they haven’t. But they can’t have stayed put either, so—’

  ‘So – God knows…’ The cart listed heavily – the left side crashing into a hole of some kind… But it was all right – wheel still on, still turning… He muttered – with his mind on Schelokov’s warning, not on any cartwheel – ‘Damn soon will need those tools out…’

  * * *

  Schelokov had fallen asleep, after another half-hour or so of intermittent conversation. Before he’d finally dropped off they’d heard wolves baying, from some distance inside the forest, and it had put Bob’s mind back to Dr Markov’s somewhat cryptic remarks on the subject of letuchki having to leave badly wounded men behind. The implication had seemed to be that he himself had been forced to do so, much against his will. Schelokov had confirmed this. Specifically that Markov had had no option but to abandon some – having had no room for them in the letuchka’s carts, and no hope of saving their lives either – and in general terms that during the years of war wolves hadn’t been hunted, so there were more of them than there’d ever been before.

  He’d added, ‘And they get lucky, sometimes…’

  He was slumped with his head back, now, swaying and jolting to the dvukolki’s erratic motion, with the rifle aslant between his knees. It was still snowing, and Mishka was getting sluggish. Hardly surprising: she’d been hauling this load for hours, and the snow wasn’t exactly an aid to progress. She’d developed a side-to-side lurch like some old seadog’s rolling gait; it could have been a form of protest. Plodding with her head low, harness creaking, the cart’s wheels rumbling and a regular squeak on the offside now. Maybe there’d be something in the back there that would serve as lubrication, when they stopped. Might even be some hub grease: wouldn’t be surprising, knowing Schelokov.

  For whom, thank God. And for Sam Scott before him, for that matter. And Everard before him.

  End of the wood?

  This was rather like keeping a watch alone at sea: staying alert – eyes, ears and brain – to one’s immediate surroundings while in the back of one’s mind the thoughts ran on. Like background music that switched itself off at crucial moments… And here, now, having noticed that the trees were thinning… The same density off to the right, but that dark mass of them receding. The dvukolki had been continuing dead straight, he was certain, and to stay close to the forest’s edge at this point would have meant hauling Mishka’s head round.

  Top end of the wood, therefore. Had to be, although one hadn’t expected to come to it this soon.

  He nudged Schelokov. ‘Boris…’

  Galvanic movement: and the rifle seeming to levitate itself into its former action-ready position. ‘Huh?’

  ‘We’re at the end of this stretch, I think.’

  ‘Ah.’ Upright, staring round… ‘Ah, well…’

  Wolf chorus back there again. If one had been alone – and on foot, as one would have been – that sound would have been fairly chilling.

  ‘Mishka’s tiring, Boris.’

  ‘Never. Heart of a lion, our Mishka has. Endurance of an elephant. Besides which she’s been eating her head off and done no work for weeks.’ Schelokov grunted. ‘You’re right on this, though. North edge of this section. And still snowing,
fortunately. Excellent… So – well, wait just a minute…’ He ducked down, and after a moment’s fumbling a match flared. A muttering down there… ‘Hour and a half of dark, yet. So – why not…’ The match had gone out, and he was pulling himself back up. ‘Head that way, now. North-west, roughly. I’ve this field compass, d’you see. All we have to do is line Mishka up on north-west – like a boat, eh?’

  ‘Right. Hard a-port.’ Joking, in the wilderness. If you could call it joking. Making it a gentle turn anyway, for Mishka’s convenience; while reflecting that if Schelokov really believed the chances were so slight, not only would he not have come himself, he’d have tried to dissuade anyone else from starting out.

  It was a good thought to hang on to. The kind you needed.

  Glancing at the dark profile beside him: ‘Compass in your hand and a map in your head. I was thinking while you were asleep – where I’d be without you, God knows.’

  ‘Oh, you’d have managed. But it’s memory of the ground itself, not any map. And far from infallible, unfortunately. Might’ve paid more attention if I’d known I’d be coming back. All right this far, but later… Well, as it happens there’s a small river – tributary of the Vorskla, I think – that I’m counting on as my ace.’

  ‘We’ll be all right, then.’

  ‘A few other things too – which I’d have told you about if you’d been doing this on your own.’