Look to the Wolves

by Look to the Wolves (retail) (epub)

  Straight-faced, then. Erect, staring directly ahead, barely moving to the motion of the canter: a cavalry officer on parade, with his squadron in line behind him, other squadrons behind that one and the Tsar himself up on the saluting-base. He’d glanced sideways finally, found Bob watching him, and shrugged. ‘We pay for our follies – eh?’

  * * *

  The black gelding on which Bob had started the day but from which he’d changed at the first stop went lame in mid-afternoon. Ibraim saw it and howled at Schelokov, who called a halt. He and Ibraim dismounted and inspected the limping animal, then they went on again at a walk – but only a few hundred yards, to a farm entrance where Schelokov dismounted again, knotted the slack of the reins so they weren’t dangling, and turned him in towards the house.

  ‘You’re excused old fellow. Good luck to you.’

  One foreleg was swollen, apparently, by damage to a tendon. Schelokov commented as they started off again, ‘We’ll be damn lucky if he’s the only one we lose.’

  * * *

  They lost two more before dark. Progress became slower then, and they’d been riding for sixteen hours when in a crossroads hamlet two shawled women told them after a lot of deliberation that Debaltsevo was ‘That way, Captain. But – bless you, it’s a long ride – and be dark soon enough—’

  ‘The railway line, mother. The one that goes from Debaltsevo towards Kupyansk – if we keep straight as we’re going now, will we come to it?’

  The women conferred again, and concluded that they would indeed, in ten or twelve versts. ‘But there’s no train would stop for you!’

  ‘No. I’m sure not… Is there a horse-trough here?’

  There was, so at least the horses had a drink, then. They were in a fairly bad way by this stage. Neither Bob nor Schelokov felt like discussing it, but they were both well aware that if the train wasn’t where it was supposed to be, or if they couldn’t get to it – well, you couldn’t go on all night, would have to halt somewhere – rest, eat…

  Ibraim muttered while the horses were drinking, two at a time, ‘Loshadyi tired. Not run more, Excellency.’

  ‘I know.’ Schelokov had an arm round his own mount’s neck. ‘We all know it, don’t we, old dear.’ Then in a low growl, ‘Do not call me “excellency”. The word is comrade.’ Raising his voice: ‘Not much further now.’ Although the least distance it could be was what the women had said – ten or twelve versts. He murmured to Bob, ‘Might have to beg another night’s lodging from the military.’

  ‘If we could find any.’ Mounting again: not without difficulty. In fact it was a fairly superhuman effort. One felt not far from the limits of one’s own endurance – as well as physically handicapped in certain specific areas. Additional strain sprang from awareness of what was being inflicted on the horses: and the question arising from that – where you’d be without them, if the worse came to the worst. Three men on foot, hundreds of miles from anywhere. Possibly three hunted men. It made one realize how good the remount story had been – while it lasted… He called to Schelokov – settling himself in the saddle very carefully – ‘If we run into a patrol, ask for directions to some cavalry depot?’

  ‘And look for the train in the morning. If it’s still there. Yes.’

  He reminded himself – by way of keeping his own spirits off rock-bottom – The darkest hour…

  But it was a long way, to the dawn. Quite a few dark hours to come, before that one.

  Riding on, meanwhile. And on… The snow might have been falling rather more thinly than it had been.

  Another hour. Forcing the horses along. By this time it seemed incredible that earlier in the day there’d been spells of gaiety and optimism, the feeling that one had been coming to the end of an ordeal, seeing light at the end of the long, dark tunnel. All promoted by one’s thoughts of the train, of course, the heaven-sent solution to all other problems.

  Schelokov called back – at some point – ‘Has to be some military presence near the rail track. If we can get that far. They’ll have a camp, of sorts. As far as we’re concerned, two birds with one stone, eh?’

  Not bad thinking – once a seized-up brain had solved the cryptogram. If there were soldiers besieging the train, and they had some place to go home to: and – touch wood – if they happened to be cavalry with feed for horses… You’d beg a night’s shelter and sustenance and then push on ostensibly for Debaltsevo but actually for the train after daybreak. What was more – the brain though sluggish was beginning to chug around again, after a fashion – what was more, in consorting with the military you might find out what sort of guard was being maintained on the train.

  If these nags could stay on their feet and in motion that long, poor devils. And if, when you did know where the train was and all about the troops who’d surely be surrounding it, there was any way at all of getting to it.

  Among less depressing thoughts buzzing in his head was what Schelokov had told him about hussars falling asleep in the saddle on long marches. Realizing that it would indeed be quite easy to drop off. But – jerking upright in sudden alarm – that unlike those cavalrymen you would drop off – literally—

  ‘Bob, look there!’

  Lights…

  He had been dozing. At least, felt as if he had. Muzzy-headed, detached from his immediate surroundings, foul taste in his mouth. All he’d eaten throughout the day had been black bread and goat-cheese, from a pocket, crumbled in the fingers of the left hand… He was still shaken by having damn nearly fallen off. If Schelokov hadn’t shouted then… They’d come over a rise and were on a downhill slope; he was gazing ahead through the slanting snow, over the black undulations of horses’ rumps, past Schelokov’s broad shoulders… A light like – moonrise?

  And closer lights as well. Couldn’t be moonrise: with full cloud-cover, and snow still falling, as it had all day… Schelokov was a black cut-out against it all: cap moulded to the shape of his head, shoulders pulling round as he half-turned to call back, ‘Road-block. Soldiery…’

  The lights were oil-lamps in the hands of two peasant women, and there was this glow – suffused but widespread – behind them. A much larger and quite different source – not moonlight but of that order – a sheen of it here on the knee-deep snow. There was a cart – a four-wheeled farm wagon – in the ditch, facing this way more or less, one wheel up on the road at an angle to the cart’s side which suggested it might not be all that well attached, and a mule in the shafts with an elderly man tugging at its head. At least he had been doing so, was giving up now, looking round at the sounds of their approach. While further on, forty or fifty yards down the slope, there was a barrier across the road and a group of soldiers some of whom were coming this way. Black figures with that haze of light behind them, capped heads down, rifles slung, shoulders hunched against the driving snow.

  Schelokov called as his horse came to a halt, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Ask them!’ One of the women had screeched that answer. The approaching soldiers were shielding their eyes against the snow as they stared at this pack of horses and the men on them. The older of the two women – they were both stout, looked as if they were wearing tents – told Schelokov in her high, penetrating tone, ‘The road we’ve always used, and they won’t let us, made us turn back – see, that’s how this happened! Our youngest daughter in labour – only reason we’re out this time o’ night – now we must go back and t’other way round, damn soldiers say—’

  ‘Quiet, woman.’ Her husband said, ‘We’ll go t’other way round, that’s all. Only doing what they’re told, these lads.’ The soldiers were close now. ‘Isn’t that the truth, comrades – and you’ll give us a hand, now – eh?’

  ‘What we’ve come to do.’ Stopping, peering through patchy darkness at the three of them and the bunch of horses all with their heads hanging… ‘What’s this, then?’

  ‘Making for Debaltsevo, comrade. To entrain these remounts southward. If they’ll last that far. You could tell me – ple
ase—’

  ‘I’ll tell you you won’t be entraining anything tonight, comrade. Or tomorrow. Entraining to go where, anyway?’

  ‘Korsun. Comrade, I have orders—’

  ‘And you can shit on ’em. No trains are moving – that’s one thing – and you can’t pass this way, that’s another. If you want to get to Debaltsevo, you’ll need to go the same way these folk here will – the track off to your left back there – that’s going south, parallel to the rail line, see – then turn left, and down the hill to that crossing. Over the line, up the hill and turn right. Got it?’

  ‘Thanks. But – anywhere around here that I can get shelter and food for my horses?’

  ‘You can’t here. Town’s full of bloody cavalry, though.’

  ‘Are you going to give a hand here, comrade?’

  The plea had come from one of the other soldiers, waiting at one of the cart’s rear wheels. The peasant at the mule’s head was also waiting – with nervous impatience, glancing anxiously at his wife, who was still muttering complaints. The scene was dreamlike: after the interminable hours of riding, locked in one’s capsule of anxiety and exhaustion, this was some other world – an irrelevance, with so much still undecided, in the balance… He heard Schelokov ask that other one, ‘How far from here into the town?’

  ‘Five versts, near enough. No different from what it’d be this way. Listen – you’ll see a train on the line to your left as you cross over: don’t leave the road or you may get shot at.’

  ‘Shot at?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Stick to the road – eh?’

  ‘Hey, wait a minute! When I get shot at, I like to know who’s shooting, and what for… What if I bloody well want to leave the road?’

  ‘Christ.’ He’d been turning away, towards the cart.

  ‘Number of times I’ve had to tell it… All right: there’s a trainload of foreigners we’ve trapped here. This side of the train I mentioned.’ An arm flapped, pointing down the road past the barrier. ‘Here. They want to go south, we’re holding ’em, see. That’s why this road’s closed. Got it, now?’

  ‘The foreigners’ train’s close to this crossing, is it?’

  ‘Ah, you’ve a head on those shoulders, all right. Congratulations, comrade!’

  ‘Comrade sergeant, as it happens.’

  ‘Makes two of us. So how about harnessing some of those nags to the fourgon here?’

  ‘No harness. No ropes even. And the horses are about knocked up. Tell me, though – who’d shoot at us?’

  ‘Please – comrade—’

  ‘Yeah, all right!’ He’d snarled it at the old man: turned back to Schelokov, then. ‘Now let’s get this over – and you on your way. I’m not saying they would – just might. Well – if they thought you’d come from the train, they would for sure. See – we’ve a block on the line down here. One post this side and one the other – these lights, see, lorries’ headlights? And snipers there watching – both sides. Other end, where you’ll cross, snipers in our train – same procedure, watching that end of it. Killed one last night, as it happens. Making a run for it – he thought he was… Understand why we don’t want the place cluttered with spectators?’

  ‘Killed one of the foreigners, d’you mean?’

  ‘No, a Russian. Traitor. There’s some of them on board too… Now you know it all – eh?’

  ‘Why not attack the train, finish it?’

  ‘That question’s being asked every five minutes, comrade. And the answer is we’re doing what we’re bloody told – all right?’

  ‘Well – I suppose—’

  ‘It’s still a good question. Specially with an armoured train sitting there in Debaltsevo. On the up-line, see. Steam up here, blow that lot to smithereens any time they want – eh?’

  ‘Well – perhaps when they’re good and ready—’

  ‘Yeah. Tell me when, that’s all… Getting along now, are you?’

  ‘Yes. Right. And thanks.’ Schelokov told Bob and Ibraim, ‘Turn ’em around, comrades.’

  The soldiers were stationing themselves at the cart’s wheels, the sergeant at this near-side front one that was up on the road. Ibraim had his horses turned, and Bob was pulling his round. Schelokov called back as he brought his own up past them, ‘How far to this turning, comrade?’

  ‘Oh, Christ almighty—’

  ‘No distance.’ The old man bawled it. ‘Stone’s throw.’ Then in a lower tone, ‘Now, you devil –ready – pull!’

  * * *

  ‘What d’you think, Robert Aleksandr’ich?’

  ‘Whether to try for it now…’

  ‘That, or push on into the town. Saving these nags’ lives perhaps – and get on with it tomorrow. Not exactly on top form, are we.’

  But after this, the horses would need more than a single day’s rest. Assuming there was stable-room available anyway. No guarantee of it – or that any unit would have feed to spare. And arriving with horses in this condition…

  One thing reassuring was that the train’s departure was obviously not imminent. But then again – you were here, in spitting distance of it, and it might not be so easy to get as close to it again.

  ‘Shall we decide when we’ve seen how it looks down at that crossing?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, good. Very good…’

  As the old man had said, it wasn’t far to the turn-off – into a narrow lane, wooded on both sides and running along the crest of this ridge. The next turn, the one down to the railway crossing beyond the trains, couldn’t be far either – the length of two trains with some unspecified gap between them. A few hundred yards, he guessed. Thoughts came as it were in weak flashes, faded away into oblivion when you found they didn’t lead to practical conclusions. For instance, if one did get to the RAF train – God knew how, without being shot – what about the horses? He held on to that one for long enough to realize that (a) you’d have no option but to turn them loose, and (b) ten wandering cavalry mounts wouldn’t escape notice. And the sergeant at the roadblock had seen them, would report there’d been three Russians with them.

  In his mentally fuzzy condition, what difference this would make wasn’t entirely clear to him.

  Well. He’d guess that three Russians had boarded or tried to board the train: three more to be handed over before the train might be allowed to leave.

  Except there might well be three bodies stiffened in the snow by then.

  ‘Think we could’ve passed the turning?’

  ‘Could. God knows.’

  ‘That cart may not be far behind us.’

  At this crawling pace, it wouldn’t be far behind. Unless that wheel had fallen off. None of the light from the lorries down at the crossing was visible above the trees which enclosed this lane.

  ‘All right, Ibraim?’

  ‘Ibraim khorosho. Horses – not.’

  ‘But not far now, either. Truly not far.’

  ‘Loshadyi finish.’

  ‘I know. But not far. Nyedaleko… Bob, here it is.’

  It was no wider than this connecting lane, but had been used quite a lot in recent hours. Not surprisingly – since it led to a railway crossing, and the other one was shut. From here now it would be roughly the same distance down to the railway line as it had been from the ditched cart to that first turning. That long stone’s throw… There were woods on both sides here as well, and a fairly steep down-gradient. The trees gave shelter from the falling snow but they also interrupted one’s view down towards the trains.

  Schelokov suggested, ‘They’d have their lorries at that crossing – the road that’s in more regular use – because it’s wider. Room to turn around, and so forth.’

  ‘The fourgon didn’t manage it too well.’

  ‘I mean down near the tracks. They’d be off the road, I imagine, but they’d need good access for other vehicles – bringing recharged batteries for all that floodlighting, for instance.’

  ‘Or petrol. Keeping the engines running.’

  ‘Didn’t
hear any, did you?’

  ‘Not sure one would. But – hey…’

  Light – filtered through trees at first, then as the wood came to an abrupt end – on this left side, the side that mattered – you could see a searchlight beam shining along the tracks and spotlighting the engine of a train that was standing there.

  The train. Sam Scott’s train, one might call it – while still finding it hard to believe in. The idea that that crowd – and the two girls whom one had thought of complacently as being out and free by this time – had been sitting in it, stuck either at Kupyansk or here, all the time one had been up at Valki… But they had – because there they were…

  Up here, meanwhile, they were still in some degree of cover – the dark background of the trees – the three of them sitting on their tired horses silently, studying the scene below them. The railway tracks were about sixty yards down the hill, and the train with the searchlight on its roof stood black and square in an aura of its own snow-reflected light ten or fifteen yards to the left of the crossing. There wasn’t much of it. Engine – at this end, facing towards Debaltsevo – a tender, and one box-car. Like some child’s toy that had been left out at bedtime. The searchlight was on the box-car’s roof, the end of it nearest to the RAF train.

  ‘Snipers’ll be in that car. Either a door open in the end of it to shoot through, or it’s one of the loop-holed, armoured kind. I’d guess at that.’

  ‘They’d be keeping a look-out towards this road as well, though, surely?’

  ‘I don’t know. Their job’s to watch the other train. And they aren’t expecting to be attacked. Cat watching a mouse hole doesn’t look out of its backside, does it. They’re only seeing the end of that train, the engine, at that. Whatever happens along its sides must be covered mostly from the other posts.’

  ‘You’d think they’d have put trucks here too.’

  ‘Road’s too narrow. In any case they’ve got your friends pinned down well enough.’