by James Hilton
The brandy passed round again, and Poushkoff made cigarettes out of the coarse army tobacco, and they puffed away furiously as they chattered. It was brilliant chatter, for the most part; Daly and Poushkoff were perfect foils for each other, and the queerest thing of all was that they talked in an intricate, intimate way that somehow needed neither questioning nor explaining on either side. A.J., not talking quite so much, was nevertheless just as happy—with a keenness, indeed, that was almost an ache of memory, for he felt the had known Poushkoff not only before but many times before. Then Poushkoff interrupted one of his own fantastic speeches to thank them both with instant tragic simplicity. “I suppose,” he said, “we shall not see one another again after we reach Samara. That is a pity. The French say—’Faire ses adieux, c’est mourir un peu’—but in this country it is ‘mourir entičrement.’ We have all of us died a thousand deaths like that during these recent years.” He seized Daly’s hand and pressed it to his lips with a strange blending of gallantry and shyness. “Oh, how cruel the world is, to have taken away my life far more than it can ever take away yours…” Then he suddenly broke down into uncontrollable sobbing. They were astounded and moved beyond speech; Daly put her arm round the boy and drew his head gently against her breast. He went on sobbing, and they could not step him; his whole body shook as if the soul were being wrenched out of it. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was all over, and he was looking up at her, his eyes swimming in tears, and saying: “I humbly beg your pardon. I don’t know what you must think of me—behaving like this It was the brandy—I’m unused to it.”
They both smiled at him, trying to mean all they could without speaking, and he took up his book and pretended to read again. A.J., for something to do, cleared away the remains of the meal and repacked the bundle, while lolly stared out of the window at the dazzling snow. A long time passed, and at length came the same cairn, controlled voice that they had heard first of all in the market-place at Novarodar. “Do you know Samara?” he was asking.
“I’ve been through it, that’s all;” A.J. answered.
Poushkoff continued: “It’s a fairly large town—much larger than Novarodar. As you know, our army has just taken it from the Czechs. Its full of important people—all kinds of people who were all kinds of things before the Revolution. There are bound to be many who knew Countess Adraxine personally.”
Daly said still smiling: “And no Tamirskys, eh?”
“Probably not. The perfect Tamirsky is the rarest of all creatures.”
“I see So you are warning us?”
“Well, Hardly so much as that. But I am rather wondering what is going to happen to you.”
“Ah, we none of us know that, do we?”
“No, but I thought you alight possibly have something in mind.”
She looked at A.J. enquiringly and said: “I’m afraid we just do what we can, as a rule, don’t we?”
“You mean that you just take a chance if it comes along?”
“What else is there we can do?”
“Do you think you will manage it in the end—what you are trying to do?”
“With luck, perhaps.”
“And you have had luck so far?”
She said: “Wonderful luck. And the most wonderful of all was to meet you.”
“Do you think so?”
“I would think so even if to-morrow sees the end of us, as it may do.”
Every word of speech between them seemed to have infinitely deeper and secondary meanings. He said, without emotion: “You are the most astonishing woman I have ever met. I altogether love you, as a matter of fact. I loved you from the minute I saw you last night. Am. I being very foolish or impertinent?”
“No, no, I’m sure you’re not.”
“You mean that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Ali, how perfect you are!” He stared at the pages of the book for another short interval. Then he turned to A.J. “I wonder if I might be permitted to have a little more of that excellent cognac? It would be good for me, I think—I feel a trifle faint.”
A.J. unpacked the bottle for him, and Daly said, warningly: “Remember now—you said you were unused to it.”
Poushkoff answered, taking a strong gulp and laughing: “I promise it won’t have the same effect again.” Then he leaned back on the cushions and closed his eyes. The train rattled on more slowly than ever; snow had stopped falling; it was nearly dusk. Neither A.J. nor Daly disturbed the strange silence through which the boy appeared to sleep. Suddenly he opened his eyes, yawned vigorously, and strode over to the window. “I think I can see a church in the distance,” he said, in perfectly normal tones. “That must be Tarzov—we have to change to another train there. Pick up your luggage and come out with me to the refreshment buffet—I may be able to get you some tea.”
In a few moments the train ground down to an impotent standstill at a small, crowded platform of a station. It looked an odd place to have to change; there was no sign of any rail junction, or of any other train, and Tarzov, seen through the gathering dusk, had the air of a very second-rate village indeed. There was the usual throng of waiting refugees, with their usual attitude of having come nowhence and being bound no-whither; and there was the usual shouting and bell-jangling and scrambling for places. Poushkoff led them through the crowd to the refreshment buffet, which, by no means to A.J.’s surprise, was found to be closed. The boy, however, seemed not only surprised but depressed and disappointed to a quite fantastic degree—he had so wished, he said, to drink tea with them once, before they separated. “You see,” he said, “the next station is Samara, only thirty versts away, and of course the authorities there have been notified about you by telephone, and there will be an escort waiting, and oh well, it is all going to be very difficult and complicated. Whereas here we can still be friends.” He led them some distance along the platform, away from the crowd, to a point whence there was a view of the village—a poor view, however, owing to the misty twilight.
He seemed anxious to talk to them about something—perhaps about anything. “Tarzov,” he said, “is only a small place—it is on the Volga. If you go down that street over there you come to the river in about ten minutes. There is a little quay and there are timber-barges usually, at this time of the year. They take the rafts downstream during the daytime, and tie up at the bank for the nights. Of course the passenger-boats have been stopped since the civil war, but I believe the timber- barges sometimes take a passenger or two, if people have the money and make their own arrangements with the bargemen. Some of the bargemen are Tartars—fine old fellows from the Kirghiz country.” He added, almost apologetically: “This is really a most interesting part of the world, though, of course, you don’t see it at its best at this time of the year.”
Suddenly, as if remembering something, he exclaimed: “Excuse me, I must go back to the train a moment—I shan’t be long.” He dashed away into the midst of the still scurrying crowd before they could answer, and in the twilight they soon lost sight of him.
“He looked ill,” Daly said.
A.J. answered: “He drank nearly all that brandy.”
“Did he? Poor boy! Do you like him?”
“Yes.”
“So do I—tremendously. And he’s only a boy.”
It was very cold, waiting there with the wind blowing little gusts of snow into their faces.
A.J. said: “It’s rather curious, having to change trains at a place like this. There doesn’t seem to be any junction, and if it’s only thirty versts to Samara, where else can the train be going on to?”
“Perhaps it isn’t going on anywhere.”
“Then why is everybody crowding to get into it?”
She clutched his arm with a sharp gesture. “Do you realise—that we could escape—now? It’s almost dark—there’s a mist—we should have a chance.”
He answered, his hand tightening over her wrist: “Yes—yes—I believe you’re right!” But he did not move. “Yes, it’s a
chance—a chance!” Yet still he did not move, and all at once there came the splitting crack of a revolver-shot. It was not a sound to attract particular attention at such a place and at such a time—it would just, perhaps, make the average hearer turn his head, if he were idle enough, and wonder what it was. A.J. wondered, but his mind was grappling with that more insistent matter—escape. Yes, there would be a chance, and their only chance, for, as Poushkoff had told them, Samara was close, and Samara meant armed escorts and prison-cells. Yes, yes,—there was no time to lose—Poushkoff would be back any minute—they must think of themselves—they must go now—instantly….But no—not for a minute—a little man with a ridiculously tilted fur cap was pacing up and down the platform; he would pass them in a few seconds, would reach the end, turn, pass them again, and then would come their chance…Yet the man in the fur cap did not pass them. He stopped and remarked, cheerfully: “Exciting business down there, comrade,” and jerked his head backward towards the crowd. “Officer just shot himself. Through the head. Deliberately—everybody saw him. Not a bad thing, perhaps, if they all did it eh?” He laughed and passed on. A.J. stared incredulously; it was Daly who led him back to the crowd. “We must see,” she said. “We must make sure.” When they reached the crown, soldiers were already carrying a body into the waiting-room; it was she again who pressed forward, edging her way in what doubtless seemed mere ghoulish curiosity. When she rejoined A.J. it was only to nod her head and take his arm. They walked slowly away. Then she began to whisper excitedly: “Dear, I’m just understanding it—that’s what he wanted us to do—all that talk about the road to the river, and the bargemen who might take us if we offered them money—Dear, we must do it—think how furious he’d be if he thought we hadn’t had the sense to take the chance he gave us!”
“Yes. We’ll do it.”
They came to the end of the platform, but did not stop and turn, like other up-and-down walkers. They hastened on through the darkness, across the tracks and sidings, in between rows of damaged box-cars, over a ditch into pale, crunching snowfields, and towards the river.
They skirted the village carefully, keeping well away from the snow- covered roofs, yet not too far from them, lest they should lose themselves in the mist. But A.J. had sound directional instinct, and despite the mist and the deep snow it was no more than a quarter of an hour before they clambered over a fence and found themselves facing a black vastness which, even before they heard the lapping of the water, reassured them. They stopped for a few seconds to listen; as well as the water, they could hear, very faintly, the lilt of voices in the distance. They walked some way along the path, their footsteps muffled in snow. Then a tiny light came into view, reflected far over the water till the mist engulfed it; the voices became plainer. Suddenly A.J. whispered: “The timber-barges—here they are!”—and they could sec the great rafts of tree-trunks, snow-covered and lashed together, with the winking light of the towing barge just ahead of them. Voices were approaching as well as being approached; soon two men passed by, speaking a language that was not Russian, though it was clear from sound and gesture that one of the men was bidding farewell to the other. They both shouted out a cheerful ‘Good-night’ as they passed, and a moment later A.J. heard them stop and give each other resounding kisses on both cheeks. Then one of them returned, overtaking the two fugitives near the gang-plank that led down at a steep angle to the barge itself. They could not see his face, but he was very big and tall. He cried out a second cheerful ‘Good-night,’ and was about to cross the plank, when A.J. asked: “Are you the captain of this boat?”
The man seemed childishly pleased at being called ‘captain,’ and replied, in very bad Russian: “Yes, that’s right.”
“We were wondering if you could take us along with you?”
“Well, I might, if you were to make it worth my while.”
To accept too instantly would have looked suspicious, so A.J. went on: “We are only poor people, so we cannot afford very much.”
“Where do you want to go to?”
“A little village called Varokslav—it is on the river, lower down.”
“I don’t think I know it at all.”
A.J. was not surprised, for it was an invented name.
“It t is only very small—we would tell you when you come to it.”
“But how can we settle a price if I don’t know how far it is?”
To which A.J. answered: “Where is it you are bound for, Captain?”
“Saratof. We are due there in three weeks.”
“Very well, I will give you twenty gold roubles to take us both to Saratof.”
“Thirty, comrade.”
They haggled in the usual way and finally came to terms at twenty-four. Then the bargeman, whose Russian became rapidly imperfect when he left the familiar ground of bargaining, conveyed to them with great difficulty the fact that accommodation on the barge was very poor, and that there was only one cabin, which he himself, his wife, and five children already occupied, and which the passengers would have to share. A.J. said that would be all right, and they did not mind. Then the bargeman confided to A.J. that his name was Akhiz, and A.J. returned the compliment. Having thus got over the introductions, Akhiz gave A.J. two very loud kisses as a token of their future relationship and invited both passengers to come on board immediately. It was beginning to snow again, for which A.J. was thankful, since their tracks would soon be covered. As they crossed the steep plank there came, very faintly over the white fields, the sound of a train puffing out of Tarzov station.
Akhiz was a Tartar from Astrakhan—a young, genial, magnificently strong and excessively dirty monster, six feet five in height and correspondingly large in face and mouth. His perfectly spaced teeth glittered like gems whenever he smiled, which was fairly often. His wife, small, fat, and of the same race, was less genial, but almost more dirty, and their five children, ranging from a baby to a six-year-old, were noisy, good-looking, and full of ringworm.
The position of Akhiz in the scheme of things was simple enough. He went up and down the Volga with his timber-barge. He had been doing so for exactly twenty-six years—since, in fact, the day he had been born on just a similar barge on that same Volga. He was not a man of acute intelligence; he could handle the rafts and work the small steam-engine and strike a bargain and play intricate games with dice, but that was almost all. Above everything else, he was incurious—as incurious about his two passengers as he was about the various excitements and convolutions that had interfered with the timber trade during recent years.
A.J. and Daly settled down effortlessly to the tranquil barge life; they had been travelling so long and so far and so cumbrously that the large, spacious existence in swollen mid-stream seemed the most perfect and enchanting rest. Even the stuffy cabin, swarming with children and fleas, did not trouble them, though there was no privacy in it, and Akhiz and his family conducted themselves at all times with completely unembarrassed freedom.. They rather liked Akhiz, however, and soon found it possible to behave before him with no greater restraints than before some large and good-humoured dog.
Every evening, at dusk, the barge drifted in to the bank and was moored for the night. Akhiz was aware of every current and backwater, and showed great skill in manoeuvring the rafts into place. It was typical of him that he knew practically nothing of the land beyond the banks; he did not know even the names of most of the villages that were passed. With an instinct for adapting himself to circumstances without understanding them, he managed somehow or other never to be short of food, even though the country near by was famine- stricken; fortunately, he and his family could eat almost anything—queer-looking roots and seeds that A.J. would have liked to know more about, if Akhiz had been intelligent enough to be questioned. A.J. and Daly still had ample food for themselves; at first they were afraid of what Akhiz might deduce from their luxurious provender, but they very soon realised that it was the way of Akhiz to notice as little as possible and never to make any kin
d of deduction at all. Once they went so far as to share with him a tin of corned beef; he was hugely delighted, but completely and almost disappointingly indifferent as to how they had come to possess such a rarity.
It was so restful and satisfying to be on the barge that during their first night aboard they hardly gave thought to the dangers that might still be ahead. Dawn, however, brought a more dispassionate outlook; it was obvious then to both of them that their escape would soon be discovered and that efforts would be made to recapture them. A.J.’s immediate fear was of Samara, which they must reach during the first day’s journey; it seemed to him that the authorities there were likely to be especially vigilant and would probably suspect some method of escape by river. During that first day, as the wooded bluffs passed slowly by on either side, he debated in his mind whether he should take Akhiz somewhat into his confidence. Daly favoured doing so, and A.J. accordingly broached the matter as delicately as he knew how. But delicacy was quite wasted on Akhiz; he had to be told outright that his two passengers were escaping from enemies who wanted to kill them, and that anywhere, especially at Samara and the big towns, he might be questioned by the authorities. They half expected Akhiz to be furious and threaten to turn them ashore, but instead he took it all in with a comprehension so mild and casual that they could only wonder at first if it were comprehension at all. “I don’t think he really understands what we’ve been getting at,” A.J. said, but there he certainly did Akhiz an injustice, for about an hour later the huge fellow, beaming all over his face, drew them to the far end of the barge and showed them a small and inconspicuous gap which he had arranged amongst the piled tree-trunks. “If anyone comes to ask for you, my wife will say nobody here,” he explained, in broken Russian. “You will go in there—see?—and I will put the logs back in their places—so. Plenty of room for you in behind there.” He grinned with immense geniality and bared his arms to show them his bulging muscles. “Nobody move those logs but me,” he declared proudly, and it was satisfactory to be able to believe it.
