Look to the Wolves

by Look to the Wolves

  *

  It was mid-forenoon when he heard them. By that time they’d both begun to think there might be something in that speculation about miracles – the acme of wishful thinking, that the pursuit might have reached the limits of its own territory, given up… The single slice of corned beef had meanwhile only sharpened their hunger, so they’d gone on to preparing and eating the Boeuf Cowan, which hadn’t been at all bad.

  He was offering Schelokov his tobacco-pouch when they heard the patrol approaching. Freezing for about one second, with the pouch held out across the fire’s embers and Schelokov reaching a hand out to take it. Then they were running to their hides.

  Flat, cuddling the Lee-Enfield. His borrowed brown shapka would be good camouflage, he hoped, blending well into the drab colouring of the forest floor. Navy greatcoat less so – except that it was mud-stained and he’d cut the epaulettes off the day before. In any case he was half-buried in the pine-needles and the other debris: like some kind of nest.

  Not a sound, now. All he’d heard had been hoofbeats, and now he couldn’t even hear that.

  Gone by – again?

  Not after following the tracks this far, surely… Unfortunately the cessation of those sounds hadn’t been noticeable because one had been on the move oneself: now, if Schelokov hadn’t heard them too, one might have doubted—

  Nonsense. They had to be there. With the edge of the forest five hundred yards away, if they were making efforts to be quiet you wouldn’t hear them…

  Keeping his breathing quiet as well as slow. With the thought – after another minute, maybe two – that these people might be a lot cleverer than he and Schelokov had allowed for, might be surrounding this place now, might – given long enough – come from any or all directions… In fact, you would—

  Then – a hoof struck a fallen branch. Loud, unmistakable – and a lot nearer than the forest’s edge. If that hoof had cracked into one’s own skull the brain would hardly have been jolted any harder.

  So – they weren’t there, they were almost here. Heart banging: banging hard…

  Unlikely that twenty men could be approaching through thick forest quite so silently? More likely to be only three or four?

  But whether it was three, four or six, the rest could be outside, waiting while the scouts drew this cover. The rest of them sitting their horses quietly out there, waiting.

  Long, even breaths. Head right down, watching over the rifle’s sights and the heaped litter. Watching under his brows, showing as little face as possible, and absolutely still.

  He saw the first one then, at a range of about eighty yards, and moved – very slightly – to settle the rifle’s foresight, its tip level with the shoulders of the backsight’s ‘V’, on the man’s breastbone just about where the highest button below the turned-up collar would be. Sombre greenish-brown Russian army uniform… He’d halted: reins taut in his left hand, holding the horse as still as a rock while he first glanced around the clearing, pausing at the fire then concentrating on the dvukolki and the tent. His horse – it was black – meanwhile swinging its head to the left, tetchily jerking at the reins, and staring directly at this hide. If Bob had fired now the bullet would have passed between those pricked ears to the new point of aim he’d been forced to settle on for the moment, the smudge of white face and forehead, and aiming at where the bridge of the nose would be. Range say seventy yards. Sights set for fifty: so an inch higher, the forehead, where the whiteness showed right under that tall shapka, which had a red badge of some kind on it. Red star, probably. Trotsky’s new army getting itself organized even to the extent of a common uniform, or elements of one. Now he’d raised one arm, seemed to be signalling to others – or another – to come forward. The same hand and arm then unslinging the rifle that had been slung diagonally across his back – bringing it round and resting it across the pommel of his saddle.

  Probably an NCO. This would be Schelokov’s area of expertise but one did know that mounted officers didn’t carry rifles, only revolvers and sabres. Unless Bolsheviks were different… There was another rider behind him now – on his right, the far side. And one this side – further back. The three of them advancing slowly – tight-reined, rifles cocked upward with their butts resting on thighs or saddles.

  Sixty yards…

  A fourth was in sight then. On this side of the leader, pushing up between him and the man on his left, nearest to oneself. Schelokov had said he’d take the leader, if one of them made himself obvious as such… If not I’ll begin with the man nearest to me and you take whichever’s your own nearest. And so on. But let me shoot first, Robert Aleksandr’ich. I won’t start it until there’s a good chance we’ll bag them all. Wait for my first shot – then fast and straight, eh? Bob had asked him what if there were a dozen or more, and he’d shrugged, told him Then all our worries will be over very quickly.

  Only four, so far. And they’d stopped again, the leader putting one hand up, and the others reining in immediately. Softly, softly, sleeping men in that tent, let’s not rush it… The nearest horse, whose rider would be one’s own first target, was a grey. There was a dun-coloured animal between that one and the leader, and a chestnut on Schelokov’s side. It was a shame – a tragedy – about the horses. They’d discussed it at length, neither of them readily accepting the necessity of killing them, but having to face the fact that you couldn’t let them go, galloping advertisements of what had happened here – or somewhere near. Saddled and bridled, at that – if you did not shoot them they’d be gone in seconds, telling the story as clearly as if they could speak… Just as obviously, you couldn’t take them with you; and it would hardly be doing them a kindness to leave them tethered for the wolves.

  They were coming on again. The leader diverging to his right – away – to pass on the far side of the dvukolki, on course for the tent. Exactly as had been anticipated by Schelokov. The one on his right was staying with him – had fanned out farther to their right, no doubt so as to cover the far end of the tent. Envisaging the rabbits bolting…

  They’d be behind the dvukolki in a moment. But not from Schelokov’s angle of sight. Schelokov would have his sights on that leader: would have had all this time, but now he’d have his safety-catch off and a finger curled around the trigger… One’s own sights meanwhile rocksteady on the rider of the grey: ready for it to start at any moment although not expecting it quite yet. Schelokov would wait until his man had passed the dvukolki, probably – so as to have all the others well inside the arena, none out on the fringes from where if they weren’t brought down in the first few seconds they might stand some chance… The grey’s rider was tall in the saddle and narrow-shouldered – long-legged too, and so long-stirruped that his legs were almost straight. Brown greatcoat and breeches, black boots, the same red badge on his fur hat. The leader was passing out of sight behind the dvukolki. Range on the grey as near fifty yards as it would ever be. Bob’s view of him was in half-left profile, point of aim now the heart. He wanted his own first shot to go off so close to Schelokov’s that there’d be virtually no interval between them. Then switch like greased lightning to the dun. Fine big horse, that. Big man on it too. It was on the far side of the grey and half a length behind. That one’s most natural reaction, he thought, would be to pull his horse’s head round and spur for the thicker cover—

  Schelokov’s rifle cracked, Bob squeezed his trigger and the grey’s tall, thin rider was flung backwards: the other was tugging his big mount around and Bob’s sights were moving to him, he’d flipped the bolt back and snapped it forward again in one swift movement, but at that moment he saw what he should have seen before and hadn’t – a fifth man, visible as all hell now as his horse reared, half-round too and well back, a damn sight too far back, too near cover and a hasty exit: Bob’s second shot sent him over his nag’s head as its forefeet crashed down, and two more in very quick succession – needing two because the man’s body had been in the way – killed the horse. Then back to the big dun,
whose rider was not running as anticipated, was standing in his stirrups with his rifle up and aimed at Bob – who must have shown himself when he’d needed to be lightning-fast in nailing that other one. The Russian had fired again – and missed again – not surprisingly, from that cavorting horse, into which the riderless grey had just cannoned – and Bob’s fifth shot killed the big man as the dun pranced round, turning its rump this way – which was not so good – but he had the grey’s head in his sights then, and killed it, and in the next second a bullet from Schelokov brought the dun crashing down in mid-stride halfway back across the clearing.

  *

  Schelokov said, ‘Clean sweep. My God – when you said you could “manage”—’

  ‘Well.’ He shook his head. Gazing round. ‘Poor bloody animals…’

  ‘I know.’ Schelokov had taken his revolver out of its holster. Opening it, he span the cylinder, snapped it shut again. ‘I know… Have to make sure of them now, though. Men and horses.’

  The thought was sickening. Despite this having been his idea and at least half his doing. He had a fleeting memory of his father telling him – in some previous age – You’re a bit of an old softy, you know… He glanced back at Schelokov. ‘I’ll fetch Mishka. Sooner we’re out of here the better – don’t you think?’

  The grey eyes held his for a moment. Bob thinking that the earlier talk of clearing up was nonsense. For one thing, two men couldn’t move five dead horses – even if there’d been anywhere to put them.

  ‘Yes.’ Schelokov must have come to the same conclusions. ‘Soglasno.’ He added as he turned away, ‘The wolves won’t mind.’

  12

  Dark night, and snowing, blowing too, Mishka trudging through it like a laden mule. She was wearing a saddle and bridle for which one of those five cavalry horses had had no further use, as well as saddlebags with as much tinned food in them as they’d hold. Two sacks of fodder balanced each other, with camping gear between them; Schelokov’s rifle was in there too. Mishka was an unhappy-looking creature, with the hump on her back and the sacks bulging out on either side, a groundsheet covering it all. Bob plodded on her right, Schelokov on her left with the reins looped round his arm. It had been snowing since midnight and the road was defined only by a low bank on Schelokov’s side and an occasional snow-crowned fence-post on the other.

  They’d left the north-western edge of the forest soon after sunset and followed a compass course over open country, downhill all the time, until Schelokov had found the river which was at the bottom of the valley, below the road. He’d left Bob with Mishka and gone on alone to find it, to make sure this was the Valki road, and since then they’d been trekking northward with the river somewhere below them on the left and a hillside that was gradually steepening on their right.

  They could have brought the dvukolki, if they’d known it was going to snow like this. No tracks of any kind were being left tonight. But the dvukolki was in that forest – somewhere in the middle, nowhere near either the scene of the ambush or their eventual point of departure – in a hollow, and camouflaged with all the fallen branches they’d been able to find within about a half-mile radius. It might be found – but surely not for a while. There was nothing to lead any searcher to it, for one thing, and for another the scouting troop’s tracks to the killing-ground would have been obliterated hours ago by this snow. So the disappearing trick – that troop’s and the dvukolki’s – would seem to have been accomplished.

  Barring really evil luck: or circumstances unknown, unknowable.

  The wind was from the north, the snow coming in it at an angle of about thirty degrees to the horizontal, into their faces most of the time as the road wound this way and that between the high ground on one side and the river on the other. Eventually – before dawn, Schelokov had promised – they’d come to a river-bridge with the road that crossed it branching off this one. They’d keep straight on, staying on this side of the river, and find abandoned farm buildings on the right about two versts – a mile and a half, roughly – from that fork. Letuchka syem had established itself there, he’d explained, because Valki, the village itself, had been full of typhus, and at this farm they’d had the conveniences of the road for transport and the river for water – the river hadn’t been iced up at that time – and a few farm buildings still with roofs on.

  Bob broke a long silence. ‘Still going to be there before daylight, are we?’

  ‘Please God.’ He added, about six paces later, ‘Damn well have to be.’

  Meaning; we’ll be in trouble if we aren’t…

  But in these conditions he couldn’t know how far it was, or how fast – or slowly – they were moving. The snow was more than welcome from the point of view of covering tracks, but it wasn’t contributing much to progress. Mishka obviously hated it. That, and being used as a pack-horse. He sympathized with her: for a third reason too, the effect that scene in the forest had had on her. She’d been terrified – trembling, fighting the routine processes of being harnessed into the dvukolki, her eyes rolling white in fear.

  Her head and eyes were plastered in snow now. He reached left-handed to brush some of it off, but she tossed her head, rejecting his advances.

  Can’t blame her, he thought. A man who murders horses…

  He asked Schelokov, ‘When we do get there, d’you have any kind of plan?’

  ‘There are woods along that strip. Beyond the farm – maybe this side of it too, I don’t remember. But we can get into cover somewhere along there. Camp, feed this animal and ourselves, then reconnoitre. Then – depends what we find, eh?’

  What – or whom…

  It didn’t bear thinking about – the possibility that in just a couple of hours – hour and a half, maybe… In fact, it was not a possibility – or at least it was highly improbable – that they’d still be there, in the same place or anywhere near it.

  Schelokov had been right when he’d warned against counting chickens. Wiser and safer not to count on anything. Also to bear in mind that when or if you did find them – find her – you wouldn’t be exactly home and dry. From here to – say Taganrog, for instance – was something over two hundred miles.

  *

  He’d dreamed of her, last evening, in the two hours or so which was all the rest-time they’d had before starting out. There’d been horses in the dream, and a river in the background – not this one, must have been the Volga, the Enotayevsk connection – and an overwhelming feeling of happiness, Nadia’s long, lithe body in his arms, her own arms tight around his neck and her voice in his ear – Bob, oh Bob, my darling… The moment had been as real as life, the timbre of her voice more clearly recognizable than it had been in actual memory at any time in the past year. He could hear it again now: until the recollection was wiped out by Schelokov’s voice, raised to beat the wind’s buffeting along this hillside… ‘Robert Aleksandr’ich – asleep on the march, are you?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Mishka let him wipe the crust from her eyes this time. ‘Only – thinking…’

  ‘Well, listen. When we go back south – with or without your letuchka friends, Bob – I think we should take a different route. Not through country where a scouting troop has disappeared into thin air.’

  He thought about it. The words ‘with or without’ raising a mental block, a conflict between the reflex response We certainly will have them – her – with us, and the feeling that such a concept was too good – too glorious – to be real, actually come true…

  He grunted. ‘You mean they might be looking out for us. I dare say you’re right. But—’

  ‘Might make for Kupyansk. Or Debaltsevo. Although by that time – well, depends how soon we can start, of course…’

  Bob remembered that Schelokov hadn’t been entirely confident even that Dr Markov and his party had had all that good a chance of getting to Debaltsevo. And that had been two days ago. Such uncertainties were exacerbated, of course, by the complete lack of communications, one’s having no idea of what was ha
ppening here, there or anywhere.

  Schelokov had muttered something else.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said, I wish you’d kept the other rifle.’

  He thought, Oh, God, again…

  ‘I did explain, Boris Vasil’ich—’

  ‘Point is, if we go south by some other route we can’t recover it. And in the present state of things – especially when you’re as useful a sharpshooter as you are – well, God almighty…’

  They’d been through this before. He’d cached his Lee-Enfield in the forest, along with surplus canned food and other gear they couldn’t carry. The prime reason – which he’d explained at the time, in what had been quite a heated argument – was that the farther north they travelled the greater the chances were of being stopped and interrogated, that in such an event he was going to admit to his true identity and that he’d come to find some British nurses, and in this non-combatant role the possession of a rifle would be difficult to justify. Especially when it was the twin of Schelokov’s and he and Schelokov – who was now carrying identity papers he’d taken from one of the cavalrymen they’d killed – would be representing themselves as chance travelling companions.

  Schelokov was now – according to his new papers – Ivan Leonidovich Krotov, born in the Ukraine in 1890. The date of birth might be a problem – if it was noticed – since with his grizzled beard and generally mature appearance he couldn’t possibly be twenty-nine. With luck, nobody would notice: with even better luck nobody would be looking at his papers anyway. But if he did have to account for himself, his story would be that he’d been recruited into a hussar regiment in 1914, deserted to the Red Army in 1918, had been taken prisoner near Kiev earlier this year by Petlyura’s Ukrainian nationalists, who’d forced him to join them, and got away from them a few weeks ago during a skirmish with White cavalry near Elisavetgrad. He’d been on his way to rejoin the Red Army on the Kharkov front, and had fallen in with this Englishman who was looking for some English nurses. As the Red Army wasn’t at war with England – so far as he, Krotov, knew – he’d seen no reason why they shouldn’t join forces for the journey.