‘Let’s hope not. Be a bit too much!’
He nodded. ‘Major Kinkead’s hoping to get a message off by land-line from Pokrovsk, he tells me. As long as the lines are open – as they’re said to be.’ The armoured train’s commander had told Kinkead they were. ‘So pretty soon your fathers’ll be opening the champagne, even if they haven’t yet – eh?’
‘Well…’
‘Might, I suppose…’
Smiling at each other… Katya said, ‘Once they get over being furious with us…’
They were darned nice girls, he thought. Natural, and forthright, and as far as he could tell unmarked by their own experiences, which must at times have been fairly gruesome as well as frightening. Katya was the more sensitive of the two. For instance, she’d realized that Nadia must have meant a lot to him, and was touchingly sympathetic.
‘She was really lovely, wasn’t she?’
‘I thought so.’
‘Well, she was. And she was very kind to us, in that short time we were with them. Oh, Irina too, of course, but—’
‘Yes.’
‘This man who told you about them – you said he was in hiding actually at the farm there… So was that where Irina died?’
‘I think so. Yes, must’ve been.’
And that was no lie – geographically speaking. But there was absolutely no reason to burden these young girls with anything like the full story. In fact it would be a criminal act, he thought, to give them even a hint of it.
‘The letuchka – just split up, you said. So the others—’
‘Maltsev couldn’t tell us. He was only really positive on the subject of Nadia’s death. And about Irina, I suppose, but that could have been more like hearsay. I think he must have been discharged from the letuchka and come back to take refuge there when the front collapsed. So – as I say, it’s rather vague. And there was no one else we could have talked to – fact is, we were lucky to come across him. Red cavalry were thick on the ground by that time, we weren’t out to attract attention.’
‘I’m sure not!’
Schelokov joined them then, and they switched into Russian. He’d been on the footplate, he told them, chatting with Baibakov, with whom he’d found common ground in their detestation of all Bolsheviks. Baibakov had had a son whom they’d hanged for trying to evade conscription into the Red Army, apparently. Schelokov smiled at Bob, murmured with no smile at all in his eyes, ‘They have their endearing little ways, haven’t they?’
Katya asked – still on the subject of their experiences at Valki – ‘You brought the Tartar back with you, but for some reason not – er – Maltsev?’
‘He’s from Kiev. Wife and child there, I think he said. Anyway that’s where he wanted to get to when he could. But Ibraim’s home’s somewhere on the western shore of the Caspian, so the idea is to take him along as far as Tikhoretsk.’
‘Tikhoretsk…’
‘Hundred miles east of Rostov. Railway junction where – touch wood – we’ll turn down for Novorossisk.’
Katya grimaced. ‘Awful long way, still…’
‘Never mind. You’ll have plain sailing now, you’ll see…’ Schelokov had put himself down between the two girls. ‘Let’s talk about the future now. Will you continue as nurses when you get home to England?’
‘Scotland.’ Katya frowned at him. ‘If you please… No – not on your life!’
Bob asked Mary, ‘Where’s your home?’
‘Norfolk. D’you know it?’
He shook his newly-trimmed head. ‘I’ve heard it’s cold. But then—’ looking at Katya – ‘so’s Scotland… Whereabouts in Scotland?’
‘Lanarkshire. A place you wouldn’t have heard of, called Lesmahagow.’
‘Well, I think I may have heard of it…’
‘We have a farm there. My father’s a doctor but he inherited this place, and – we love it.’ She shut her eyes, took a long breath. ‘My, but it’s going to be wonderful to see it again…’
*
Scott broached the subject of the seven corpses they’d left in that other train. This conversation took place in the corridor on the first evening, with no one else in earshot except Ibraim, who’d taken up permanent residence outside their compartment. Bob had gone out there to smoke his pipe – out of consideration for the girls, who might not have appreciated the fumes of Navy-issue tobacco.
He’d left a tin of it in his holdall. Finding it still there had been like stumbling on buried treasure.
Scott said – glancing round first, and speaking quietly – ‘They say the inside of that wagon was like a slaughterhouse, Cowan.’
He nodded. ‘I did suggest they should be warned.’
‘But – the three of you did that – with swords?’
The light was fading, woods and snowfields merging into night, the train somewhere between Korsun and Pokrovsk at this stage. He glanced round at the Canadian. ‘If you’re passing some kind of judgement on us, Scott—’
‘No. I’m not. But it’s – kind of stunning… Hell, in cold blood—’
‘Would you rather this train was still stuck there, waiting to be attacked?’
‘Of course not. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not—’
‘It would be if we hadn’t done it. There was no other way, absolutely none. Unless we’d been little gentlemen and said oh, we couldn’t have anything like that on our consciences – and ridden on, left you all – and those girls—’
‘Cowan – hold on. I am completely in agreement. And grateful. Deeply so. I guess what stuns me is how you’d have – well, faced up to it. Even just the plain physical aspect of it, I mean. I’d have – run a mile…’
‘I wouldn’t pretend the prospect exactly thrilled one. But we were saving our own skins too – don’t forget that. First and foremost, that’s what it was. When we were told this train was still there – good Lord, it felt like Christmas. A way out – which otherwise we were far from sure of. You don’t have to be grateful, Sam.’
He found himself wondering – as they changed the subject, Scott describing the action on the station at Debaltsevo – how he’d have reacted to the story of the wolves, if he’d heard it.
But he wouldn’t. Nobody would – ever.
*
It had been dark for an hour by the time the two trains pulled into Pokrovsk, and after Kinkead and the armoured train’s CO had conferred with the local military commander it was decided to stay there for the night. There was fighting around Taganrog, apparently – about twenty miles down the line – and it was thought wiser to pass through that area in daylight. In fact the Taganrog marshalling yards were under attack when the train made a short stop there early next morning. Bodies of cavalry had been sighted from time to time; they were too far off to be identifiable, but the fact they kept their distance from the armoured train with its jutting gun-barrels suggested they might be Budyonny’s men. A layer of smoke hung over the port area, and while the trains were at rest one could hear continuous rifle and machine-gun fire.
Schelokov commented, when they were on their way again – rumbling east, with the coast of the Sea of Azov on their right and Rostov-on-Don about forty-five miles ahead – ‘You and I might still have been riding south, Robert Aleksandr’ich.’ Pointing back towards Taganrog: ‘Heading for that refuge – eh?’
He nodded. Catching a sight of muddy-looking sea, and thinking that it was only eleven or twelve days since he’d landed on this coast, from HMS Terrapin… And from that thought, to the prospect of embarkation at Novorossisk in a few days’ time, for passage first to the Horn and later – but please God not much later – to England.
Looking over at Schelokov. This would be as good a time as any to broach a subject that had been in his mind a lot, in the past twelve hours.
‘Are you still set on leaving us at Rostov, Boris Vasil’ich?’
‘Yes.’ Schelokov put his hand on his mug of breakfast tea, then looked round for some sugar. Jim Davies passed it to him, and the Russia
n used one of the four or five English expressions that he had in his vocabulary: ‘Senk you very moch.’ Then to Bob: ‘There’s no other course for me. In my place you’d feel the same.’
‘I’ve been doing some thinking, though…’
‘You’re very thoughtful, Robert Aleksandr’ich. And very kind, and a good friend. But—’
‘It could be a terrific thing, Boris Vasil’ich. I mean for me as well as you. Give me a chance to explain this – I have thought it out… I mentioned to you that my father left me certain business interests – the business he built up? There are – substantial assets. Lawyers are looking after it all for me now, but it’s there for me to take control of when I get back. Shipping would be a natural thing. With the war finished there’ll be a lot of ships going cheap. But all sorts of opportunities, anyway. Exciting, really. And I’d be much easier in my mind if I had a partner. We’d go halves – or something like it – it’d be very much to my own advantage—’
‘My dear Robert Aleksandr’ich.’ Schelokov’s eyes had been steadily widening. ‘My dear fellow…’
‘I truly am thinking of my own advantage, as much as yours. Chance in a million – to have a partner I could trust like a brother—’
Scott pushed in, then, with Kinkead, shouting for Pickerell to bring them some breakfast. Kinkead nodded to Bob and to Schelokov as he sat down. ‘Rostov by noon, eh.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Just saying to Sam here, the likely thing is they’ll divert us to Novo Cherkassk from there. To hand over our Camels to Denikin’s chaps, you see. In which case I imagine you’ll change trains. Might have to kick your heels for a while, but—’
‘I may stay with you, Cowan—’ Scott cut in – ‘depending on whether “A” Flight’s been shipped out yet. If not, they’ll be at Novo Cherkassk too, I guess, so I’d go along.’
‘Davies too?’
‘If “A” Flight’s gone, he’ll stay with this crowd. Marcus is one pilot short. So—’
‘What I was about to say—’ Kinkead had frowned slightly at the interruption – ‘is that our two young ladies will need escorting to Novorossisk.’
‘Of course.’ Bob nodded. ‘I’d expect to anyway.’ He asked Kinkead, ‘The land-line was open from Pokrovsk, I take it?’
He’d meant to ask, and forgotten. Becoming too much of a passenger, he thought – leaving it all to others. Better watch that… Kinkead was saying, ‘It was indeed. Got my report out, and a reply from Ray Collishaw crack of dawn this morning. They’d realized we were stuck but hadn’t been able to get any hard facts anywhere. A certain degree of relief was evident – as you can imagine.’
‘Can indeed.’
‘You’ve been given the full credit, I may say. Naturally… But I can tell General Holman that you and Major Schelokov have taken the young ladies into your care and protection, can I?’
Schelokov had glanced up at the sound of his name. Bob told him in Russian, ‘He’s asking if you’re coming to Novorossisk – since Katya and Maria will need to be escorted there. This train’s likely to be sent up to Novo Cherkassk, apparently.’
The grey eyes held his, for a moment.
Then he’d taken a long breath, and nodded. ‘Novo Cherkassk would be best for me too. Since headquarters are there. I’ll get a regiment together, perhaps… It’s what I have to do, Robert Aleksandr’ich. I’m grateful to you, and honoured, but—’
All right.’
Schelokov looked at Kinkead, and pointed at himself. ‘Novo Cherkassk, me.’
*
In the letter which she wrote two weeks later to her older sister, Kate Reid described the scene at the Rostov railway station as even by current Russian standards, middling pandemonium…
She wrote – at a desk in the captain’s day-cabin in the destroyer Mistral—
We had a six-hour wait there. Mary and I, Commander Cowan, Major Scott and the Tartar they call Ibraim. A very strange individual, even in comparison with other Tartars whom one has known – although the commander (and for that matter Boris Schelokov) seemed to have great respect for him. This is a complicated story and none too clear in detail, but Ibraim was with the mobile field hospital which they went off to find, and seems to have been its sole survivor. He came back with them. In saying it’s complicated what I mean is that I’m sure the full story has not yet been divulged. It is however a long way to Tipperary, and who knows what may yet emerge? Patience being a virtue, and curiosity never having come anywhere near killing this cat. Despite some overdoses – as I’m sure you’re thinking as you read this! But here, for instance, is a sample of these still waters that seem to run so deep… At Rostov, Major Schelokov left us, on his way to Novo Cherkassk with the RAF contingent. Novo Cherkassk is now the White headquarters, and Boris expects to obtain a cavalry command. Having – I quote him – ‘Loafed about long enough’. He’s a very determined, strong character, as well as a kind and gentle one. I hate to say this, but I very much doubt that any of us will ever see him again. It was therefore an emotional farewell – for all of us – and there was something I heard Boris say which has rung in my ears ever since: he said to Bob – very earnestly, as they were shaking hands – ‘On the subject of Nadia Egorova – remember – when it’s bad, my friend – remember how it could have been for her. And thank God.’
Kate sat back, glancing over what she’d just written and wondering yet again what he could have meant. She hadn’t asked Bob Cowan about it during their five days together in the train from Rostov to Novorossisk – via the railway junction at Tikhoretsk, where Ibraim had left them – (a) because Bob might have thought she’d been eavesdropping on that private conversation, and (b) because she’d very much doubted whether he’d have given her a straight answer anyway.
In any case, this wasn’t by any means her only way of knowing – knowing, now, not guessing – that there was a lot more to the Valki story than had yet been told. Mary knew it too, since they’d shared the nursing and Bob had been in delirium for days and nights on end. None of it had made any sort of coherent sense, but there’d been an undercurrent of violence and terror which several times even without comprehension had chilled her to the bone. Irina’s name had come into those parts of it quite often, but Nadia’s had not. Nadia’s had recurred constantly, though, in his quieter ramblings, when he’d been in the condition which the textbook referred to as Typhomania – a low, muttering delirium which sometimes lasted for hours at a time, the words barely audible and totally confused but that name, Nadia, as clear as anything, time and time again.
Perhaps because one had been listening for it.
Kate glanced out of the porthole – which these people called a scuttle for some reason – at the great rolling mass of white-streaked green out there. It was rougher than ever now, with a far more violent motion on the ship than there’d been in their first few days on board, when she, Mary and Sam Scott had all been as sick as dogs.
She picked up her pen and resumed the letter to her sister.
The six hours we spent on that platform were nothing compared to the discomfort that was to follow – five nights and four days in a train so crowded that one could hardly move a finger! We were lucky to have food and drink with us – by courtesy of the RAF – since many of our fellow passengers were really starving, hunting for food at every halt and either finding nothing or indescribably awful stuff at exorbitant prices. We saw some people exchanging items of jewellery, furs, etc, for nothing more than loaves of black bread. Of course we did what we could to help, but had to keep enough for ourselves – physical weakening is particularly undesirable in an area where typhus is now endemic. At least the stove in our carriage was kept burning, so we didn’t freeze, and both Bob and Sam (Major Scott) went to enormous lengths to make us as comfortable as was possible. But the crowding, and the lack of air, and revoltingly inadequate facilities – not to mention the fact that our train was twice fired on by brigands or Bolsheviks – well, am I giving you some idea of the d
elights of long-distance travel in the Caucasus? Enough for the moment anyway. All good things come to an end, so they say – but what follows? In our case it was arrival at Novorossisk – where, if you’ll believe this, the town was under attack by Bolshevik artillery, the train-driver could not or would not continue to the actual station and we were left – dumped – in a siding where there was no platform, no facilities of any kind, nobody from whom to ask directions, only this panic-stricken mob – and total darkness, the town’s electricity supply had either failed or been switched off! Shells were exploding every few minutes – nowhere near us, thank heavens, but one never knows where the next might fall – and warships, British and French, lying in the bay, were firing back with their big guns at the Bolshevik artillery. The gun-flashes lit the sky like sheet lightning. Jean, my dear, I tell you honestly, I have never in my life been so…
She’d stopped writing: glancing round as Mary burst into the cabin. Propping herself in the doorway while the ship flung over and the scuttle turned green again, another great weight of sea booming across the iron deck overhead, exploding around the torpedo-tubes and the after superstructure – which as well as supporting a searchlight housed the ladder down to this and other cabins and the wardroom…
‘Bouncy.’ Mary shut the door, came across the cabin and flopped down on the Admiralty-issue, horsehair-stuffed sofa. ‘Really, quite bouncy… Our patient sleeping?’
‘Was, when last peeked at.’ Kate blotted the page she’d been writing. ‘And golly, Mary – I was just thinking, we are so lucky.’
‘You mean he is.’ Nodding towards the sleeping-cabin. ‘But he’s as strong as an ox, as well as lucky.’
‘Personally, I’d say it’s nurses’ luck as well as patient’s.’
Mary smiled, showing her big teeth. ‘But that’s an entirely personal view, isn’t it? You might as well admit, Katey.’
‘Nothing to admit.’ She turned that page of her letter face-down. ‘Anyway, what d’you mean, might admit?’
‘Well, never mind.’ Mary stretched, yawning. ‘Time will tell…’
Look to the Wolves Page 39
