by Max Hennessy
A lot of the suburb through which they were passing had been wrecked in the first uprising of the Revolution the year before and there had been a lot of damage before the Red elements had been driven out, and the area had a stark atmosphere of neglect about it, with broken windows and even occasional stone chimneys standing smoke-blackened in the middle of a heap of ruins.
‘I think we ought to stand up to ’em,’ Sidebottom said, but Busby shook his head.
‘Nothing doing,’ he said firmly.
They could still hear someone splashing through the dark behind them, and their haste finally became a jog-trot through the mud. Swinging off the main avenue, they turned into the Karetny Ryad, a narrow alley which had seemed friendly enough in daylight but now seemed full of shadows that might hide assassins, and before they realised it, they were bolting for all they were worth.
As they turned out of the alley again, Sidebottom side-stepped behind a huge gatepost from which hung a rusting wrought-iron gate bearing the crest of its former owner, and they pushed past charred dying trees and bushes in an overrun garden until they found themselves on a curving gravel drive that was overgrown and neglected, and they finally came to a stop in front of a dark square building that had once been the home of some Nikolovssk nobleman.
‘In ’ere,’ Sidebottom said, and they paused, winded, aware of their heavy breathing in the silence as they listened.
‘They’ve gone,’ Busby said eventually. ‘Let’s cut through the back and make our way to the barracks that way.’
Cautiously, they groped their way past the empty ruins of the house. The front door, daubed with a red hammer and sickle, stood open and, inside, by the light of a match, they could see the wreckage of sabre-slashed drapings and charred and broken furniture full of bullet-holes.
‘Wonder what poor bastard owned this lot,’ Sidebottom said.
They had reached the back of the house now, able to pick their way along by the light of the thin moon, and were passing wrecked stables with shattered roofs and charred brickwork round the empty windows. Finally they halted in front of a pair of broken double doors.
‘Garage,’ Sidebottom said shortly. ‘Ran a motor car.’
He indicated a worn tyre lying in the entrance between the chained doors, behind which they could see the fallen timbers and tiles of a collapsed roof.
Busby stopped to peer through the opening and Sidebottom, pressing on through the gardens, suddenly found himself alone. He retraced his footsteps quickly and found Busby staring through a broken dusty window.
‘Look what I’ve found,’ Busby said excitedly.
Sidebottom joined him and stared through the shattered glass.
A match flared, showing dusty blue metal and the tarnished brass of heavy headlamps.
‘It’s a motor,’ Sidebottom said.
‘It is that!’ Busby was staring excitedly as the match went out. ‘I’m going in to have a look.’
* * *
‘What happened then, Mr. Busby?’ Moyalan asked.
‘I got my jack-knife out, sir,’ Busby said, ‘and forced the window open. I climbed inside. You could ease yourself under the broken beams of the roof. Sidebottom was a bit worried that I’d have the lot on me, especially when a few tiles came down and a sheet of tin fell over, and he kept calling to me to come out.’
‘What was of such interest to you in there?’
‘A Hispano, sir. A Hispano-Suiza. A very fine motor car in them days – all tan leatherwork, yellow spokes and brass-edged mudguards. Then I saw there was another. The owners had obviously had a lot of money, and altogether there were two Hispanos and a Stutz.’
‘Another car? Three altogether?’
‘Yes, sir. It was a real find. I was looking at ’em, striking matches and doing a bit of examination, then I turned round to Sidebottom and said that we ought to get back quick to the barracks and get hold of Major Higgins.’
‘Did you do just that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
* * *
When Busby arrived at the Slavska Barracks, Higgins and Potter were standing in the entrance talking to two women in a carriage drawn by a dilapidated horse. The younger of the women was holding the reins and this in itself seemed odd to Busby because, in Russia, where people could afford a carriage they could usually also afford a servant to drive it – even in these difficult days.
She was little more than a girl, with a scarf round her chestnut hair, and to Busby, even with only the poor light over the gateway to see by, it stuck out a mile that she was a beauty. She had perfect features and a full mouth that was smiling at Higgins – and, though it wasn’t anything to do with Busby, he hadn’t seen many smiles round Nikolovssk since he’d arrived, and he felt warmed immediately by the girl’s friendliness.
As they talked, he waited in the shadows behind the guardroom where a drowsy Russian was leaning on a long-bayoneted rifle, then as Higgins stood back and saluted the carriage as it left, Busby stepped out of the shadows just behind him.
‘Sir, leave to speak to you.’
For a moment, both Higgins and Potter continued to stare entranced at the carriage, then Higgins swung round and gazed curiously at the excited Busby, who slammed to a salute.
‘Sir, I’ve found something!’
‘Oh?’ Higgins seemed to relax. ‘So have I, Sergeant-Major. A family down the road – or rather two ladies, to be exact – have offered to run our canteen for us.’
Busby quivered with excitement. ‘Sir, it’s not somewhere for a canteen.’
‘It’s not?’ Higgins, who had half-turned away again, swung back once more, peering at Busby’s excited face. ‘Mr. Busby, what’s happened?’
Busby grinned. ‘Sir, I’ve found some motors,’ he said. ‘Three of ’em. Two Hispanos and a Stutz.’
‘So?’
‘Sir, when I was with General Allenby in Palestine, we had Hispano armoured cars. They did a wonderful job, sir. Got engines like lions.’
Higgins glanced at Potter, and Potter’s vague expression had shut down, taut and hard in the way it seemed to from time to time.
‘I think you’d better come upstairs, Mr. Busby,’ Higgins said quietly.
* * *
‘Sir,’ still quivering with excitement but by now holding a whisky, Busby was standing in the converted bathroom Higgins used for his office, ‘I had a look at ’em. I climbed through the window. The roof’s fallen in on ’em, and the paint’s burned off here and there, and one of ’em’s short of tyres. But, sir – Gawd, sir,’ he exploded, ‘couldn’t we use ’em? If we don’t, t’other side will before long.’
Higgins looked at Potter. ‘Get hold of Colmore and MacAdoo, Willie,’ he said quietly.
He signed to Busby to sit down and offered him a cigarette. After a while, Potter returned with the other two, MacAdoo big and burly and built like a brewery horse, Colmore a long-jawed New Zealander with that peculiarly penetrating gaze all Anzac soldiers seemed to have.
‘Just listen to what Mr. Busby’s got to say,’ Higgins invited.
Busby got to his feet again and recounted the story of his find once more, and when he’d finished, he saw the four faces round him were alert and eager.
‘Think they can be made to work, Sergeant-Major?’ Colmore asked keenly.
‘Sure they can, sir. Easy. I had a good look. There’s a bit of damage but nothing that’ll matter. A squad of men could have them doors off and have ’em outa there in a few hours.’
‘How’d they function on the roads here?’
‘They’d function best off the roads,’ MacAdoo said. ‘They’d go like stink across these plains.’
‘That they would, sir,’ Busby said earnestly. ‘They’ve got strong springs, and there aren’t many places a horse can go where a motor can’t go these days.’
Higgins looked at Potter. ‘What about the mounted element of the regiment?’ he asked.
Potter gave one of his flashing grins. ‘All right on the sands at Southend,
’ he observed. ‘But they’ll never be a Light Brigade.’
Higgins stood up. ‘How about mechanising the cavalry then?’ he asked. ‘It’s been talked of a lot lately.’
* * *
Moyalan looked up. ‘So,’ he said. ‘With the finding of these cars, Mr. Busby, the Kouragine Hussars, in the opinion of its most experienced members, had suddenly become a more efficient unit?’
Busby smiled. ‘That it had, sir. It was mechanised.’
‘Thank you. That’s all.’
Kirkham partly rose to his feet, staring at Busby, but he seemed uncertain how to approach him. So far, nothing had been said about Prideaux. For a moment he stared at his brief, then he looked up.
‘No questions,’ he said shortly.
2
MacAdoo
‘Call Ambrose Flintridge MacAdoo!’
The name, a good resounding name, echoed through the draughty corridors of the Law Courts as it was passed on by ushers.
MacAdoo, never a small man, had not only grown no smaller over the years but, with the addition of age, weight and prosperity, had even increased considerably in size. He was well over six feet in height and, in the pin-striped, broad-lapelled double-breasted suit, his shoulders and back had the look of a draught horse’s. He still moved swiftly, however, and when he turned in the witness box, his eyes were alert and bright with good humour. Moyalan stared up at him in admiration.
‘Ambrose Flintridge MacAdoo?’ he asked after the oath had been taken.
‘That’s it. Flint MacAdoo. MacAdoo Engineering, Chicago, Illinois.’
‘You’re American, Mr. MacAdoo?’
‘I guess so. Now. Went there in 1922.’
‘You’ve come over here at your own expense, I believe?’
‘Sure have.’
‘Why, Mr. MacAdoo? Why at your own expense?’ MacAdoo smiled.
‘I guess I owe George Higgins something,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Moyalan looked suitably surprised. ‘What, Mr. MacAdoo?’
‘My life.’
‘I see.’ Moyalan allowed the announcement to sink in. ‘Well, Mr. MacAdoo, it may be that I shall draw evidence of that from someone else when the time comes.’
‘I don’t mind. So long as everybody knows.’
Kirkham got slowly to his feet. ‘Milord,’ he protested. ‘We’re not here to argue the defendant’s bravery. We’re here to argue whether or not he uttered a libel on my client.’
Moyalan sketched a little bow towards him. ‘I quite agree with my learned friend, my lord,’ he said. ‘We are not here to argue the defendant’s courage, but in the telling of this story we cannot fail to hear something of it. However, I promise I won’t weary the court with testimonies to his character. All I am trying to do is quite simply to tell the story of the action at Dankoi, and of what happened before and what happened afterwards.’
‘We seem to be taking a great deal of time to arrive at that point,’ Kirkham growled.
‘Every story has a beginning, a middle and an end,’ Moyalan said acidly. ‘We cannot reach the end unless we start at the beginning.’
The judge glanced at Kirkham. ‘That seems to me, Sir Gordon,’ he said dryly, ‘to be sufficient reason for the defence to start where they have started.’
Kirkham bowed slightly, and sat down again in a huff. Moyalan bowed his thanks to the judge and turned to MacAdoo who was still waiting in the witness box for the legal disagreement to be sorted out.
‘Now, Mr. MacAdoo.’
* * *
Skilfully, Moyalan didn’t trouble to repeat too much of Busby’s evidence but allowed MacAdoo to continue the story where Busby had left off.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘when Colonel Prideaux arrived in April, 1919, to take over the regiment, Busby’s cars were standing in a corner of the barrack square alongside the entrance to the British quarters.’
Moyalan looked up. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why there?’ MacAdoo shrugged. ‘We wanted them handy, I guess. Buzzes were beginning to fly about that things weren’t going as well with the White forces to the north of us as the newspapers and official reports seemed to suggest and George Higgins felt it was as well to have the cars where they they’d be most use.’
‘To whom did they belong, these cars?’
‘It turned out that the Stutz was the property of the Vronskins – the family who’d agreed to set up a small canteen for us on the ground floor of their house. They were some sort of minor nobility who’d left Moscow in 1917 after the abdication of the Tsar. They’d travelled the whole way by car and then Colonel Vronskin had gone back to the front. There was just Katerina Vronskina – that’s the girl, there was no mother – and the old aunt whose home was at Nikolovssk. She had no family and the two of them were rattling round inside that great old house of theirs like a couple of peas in a pod.’
‘And the car?’ Moyalan found that MacAdoo was an easy talker and he didn’t bother to help him much with his evidence. The American had a shrewd mind and was well able on his own to keep the story clear.
MacAdoo gestured in reply. ‘They’d left it at the home of a friend – the guy who owned the two Hispanos and had employed an Italian chauffeur until the Revolution, and it had been there during the outbreak of the first fighting in Nikolovssk. A shell had brought down the garage roof and, as the owners of the house had gone south and the place appeared to be derelict, as far as the Vronskins knew the automobiles were useless. From then on, they’d hired a horsed carriage and used that instead.’
‘And they were, these cars, the beginning of your wheeled force?’
‘Yes. And then Willie Potter – Captain Potter – he later got us a Rolls-Royce armoured car from Khaskov with a Vickers machine gun. We were actually promised a tank but I guess we were more than satisfied with three armed scout cars and the Rolls.’
Moyalan nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr. MacAdoo. Now – let’s consider how these cars that were later so despised by Colonel Prideaux behaved.’
* * *
With the arrival of the spring, MacAdoo, leather-coated and goggled and with his peaked cap on back-to-front, got enormous pleasure from driving alongside Willie Potter at speed over the windlicked dusty tracks, gaped at by staring peasants as they worked by their wattle fencings; or rattling home, rolling and swaying, along the boundaries of the fields, heading back to Nikolovssk in the reddening sun-down with the smoke crawling out of the chimneys into the clumps of greasy cottonwoods. To MacAdoo the width and breadth of the steppe had the same sort of elbow-room as the Western plains of his own country and he felt the same sort of breathless delight in space that he felt at home.
A signal had been received some time before that a new colonel had been appointed to the command of the Kouragine Hussars and MacAdoo, like all the rest of them, was eager to show off the new toys and anxious to have them win approval. As fodder for the horses was short, nobody expected them to be much use when and if they were ever in action, and it wasn’t long before most of the scouting towards the west and north was being done by the cars, with Colmore, Potter and MacAdoo searching the empty folds of the steppe all the way back to Slavyansk on the Khaskov road and north to Elizabetskaya. Under Sergeant-Major Busby, the crews were working up to a high State of efficiency, and Potter – by the curious mixture of toughness and sheer charm that made up his character – had raised all the spares and petrol that were likely to be needed, so that the three casually acquired cars had been repaired, re-tyred and refitted, and mounted with guns and racks for spare petrol and oil, and now stood ready for use, their dashboards decorated with the inevitable pictures cut from La Vie Parisienne of Kirchner girls archly winking from a froth of inadequate lace lingerie. They all had high hopes that the new colonel would be able to do nothing but approve.
‘Leave it to Busby,’ Higgins advised. ‘He’ll give a good performance if he’s around.’
It so happened, however, that when Colonel Prideaux arrived nobody was around, and the cars, square, high-bod
ied and blunt-snouted, were standing idle under their tarpaulins in the dark.
It was late evening and MacAdoo was sitting over the hurricane lantern in the office, sharing with Potter a cup of tea Russian fashion without milk. News had just come through that the Whites under Wrangel were building up for a big offensive towards the north and that Denikin was about to launch attacks towards Tsaritzyn, and they had just raised their glasses with the words that were on everybody’s lips just then – ‘Na Moskvu,’ to Moscow – when there was a sound of boots in the corridor outside and a tall figure in a British warm with a fur collar appeared in the doorway. He was immaculately dressed with shining cavalry boots and spurs and it immediately crossed MacAdoo’s mind, as he remembered the slow progress of the Russian railways and the general insanitary condition of the ancient rolling stock, that the newcomer couldn’t possibly have looked like that without pausing first for a spruce-up among the red plush and gilt mirrors of the Tsar Alexander I Hotel in the town. There was another man behind him, blond and smiling, who came towards them with an air of certain authority, his plump neck pinched by a soft khaki collar secured beneath the tie with a pin.
‘This is Colonel Prideaux,’ he said as he indicated the man in the cavalry boots and spurs.
Potter was on his feet at once. ‘Pleased to have you with us, sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Been expecting you for some time. I’m Potter. This is Captain MacAdoo.’
Prideaux nodded and the blond man beamed, divesting himself of his coat to show a uniform with the old-fashioned cuff-braids.
‘I’m Finch,’ he said, smiling easily. ‘Major Finch. Where’s the acting commanding officer? He ought to be here.’
Potter glanced at MacAdoo, who nodded.
‘Sure,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ll get him.’
