Then it was that his luck changed abruptly for the better. A dead mule lay wedged between two rocks at the very edge of the precipice with the body of its muleteer lying dead across it. The man had been killed as he was trying to urge the mule over the edge. From the high wooden saddle Methuen saw a long coil of rope which had untied itself and hung dangling over the edge, and all of a sudden an idea occurred to him. Would it be possible to find a way of climbing out of his present predicament by lowering himself down the cliff a good way?
In a second he was lying beside the mule staring down into the gulf, his eyes hunting keenly for some vestiges of a path, or a fault in the rock-face which might give him a foothold. He could not resist a sharp cry of joy, for there, forty feet below, was a narrow path running parallel to the one upon which he now was, a path graven in the side of the cliff face. It is true that it was narrow—a mere shelf of rock above the gulf. But Methuen was by now desperate and prepared to follow his luck wherever it led.
He tested the rope after giving it an extra turn or two round the wooden saddle-frame and then, to make it even more secure, he passed it round a smooth rock projection. It bore him easily: and with a final glance around him he lowered himself gingerly into the gulf with a prayer on his lips, not daring to look down into the depths of the Black Lake below.
In his younger days he had been a rock-climber of promise and this experience stood him in good stead now, for he reached the rocky ledge below in a matter of moments and saw with relief that it did indeed continue along the side of the mountain, though here and there it was blocked by a projecting shrub or a fault. Above him he could still hear the unearthly racket of the battle and from time to time a shower of boulders or a grotesque dummy-like figure of man or mule fell slowly past him and produced a dull thick splash in the lake below. It was strange to see how slowly objects seem to fall as they reached the level of the ledge upon which he stood, turning over and over and giving the impression of trying to unfold in space as they travelled towards the dark water below. The noise of the firing too, seemed to change into a number of different variations of the same sound; one set of guns sounded like woodpeckers, another crisp as whip-strokes, while from above him where the rear guard was still fighting, the firing sounded like a series of dull cracks and hisses—as of a red-hot poker thrust into water.
He was bathed in sweat and trembling with fatigue in every limb, yet he set off at a good pace towards the eastern end of the massif. At times he had to travel with his back pressed to the rock, so narrow did the path become; and at others he was forced to climb out of his way in places where the path abruptly ceased. Once he was forced to take the risk of swinging across a gap on a shrub.
In half an hour he had put the sounds of the battle well behind him and the path at last petered out on the side of a hill made of rugged outcrops where climbing was again possible, and he was able to travel upwards towards the mountain-top along a narrow funnel. By the time he reached the top the sun had already risen and the mists were steaming up from the lowland meadows.
He had emerged on the crown of the mountain and could see, with a thrill of relief, that the scene of the ambush lay well to the west of his present position. As he crouched in a rocky hollow and ate some bread and cheese with a ravenous appetite he combed the country with his precious glasses. The battle was still going on among the cliffs of the mountain-top and he could see lines of infantry taking up position among the beech woods which crowned the range beyond.
In the valley below him he saw a long train of mounted troops deploying across the watershed they had crossed the previous day. The whole operation had been a masterpiece of planning and had caught the White Eagles at the most vulnerable point of the whole journey—the last defile which might lead them to Durmitor and safety. There was a small reconnaissance plane in the sky hovering over the scene of the battle. As Methuen watched and considered, his heart came into his mouth for he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs from near at hand; up the steep mountain path which had been hidden from him by a fold of rock came a cavalcade of troops in the familiar grey uniforms and forage-caps marked with the red star. Methuen flattened himself against the rock and held his breath.
They passed him without seeing him and clattered across the rough paths towards the battle—their weapons at the ready. Methuen drew a breath of relief as he heard their horses’ hoofs dying away among the rocky defiles, and he for his part made haste to take the path which would lead him back over the watershed and into the country where—how remote in space and time it seemed—the cave was.
Danger always gave one reserves of unexpected strength he had discovered in the past, and now the narrowness of his escape spurred him on. On the crest of the mountain the cover was not good though the path along which they had so laboriously marched was clearly marked. He forced himself to adopt a regular pace in order not to tire too easily, and every hour he took a three-minute rest during which he checked his course with the compass he had recovered from Branko. A fearful thirst was his only trouble and hereabouts there seemed to be no spring or rivulets; he investigated several ravines which looked as if they might have rivers running in them but without any luck.
Away to the east he could see the great mist-encircled massifs of the range which was crowned by the Janko Stone, and he steered for it, bearing right the whole time so that he could cross the foothills and avoid climbing the central range once more. In this way he hoped to find himself back once more in the valley from which he had started on his journey to contact the mule-teams.
The sun was hot now and he was tempted to shed his heavy coat and hat in order to make his march the lighter, but he thought it wiser to keep these articles for he did not as yet know where he was going to spend the night. At his present pace he calculated that he might reach the cave at dusk—provided he did not meet with any mishap. As far as he could see the countryside was more or less deserted. He caught a glimpse of several roads in the distance and could see the plumes of dust left by wheeled traffic, but it was too far to see clearly.
As far as he could judge the concentrations of troops were in the area he had left behind him, but he took no chances; before crossing each range where the cover was sparse he studied his route carefully. Once he was forced to make a long detour owing to the presence of some sheep and a group of shepherds who sat indolently under a cherry tree, playing on reed pipes—a strangely peaceful and reassuring sound to ears accustomed to the rattle and bark of machine-guns. Methuen listened to them as he crouched under cover in a fir forest and devoured the scanty remains of his bread and cheese.
His detour served a good purpose, too, for it led him to water; he found himself entangled in the debris of a recent forest fire—a steep bank clothed with fern and dwarf elder where the ground was covered with sharp splinters of charred and fractured rock, and where he had to scale high barricades of sooty timber in order to reach a cliff edge from where one could hear the distant ripple of a summer river. He slipped and skidded his way down and was delighted to find a shallow pebbled pool brimming with ice-cold water, and he plunged into it bodily, clothes and all, revelling in the icy sharpness of the water and feeling immediately refreshed.
It was here, while he was drying his clothes that a large and extremely savage sheep-dog spotted him from the hill-top and rushed down upon him, barking. Methuen scrambled for his pistol and covered the beast with it. He was standing in the middle of the stream on a rock, and he hurled a boulder at the animal as a warning to keep off. But it came on down the bank and showed every intention of attacking him. He shot it with great reluctance, for he knew how valuable dogs must be to the peasantry of this remote countryside. But he could not afford to take the chance of being given away; and lest the dog’s owner should be anywhere in the vicinity he gathered up his possessions and set about climbing the opposite hill in his squelching and waterlogged boots. It was a full two hours before his clothes had dried out on his body, and the sun by this time was baking. Des
pite his hunger and weariness he was encouraged to look at the distance he had covered through his glasses—the long shallow spine of the mountain range which backed the stony watershed.
Once or twice he saw small isolated patrols of grey infantry mounted on mules, but they were always a good way off and he was able to pass them by without being seen. Once or twice, too, he happened upon a long line of peasant muleteers carrying wood down to the valleys and was forced to hide in whatever cover was available. Much of the terrain hereabouts was planted with firs and beeches, and the dense growth of heather and fern made hiding easy.
By midday he had reached the second range of mountains which were crowned by the Janko Stone and he took half an hour’s rest. His feet had begun to hurt intolerably and despite every precaution he had managed to blister both heels. The flesh was raw and painful. But now he was on the great shelving meadow upland with its carpet of thick grass, like coarse brushed hair, and he started out to walk barefoot, carrying his boots round his neck, tied with string. This relieved him somewhat and as the going was all downhill he made good time along the range, his pulse quickening every time he came upon a familiar landmark pointing the way to the valley of the cave which he had begun to think of almost as home.
The long fatigue of the journey had begun to make itself felt and he found himself falling into a pleasant stupefaction as he walked; it was as if he had detached himself from his body and allowed it to walk on towards the horizon like an automaton, leaving his mind suspended up here on the windless pasture land which buzzed with crickets and shone with butterflies. This, he recognized, was the sort of state in which one became careless and unobservant and he did his best to remain alert and fully wide awake; but in vain. His mind kept wandering off on a tack of its own.
He thought of the Awkward Shop—the rabbit warren of corridors in some corner of which Dombey sat, turned green by his desk-lamp like a mandarin in stage-spotlight, brooding over his collection of moths; he thought of the companions who usually accompanied him on missions like the present one—the Professor with his absent-minded air, and Danny with his huge hands and yellow hair. And thinking of it all with nostalgia he cursed himself for a fool to have left it all behind, to have given way to an impulse. “If I get out of this,” he said aloud, “I’m turning up my cards,” and then he laughed aloud, for he remembered the many occasions when, in the face of strain and fatigue, he had made himself the same idiotic promise—a promise which he had never managed to keep.
He had crossed the whole range by now and the sun was rapidly westering. He had come to familiar country, the soft shallow hills whose limestone curves foretold the passage of a dozen mountain rivers towards the Ebar gorge. He was replete with the excitement of a mission accomplished and the knowledge that he would be in time for the rendezvous at dawn. The path he followed hugged the banks of a stream rising and falling along the curvature of the hillside like a swallow and he walked swiftly and decisively along it, hoping that it would not be too dark by the time he reached the cave to recover and reassemble his cherished fishing-rod. The rushing river below him deadened the sound of his feet on the flinty path. He rested for a few moments on the bank to drink and bathe his face, and made a half-hearted attempt to put his boots on, but his feet were by now too swollen and too painful. It was obvious that he would have to carry on barefoot. He was meditating upon this unlucky chance when a shout from somewhere behind him sent his heart into his mouth. He stood up and turned a dazed face towards the cliff.
A young soldier stood on a spur of rock above him covering him with a carbine. He did not look unduly menacing, and a cigarette hung from the corner of his lip. He waved his hand and shouted: “You there! Come here for questioning.” Methuen put his hand to his ear as if he did not hear very well and pointed to the river. “What do you say?” He was thinking rapidly as he moved slowly away from the bank. If there were more troops on the hill behind he was finished. “What cursed luck,” he exclaimed involuntarily as he obeyed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
To Be or Not To Be
The soldier stood nonchalantly with his back to the sun, smoking, in an attitude that suggested lazy indecision. Methuen’s eyes took in the grey uniform, the mud-spattered gaiters and ugly boots: the flat cap with its lack-lustre star: and lastly the short repeating carbine of Russian pattern which he held at the hip. “What is it comrade?” he called in a whining tone. The soldier waved the muzzle of his weapon languidly and shouted: “Come here!” in a more imperious tone. His black eyes had a stupid arrogant expression.
It was clear that he was some peasant conscript from a remote country village rejoicing in the possession of a gun. Methuen nodded and said: “I come, comrade, I come,” and started to climb the cliff slowly and wearily. His eyes darted hither and thither, attempting to see whether there were other soldiers about; but as far as he could judge this one was quite alone. What should he do? He was almost within pistol-range now. The wisest move would be perhaps to be quite passive and to come in close under the muzzle of the carbine. If he were asked for his identity papers, as he most certainly would be, he could put his hand inside his coat and draw his pistol with one hand while he grabbed the carbine-muzzle with the other. He climbed with an exaggerated slowness up the slope.
When he was half-way up he saw an expression of resolute savagery cross the face of the soldier. His mouth depressed itself in a savage grin as, raising the carbine to shoulder-level, he fired at Methuen at almost point-blank range. Even as the latter felt the hot whistle of the bullet pluck the lapel of his coat he leapt sideways and in less time than it takes to tell, was cowering under the protection of a rock, swearing volubly in a mixture of languages. He was absolutely furious at this dumb treachery.
The earth began to jump and spatter around the rock as the soldier opened up on him, and Methuen with his pistol in hand cowered back against the smooth stone with murder in his heart. He began to feel sorry for the nonchalant young man who was so liberally peppering the landscape with lead. “You wait, you brute,” muttered Methuen through clenched teeth, and in his mind’s eye he had a sudden picture of Vida.
An interval of silence followed while the soldier smartly changed the clip on his carbine. He was obviously under the impression that his prey was unarmed. In the first gust of firing Methuen had felt a sharp stab of pain in the calf of his left leg and for a moment he had explored this feeling of pain with concern, for he could not afford to be incapacitated at this late stage of the game. Now in the silence he cautiously stretched his leg and was relieved to find that it responded normally enough, though it hurt him considerably.
A second burst of firing followed and Methuen tossed his fur hat down the slope as a distraction before worming himself away to the left to where a clump of bushes afforded excellent cover. Here he drew his breath for a moment before climbing gently up the slope at an angle. The soldier was still staring at the rock behind which Methuen had disappeared, attentively smiling. He had thrown his cigarette away now and had the butt of his carbine pressed to his shoulder.
Methuen took him softly on the sights of his pistol—the ugly backless shaven skull surmounted by the blue cap—and pressed the trigger. There was a loud sniff and the figure lurched out of sight, its disappearance being followed by a ragged bumping and scrambling noise. He had fallen down the cliff and rolled down to the bottom. In the silence that followed the noise of the river welled up once more, and Methuen could hear, above the sound his own laboured breathing, birds singing in the trees across the valley.
He waited for a long moment before he set off running across the now familiar valley towards the cave. The path was sheltered here and he raced along it, pausing from time to time to listen for sounds of pursuit. But the valley had returned to its silent beauty. Once he thought he heard the barking of dogs in the forest, but that was all. His leg was extremely painful now but he did not dare to stop and examine his wound, for he knew from experience that wounds are apt to seem worse than
they really are if once one sets eyes on them. That it could not be anything vital he knew for, despite the pain which made him limp grotesquely, the limb could still be used normally enough.
Twilight was already upon him when he struck the main branch of the Studenitsa river and followed its silver windings and meanderings through the mulberry orchards and across the slopes beyond the monastery and sawmill. He was almost blind with exhaustion now and he forded the river with difficulty, staggering as he felt the sucking pull of the water around his ankles. Nevertheless he had enough presence of mind to wait for a full quarter of an hour on the hill opposite the cave, watching the entrance, before he climbed the slope to enter it.
It was extraordinary the feeling of affection he felt for this fox’s burrow which had sheltered him from his enemies; it was almost like arriving home once more after a perilous journey. Nothing had changed. The snake was not visible, but then it always retired at dusk. The barrier of greenery which he had placed at the mouth was undisturbed. Methuen entered the musty precincts and groped along the stone edges of the sill for the matches which he had placed in a convenient place together with his candle-stump. He lit up and the warm rosy light flickered once more over the veined walls which glimmered like the marbled endpapers of a Victorian ledger.