The Golden Sabre. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ he got the Rolls-Royce started. But going on foot or on horseback would be futile; it would be like galloping off on a treadmill that would gradually grind to a halt beneath them. General Bronevich had probably been on the telegraph line to Ekaterinburg before he had left Verkburg; patrols would be on the alert all the way up the main road. To head west would mean going up into the Urals, into mountains that would offer no refuge; to go east would take them into the semi-desert steppes where they might run into another Tarter ataman’s army. The only imperative need was to get away from here and trust to luck, that some road would open up to safety.

      As he crossed the yard towards the barn the full impact of what he had just done hit him. He pulled up sharply, as if it were a physical blow; then he hurried on, trying to shut his mind against the killing of Bronevich. He had injured men in fights, been injured himself; he was no stranger to violence in the often violent world in which he worked. But he had never killed a man before. What worried him was that as he had swung the rifle butt at the Tartar he had meant to kill him, though he hadn’t expected it would happen. He had never even thought of killing any of the men he had fought; but those fights had been over private, personal differences, some trivial. He had never fought over a woman. But it struck him now that he had meant to kill Bronevich because of what the General had been trying to do to Eden. He went into the barn cursing his chivalry.

      When he threw back the cover from the Rolls-Royce he was amazed at the condition of the car. Its royal blue paintwork and huge copper-domed headlamps gleamed; its leather upholstery was uncracked. It looked ready to be driven off at once, except that it had no wheels and was mounted on wooden horses.

      ‘Nikolai washes and polishes it every week,’ said Frederick. ‘It was Father’s pride and joy and he told Nikolai he expected it to be as good as new when he came home from the war.’

      In the next half-hour Cabell came to admire and bless the absent Prince Gorshkov, who had such blind faith in the future that he wanted to ride into it in the same style as he had ridden out of the past. He had left instructions that would have done credit to Henry Royce himself; nothing had been overlooked. The tyres, kept in french chalk, were in perfect condition. There were five of them with inner tubes, plus four others stuffed with sponge rubber balls. There were six four-gallon cans of petrol, a two-gallon can of Castrol oil and a box of spare parts. And there was a small single-shaft, two-wheeled wagon that could be attached to the back of the car.

      When the car was ready to go, Cabell stood back. ‘Your father had some purpose for all this – he didn’t get all this ready for nothing. Did he ever tell you what he had in mind?’

      Frederick shook his head; but Nikolai answered, ‘His Highness told me, sir. He said if ever the war was lost he was coming dack here and was going to drive the family to Vladivostok.’

      ‘Father would never have said such a thing,’ said Frederick. ‘He wouldn’t think that we could lose the war.’

      Poor kid, Cabell thought. His Old Man protected him too well. The Russia of Rolls-Royces, even just nine of them, was gone forever. But Prince Gorshkov, wittingly or not, hadn’t bothered to tell his children. ‘We’re not going to try for Vladivostok,’ he said.

      ‘Where are we going then?’ said Frederick.

      ‘Christ knows. I’ll drive the goddam thing around in a circle and we’ll see what direction it comes out.’

      Then Olga appeared at the doorway. ‘One of the soldiers is coming up the avenue!’

      ‘Where’s Miss Penfold?’

      ‘Here.’ Eden, dressed like Olga in a travelling suit, came into the barn carrying two large suitcases.

      ‘Where are the servants?’

      ‘They’ve all gone out to the fields. Quick – we must hurry!’

      ‘Is there any back road out of here?’

      ‘Yes – it goes down through the fields and out through the estate village.’

      ‘Goddam!’ Cabell went to the door, looked slantwise down through the poplars; the soldier, horse at a slow trot, was no more than a couple of hundred yards from the house. ‘If he sees us drive out of here he could cut across the fields and head us off. Nick!’

      Nikolai was slow to respond; he was thick with fear. ‘Sir?’

      ‘Go out, see what he wants. Try and get him to come into the barn. Offer him a drink of vodka, wine, anything. But get him in here! Eden, get yourself and the kids out of sight. Come on, for crissakes move!’

      Eden pushed the two children ahead of her towards the rear of the barn. Nikolai turned to follow them, but Cabell grabbed him and spun him round.

      ‘I told you – get out there and bring that soldier in here!’

      ‘I can’t, sir – I’m just jelly—’

      ‘You’ll be pulp if you don’t do what I tell you!’

      ‘You don’t have to do it, Nikolai,’ said Frederick gently. ‘I’ll go.’

      He spun away from Eden and before she or Cabell could stop him he had run through the doorway and out into the yard. Cabell called to him in a low voice, but Frederick took no notice. Tears sprang into Nikolai’s eyes, ashamed that a boy had gone out to do what he had been afraid to; yet he still couldn’t move, stood there and wanted to die. Out in the yard Frederick stood with his back to the barn as the horseman came slowly out of the shadow-latticed avenue into the bright white dust of the yard.

      ‘Good afternoon.’ Frederick’s voice broke, ending on a high note; he cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Good afternoon, soldier. The General does not wish to be disturbed.’

      The horseman was Pemenov. Thirsty, tired of driving around in the bone-shaking car, he had come back to the gates down on the road, where the six horsemen sprawled in the shade of the poplars. He had not wanted to drive up to the house in the car for fear its noise might disturb the General before the latter was finished whatever or whomever he was doing. He knew from experience how the General hated to be distracted while raping; it was one of his few sensibilities. The walk up the long avenue was too far for Pemenov’s short legs, especially on a day like this; so he had borrowed one of the horses. He had shortened the stirrup leathers and one of the soldiers had lifted him into the saddle; he knew that they laughed at him behind his back, but they would never laugh at him to his face while he was the General’s favourite. Now he sat above this arrogant aristocrat boy, his short legs sticking out on either side of the saddle, knowing he looked ridiculous and daring the boy to laugh. He would kill him if he did.

      ‘I want water,’ he said. ‘A drink.’

      ‘Water?’ Frederick was still having trouble with his voice. Cabell, listening to him, thought, The kid’s scared stiff. He looked angrily at Nikolai, but the anger died at once. Nikolai was still crying and behind the tears there was a look on his face that puzzled Cabell.

      But Frederick was still managing to fool Pemenov: ‘Get down, soldier—’

      ‘Don’t keep calling me soldier. I am a major, Major Pemenov.’

      This funny little man a major? But Frederick couldn’t laugh. ‘Major … Get down and come into the barn. There’s water there. And some of my father’s vodka, too.’

      Pemenov СКАЧАТЬ