White Eagles Over Serbia

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. Black Peter Has Doubts

He slept for a good six-hour spell and the sun was high when he awoke on his bed of straw at the end of a long tunnel. As he sat up and yawned he felt a pair of strong arms gripping his shoulders and in a moment his wrists were tightly tied together behind his back. He turned and stared into the hairy face of Branko his jailor. “What is this?” The old man drew the knots secure and tested them with a grunt before answering with laconic abruptness: “Order.”

“But Black Peter said—”

“He has changed his mind. Until we can check on you.”

Methuen swore loudly and lay back once more. The old man squatted on his haunches and cut an apple into squares with his knife. He proceeded to eat it noisily. “This will gain you nothing,” said Methuen. “Absolutely nothing. Can I talk to Black Peter?” Branko shook his head. “He is busy.”

Methuen felt the pangs of a gradually dawning despair; he should, he realized now, never have come up here. He should have been content with the knowledge he had gained. Now all his plans might miscarry unless he could gain the confidence of Black Peter.

He requested and was given a long drink of water; and after some thought he stood up and walked to the mouth of the tunnel. Branko followed his every step. The grassy hollows round the great stone obelisk were alive with men and mules engaged in the various activities of a camp. There must have been a good spring somewhere hereabouts, for a long line of men were watering the animals; others were setting up shelters and lighting fires. Immediately opposite was another hollow tunnel, obviously the entrance to some old abandoned working, and here Methuen saw the flash of yellow light from carbide lamps. Two sentries stood on guard at the entrance with tommy-guns. Shadows flapped and staggered inside the mouth of the cave and Methuen made out the giant form of Black Peter. “There he is,” he said. “I must talk to him.” His jailor tried to detain him but he shouldered him aside and walked to the cave-mouth where the sentries barred his way. He called out: “Black Peter! I must talk to you.”

The leader of the White Eagles was seated on a wooden chest, deep in conversation with two ruffianly-looking men. “What is it?” he said impatiently, and catching sight of Methuen, “Ah! it is you. Come in.” Methuen pressed himself past the cold muzzles of the tommy-guns and walked into the flapping circle of light. “Why am I a prisoner?” he said. “You are not,” said Peter gruffly, “but I want to be sure about you. Too much is at stake.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the inner tunnel and Methuen saw for the first time the long stacks of wooden crates which he presumed must contain the gold bars. “Is this the treasure?” he said and Black Peter stood up, struggling between his desire for secrecy and an obvious pride. He followed the direction of Methuen’s glance and sighed as he said: “Yes.”

“Gold bars are heavy,” said Methuen.

“I know. But there are other things too. Look here.” Black Peter took him gently by the shoulder and piloted him deeper into the cave. It was rather like a wine-cellar. Hanging from a long chain of racks Methuen saw what at first he took to be inner tubes of car-tyres, but which proved on closer inspection to be rubber coin-bandoliers, each designed to carry five hundred gold coins. “I see. Each man will carry something. You can’t travel fast, then.” A furrow appeared on the forehead of Black Peter. “That is the problem. And look here.”

Piled in one corner (as bolts of cloth are piled in the corner of a tailor’s shop) he saw what at first he took to be a series of strips of sequin-covered material which glittered like fish scales in the yellow light. “What on earth is it?”

Great blocks of gold coins had been joined together into strips, joined by tiny gold staples. Each piece measured about a square foot and in the centre of each was a hole. “I don’t understand,” said Methuen and Peter gave a hoarse bark of laughter as he picked up one of these glittering sheets and slipped his head through the hole in the centre. It was like a coat of chain-mail, only made of coins. “Each man will also wear one of these golden shirts; and look, there are others to put over the mules like blankets. Methuen gave a low whistle. “But the weight,” he said. “You can’t do a good day’s march with this.” Black Peter looked at him for a moment without speaking. “You will see,” he said confidently. “You will see.”

There was a ripple of movement outside and the sound of voices. Black Peter cocked his ear and said: “The scouts are coming in. They will confirm your story about the troops. Come.”

They left the cave and at once a group of bearded peasants rushed across the grass to Black Peter and began to gabble unintelligibly, waving their arms and flourishing weapons of all kinds. For a moment they were inundated with questions and cries and even Black Peter could understand little of what the men had to say. It was useless calling for silence so with admirable presence of mind he lit a cigarette and sat down on the grass; at once he was encircled by the scouts who squatted round him as if round a camp fire, and fell silent. “Now,” said Black Peter, and one felt the authority behind his deep melodious voice, “let us speak in turn so that we see the true picture of events. You, Bozo: what have you to tell?”

One by one he heard them out, puffing reflectively at his cigarette, betraying no concern and no impatience. Then he turned to Methuen, who sat close beside him, still uncomfortably pinioned and said: “You are right. We must move tonight.” He dismissed the scouts and sat for a while in deep thought on the grass.

He rose at last and walked to where a shattered fragment of the old wall made an admirable natural dais and climbing on to it, with his back to the cliffside, blew three shrill blasts on a whistle. At once the camp hummed with life, as an ants’ nest does if one drops something down it. From all quarters men came running to gather before him, and Black Peter waited for them without any trace of impatience. Methuen could not help admiring his perfect self-possession and calm. When the whole band was assembled silently before him Black Peter stared at them for a full half-minute before beginning to speak. He was obviously a born orator and experienced in his effects.

He began by praising their heroism in facing the dangers of guerilla life in a territory as difficult as Yugoslavia; he reminded them that the journey they were about to undertake would be in many ways the most dangerous and exhausting they might ever make. “The treasure is heavy, we know that. Our march will be slow. And I must warn you that it may be interrupted, for the Communists are approaching this mountain from three sides, hoping to cut us off. One thing we must remember. Usually it is the guerillas who can move fast, and who travel light, while regular troops are encumbered with heavy equipment. But in this case we will be the slow ones, the heavily laden ones. We will be like ants laden with ears of corn too big for them. Therefore we shall need discipline. Therefore we shall need skill in place of speed.”

A hoarse murmur greeted him, and he waited for silence before continuing. “Many of you know the route I propose to follow; at the head of each column will be a guide who knows the country well. I think we should avoid the cordon easily if we do not lack courage, and by dawn on Saturday we should reach a mountain path known to nobody which runs above the Black Lake. Then to Durmitor and the karst.” Everyone spat with pleasure at this and Black Peter went on in a fusillade of sound. “We shall not lose the King’s treasure, that at least is certain. Rather we shall die, rather we shall take it into the Black Lake with us, locked in a death-grip with the enemies who have ruined our country.” A hoarse ragged cheer broke out and some of his audience shouted: “Well spoken!” and brandished their weapons.

A grim smile played about Black Peter’s mouth for a moment. Then he went on seriously: “One thing makes it difficult for us now — namely aircraft. Some of you saw those planes this morning looking for us. If they should find us they would be able to attack us from the air and who could escape? For this reason I ask you: when the planes come do not all start running about in every direction to hide. Let each man stay absolutely still where he stands. Let him become unmoving as the Janko Stone, for the planes cannot see stillness in men — only movement. This is so important to understand that I have taken an extraordinary measure. Three guards have orders to take up a central position if planes are heard, and to shoot immediately at anyone who is seen moving. Now I don’t want anyone to be hurt. But whoever moves endangers the life of each one of us, and he will be shot. Do you agree with me?”

A wild chanting cry went up from the assembled band of ruffians: “Well spoken, Peter!” “Well said, Brother Peterkin!”

He waited once more for silence and then in a crisp and altered tone, added: “That is all I have to say. You have one hour in which to eat and rest, and then we must begin the loading. Each man knows what he must carry and what each mule must carry. To-night we shall be joined at dusk by a party of our own men from the mountains above Sarajevo. We leave at darkness.”

“At darkness!” he repeated as he stepped down from the dais and shouldered his way through the press to where Methuen sat on the grass. The ropes had begun to cut into his forearms and he was dying for a smoke. Black Peter stood looking down at him for a moment with a smile. “It is very clumsy,” he said at last, “and typical of Branko. Here.” He undid the ropes at the back with the aid of his henchman and said: “We’ll tie your hands in front. Then at least you can smoke if you wish.”

“Am I expected to march like this?” asked Methuen testily.

“Yes.”

“I can use a gun far better than most of these ruffians of yours. You may need me.”

“If we do we will release you.”

Methuen stood up and sighed. Black Peter took his arm and said lightly: “Do not take it too hard. It is a natural precaution. Suppose you were an agent — and I may tell you that we have already had one visitor of the kind. You might escape and take back our position and strength to the Communists in the valley.”

“Do they not know it?”

Black Peter started to walk slowly to his own headquarters, taking Methuen familiarly by the arm as he did so and piloting him along. “I don’t think they do as yet. But we can’t be sure. We have been out of touch with Usizce for several days — I suppose because of all this increased activity. I think that the Communists suspect something big afoot; but they don’t as yet know what. They think we are planning to start a revolution in Serbia. Ach! I’m tired.” They had entered the room which served him for a battle headquarters, and he slumped down at the table once more. The old man lay asleep in the corner on a tattered-looking couch. Black Peter uncorked a bottle of plum brandy and placed two small glasses on the table. “Sit,” he said, “and drink and let us talk about something else apart from this project of ours. I’ve been six months up here living like a goat. Pretty tiring I can tell you.”

It turned out in conversation that Black Peter was not entirely without culture of a sort. He had been trained as an engineer in both Belgrade and Vienna, and at the outbreak of war with Germany had been in charge of a building project in Bosnia. His wife and child had perished early in the war and he had joined the ill-fated Royalist band of General Mihaelovic which called itself Chetnik, and which had been abandoned to its fate by the Allies. With the disappearance of the Chetnik organization and the murder of its chief by the Communists, Black Peter had gone underground and worked for a spell as a cobbler in Usizce.

Then the émigrés in London had started trying to patch together the old Royalist movement from the shreds which remained. Black Peter was called and told of a discovery in south Serbia which set his heart aflame once more. Here was a chance to serve the Royalist cause once more. He spoke with touching simplicity of the dangers undergone and the difficulties surmounted in order to infiltrate a well-armed band into a single mountain area. Many of his comrades had been captured; mistakes had been made. “The gravest mistake has been hurry,” he said. “Too many men, too many arms in too short a time. I wanted another six months to do things gradually without awakening suspicion. But they want me to hurry. Always hurry. Now we are in danger, as you know. We may have to fight our way through to the coast.”

“That would be impossible,” said Methuen. “With the whole army after you?”

“Perhaps. But you do not know the route we are planning to follow. You could not bring an army to bear on us at any place because we travel on the top of the mountains; the only time we come down is to-night, the first valley. The rest of the way you could only bring perhaps two battalions into contact. As far as we are concerned the army can race up and down the roads as much as it wants.”

“And at the coast?”

“You are a pessimist,” said Black Peter impatiently. “You see all the difficulties; but at the coast, my friend, we have a point of rendezvous so perfect that … well, I won’t tell you any more. I will only say that there is not a soldier within a dozen miles of our point of embarkation.”

All this, which sounded on the face of it utterly fantastic, was in fact plausible — so Methuen at least thought as he saw in his mind’s eye the great hairy chain of groined mountains running westward upon the map like a cluster of spiders; the eyries of barren white limestone known as the karst which succeeded the heavily wooded and deeply glaciated chain of hills upon which they now were.

“Drink,” said Black Peter. “Leave the worries to me.” The old man snorted in the corner and muttered something to himself. Methuen smoked on in silence while Black Peter turned his attention to his papers, carefully burning them in a biscuit-box and sifting the ash with a poker before calling for an orderly to take them away. “This pistol of yours is a jewel,” he said, taking it up from the table. “I let you keep your glasses as a special favour.” Methuen smiled. “Will you tell Branko that?” he said. “Because he has relieved me of them.”

Branko was summoned and forced to disgorge his loot, which he did with clumsy reluctance, growling under his breath like a mastiff. Black Peter watched him in silence and then curtly dismissed him. “You see?” he said, turning back to Methuen, “I am a just man, and an honest one.”

“And my pistol?” said Methuen.

“That is different. I want it.” He gave a harsh laugh and slapped Methuen consolingly on the back. “Never mind. We will see. Who lives longest shall keep it for himself.”

It seemed a fair enough solution, though Methuen was already busy with plans for escape. Indeed he was beginning to feel that he had committed a cardinal error in coming to the headquarters of the White Eagles. He should have taken the knowledge gained back to Belgrade with him and not ventured his neck in so risky an exploit. But when he started for the Janko Stone he had not realized that he might find himself a virtual prisoner marching to the coast with a column of armed men, an unwitting target for the attentions of Tito’s whole army. His blood curdled when he thought of the Ambassador’s face. His only hope was to escape and keep the dawn rendezvous on Sunday with Porson; yet as things were it was not going to be easy. One false move and the suspicions of his captors would be aroused. That might lead him to share poor Anson’s fate. And then, on the other hand, it was absolutely vital that some knowledge of the treasure should reach Dombey and the Foreign Office. All sorts of diplomatic repercussions might be expected if the Royalist movement abroad were suddenly to come into large funds. Policy might have to be altered to meet this new contingency. And if the White Eagles did not get through with their precious freight? If he himself perished with them nobody would be any the wiser. Only sooner or later Mr. Judson’s disappearance would have to be accounted for. “O Lord,” said Methuen despondently to himself. “I seem to have made an awful mess of things.”

They ate their midday meal at a clumsy table in the sunshine outside the cave as Black Peter wanted to keep a wary eye on the loading of his mule-team. They ate slices of fat pork-meat heavily spiced and a good country wine with it. Such conversation as there was was punctuated by interruptions. Orderlies came backwards and forwards with reports sent in by scouts; the guides clustered round for detailed instructions as to the route which they had difficulty in following on the map — being unused to such civilized amenities as maps and compasses. Meanwhile the loading went forward steadily and Methuen could not help but admire the excellent camp discipline which he observed; for method and order this ragged band of guerillas would not have disgraced a regular army unit.

As the light slanted towards afternoon he watched a breathtaking transformation of the men and mules into glittering armoured knights and their caparisoned steeds. The shirts of gold gleamed in the sunlight. The mules at first showed fright as the great blankets of gold coins were thrown over them, but their team-leaders soothed them and gradually accustomed them to the new sensation. Panniers were packed, and the great wooden saddles were heaped with the wooden boxes containing the treasure. Black Peter occupied himself tirelessly with details, walking from group to group, admonishing, cajoling and teasing. It was obvious that the men adored him and would follow him anywhere. He was a marvellous natural soldier, thought Methuen with a touch of envy and admiration. It was amazing to watch the whole band a-glitter in gold coats of mail, leading their glittering animals. Once there was an alarm as the sound of planes was heard; but the sound passed away to the east of the camp without anything being spotted in the sky.

As dusk was falling small knots of armed men began to come into camp from several different quarters of the compass. Each new arrival was signalled by sharp cries and whistles, and some two or three were greeted by Black Peter as old friends.

Methuen had braced himself for the arrival of the escort, for surely among this band was someone capable of detecting the falseness of his cover story; someone from headquarters who would give him away.… His anxiety mounted as Black Peter advanced to meet some of these new arrivals, to greet them with affectionate tenderness, kissing their faces and hugging them with bearish enthusiasm.

Methuen walked slowly across the grassy depression and climbed the hillock on the other side from where he could just see the upper part of the Janko Stone. A ring of sentries lay in the grass facing inwards towards the depression in which the camp was situated. Nobody was allowed beyond a certain radius, lets he showed himself in the skyline, and in consequence the whole wild panorama of peaks and mountains was out of sight. Methuen would have liked to climb up as far as the obelisk but he was prevented. Branko walked behind him all the way.

Escape was out of the question. And if he were discovered to be an agent sudden death might follow immediately. Methuen braced himself against an ordeal by interrogation which he felt must soon come. In order to compose his mind he examined an old working in detail, admiring the rich and varied seams of rock which the spades of forgotten men had uncovered; snowy quartz, fragments of rich iron ore glittered over by the scales of mica, pale green serpentine, and dappled jasper. He stopped to pick up a beautiful piece of chalcedony, a network of glittering crystals, which he handed to his jailor, saying: “Look at the riches of this place.” Branko grunted doubtfully as he turned the specimen over in his fingers. “And look there is gold,” added Methuen, picking up a piece of fractured iron pyrites with its enticing yellowish gleam. “Gold?” said Branko with interest. “Yes. Here, take it.”

These pleasantries were interrupted by a guard who sought them out and said curtly: “Black Peter wants to see you at once in the cave.” Methuen drew a deep breath and braced himself. “Now it is coming,” he thought as he walked slowly back into the depression which was now swimming with golden warriors and richly caparisoned mules, turned to a dazzle by the last fainting rays of the sunlight.

The cave had been stripped of everything now, and a huge bonfire burned in one corner on which the old man was putting various oddments of equipment and some papers from a wallet. Black Peter sat at the table with a preoccupied air and motioned Methuen to the chair which faced him.

“Well,” said Methuen.

“I was hoping some of these people might be able to confirm your story.”

“So was I.”

“They can’t. They’ve been in touch with headquarters, but not for a day or two; and their field of operations has been around Sarajevo.”

“O damnl” said Methuen with a wild joy in his heart which he disguised by holding up his tethered wrists for inspection. “Must I really go about like this? After all the camp is surrounded by sentries. One can’t even get up to the Janko Stone to look at the view — much less escape, just supposing I wanted to do so.” Black Peter nodded vigorously, and then shook his head once more. “I refuse to take chances,” he said with slow obstinate determination.

The room had slowly been filling up with guerillas and it was obvious that he had not more time to spare for Methuen. “Go and get ready,” he said. “We march in a little while.”

Methuen walked into the starry darkness with a light step. He was overwhelmed with relief. His shaggy janitor now led him to the cave which contained the treasure, and having first untied his hands, slipped a coat of coins over his head. The weight was really staggering — it could hardly have been less than that of a medieval suit of armour. To this was added a double bandolier of coins which rested on his hips. “My God,” said Methuen, “one can’t carry ammunition as well as this.” Branko gave a chuckle. “You won’t be expected to use any. As for us we are strong.”

“We shall see,” said Methuen. The latest arrivals were being loaded with their bandoliers and he noticed that ammunition had been cut to the minimum. It did not argue well for any action they might have to fight on their way to the coast; and food? He had noticed a flock of sheep among the mules and presumed that they would drive a few with them and kill them whenever they camped. “This is going to be some journey,” he said soberly and Branko grunted as he replied: “Come along man. Our ancestors did as much and more.” Methuen looked suitably shame-faced as he replied: “Yes. It is well said.”

Outside the cave in the starlit night the mule-teams had formed up and the camp was bustling with life. Having loaded Methuen up Branko took the opportunity of attaching a long piece of rope to his left arm. This would enable the jailor to walk behind his charge in the night and yet keep a secure hold upon him by means of the rope. They were not going to have him slipping away in the darkness.

Now the melodious voice of Black Peter came at them out of the darkness and a great silence fell. “Men!” said the invisible orator. “Everything is prepared and we are about to set out. I must remind you that none shall speak, and none shall smoke until I tell you. To-night and tomorrow night will be dangerous. Say prayers for your loved ones and for the King in whose name we will perform this exploit or perish.”

Branko now led him across the dark grass to join the little group which stood about Black Peter like an unofficial bodyguard. “We will march with them in front,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and they set their faces to the west, climbing the slopes under the Janko Stone slowly and laboriously, in their coats of mail.

There was a young moon half-hidden by clouds and looking back from the great obelisk Methuen saw the black serpent of the mule-train coiling behind them on that windless mountain. In the darkness around they could see the great clusters of peaks and canyons which surrounded the Janko Stone. The grass was damp from the heavy mountain dew. Black Peter headed the procession with a cluster of armed men round him; then came Methuen and his jailor, closely followed by the leader of the first mule-team.

The path led steadily down towards a watershed and the going was not as even as Methuen had hoped as he stumbled along with Branko tugging at the rope. They walked in complete silence except for an occasional hoarse word of command or a whispered confabulation about their direction among the little party which led the way. For the greater part of the descent they were in the open and it was fortunate that the moon was hidden by clouds, for once or twice they heard the noise of an aircraft overhead — and perhaps the glitter of moonlight on coin might have been visible. Once they had descended into the shadowy watershed visibility became limited and in the inky darkness there were one or two minor accidents — a broken girth, and a man who fell down a steep bank and knocked himself almost insensible with his rifle-butt. But in general their progress was steady and the disciplined behaviour of the men excellent. Methuen kept up as well as he could, glad to be on the move once more, but with his brain swimming with half-formulated plans and hopes which he did not know how to achieve.

They marched through a dark wood and over some rolling dunes of grass reminiscent of the mountain range they had just left. To their left in the darkness they could hear the ripple of water rushing in a stony bed. Once the whole column halted for a while while the scouts went forward to investigate something suspicious. After much whispering they continued bearing sharply to the left and crossing a swift stream at a shallow ford. Methuen was rapidly becoming exhausted both by the weight he carried and by the acute discomfort caused by his pinioned wrists. He repeatedly asked Branko in a whisper if he could talk to Black Peter but each time he was met by a grunt of refusal.

At last, in exasperation, he sat down and refused to walk another step unless he could see the chief. Branko cursed and swore and tugged vigorously at the rope but all to no avail. “Here I stay”, said Methuen in a low voice, “until I speak to him.” The column of mules had halted uncertainly. Branko muttered murderously and drew his pistol which he thrust under Methuen’s nose in a threatening manner. But Methuen simply said: “Go on and shoot me, then. I am not moving.” While the argument was still going on in hissing whispers Black Peter and his party retraced their steps hastily to see what was the cause of the hold-up. “What is it?” he said angrily.

“He won’t move,” said Branko.

“Black Peter,” said Methuen, “I shall not be able to march with you unless I have my hands free. I am already half-dead. Either you give me a chance to march freely or you can kill me now.”

He was in an extremely bad temper by this time, and pouring with sweat. Black Peter paused for a long moment, and then, without a word drew a knife and cut him free. “But be careful,” he whispered, and turning to Branko added: “Keep a good hold on the rope.”

It was a prodigious relief and Methuen now found that he could keep up with the forward party with comparative ease. They all seemed to be skilled mountaineers, and at almost every stage of the journey they gave proof of their talents, slipping off to the left and right of the road on short reconnaisances, using natural cover like born huntsmen. A small group of four scouts had been pushed out about a mile ahead of the party, and each in turn waited to make contact before moving off ahead again; his place was always taken by another. In this way they had an intelligence relay of runners bringing them information about the country they were traversing. These men were the only ones not cumbered with the coin-coats or bandoliers.

It was after midnight when the order came to halt and the party was allowed half an hour of much-needed rest in a shadowy ravine which made an excellent hiding-place. The moon had long since gone, though the sky was soft and lit with bright stars. Black Peter came and sat for a moment by Methuen, wiping his streaming face and asking: “How is it going?” Methuen’s good humour had returned with his increased freedom. He had spent his time well, by turning pickpocket and stealing back his compass from Branko. This enabled him to keep an eye on the general direction of the party and he noted with satisfaction that they were walking roughly parallel (though of course at a great distance from) the main road down which Porson must drive on his way from Skoplje to Belgrade.

He still had hopes of being able to escape and reach the road in time for the next rendezvous. But for the moment he was enjoying himself, watching the extraordinary skill with which these mountaineers piloted their mule-team through enemy territory. Once or twice they passed settlement of straw shacks such as shepherds build in the uplands for summer use and at one of these he noticed a fire burning and the vague outlines of figures sitting round it. In the clear night air, too, he heard the monotonous jigging music of stringed instruments. The column halted in a ravine by a pool and while a scout crept forward to the settlement the mules were watered and washed down with as little noise as possible. Presently low voices sounded in the darkness and they started off once more at the slow plodding pace of somnambulists.

From here their road began to ascend very steeply and the going became much more difficult. The soft path turned rudely to flint under the hooves of their mules and after some time vanished altogether, leaving them on the wooded side of a mountain. They toiled their way upward through a jungle of fern and dwarf-elder, slipping and sliding, and hoisting themselves wherever they could by the help of projecting shrubs. Progress was slowed up a good deal, and it was with some relief that they at last reached the beech-glades of the mountain-top where movement was freer and the surface soft once more.

Through the avenues of great trees they caught an occasional glimpse of the vistas of mountains which stretched out on every side of them, but there were no signs of human habitation anywhere along their path. Dawn was already showing some signs of breaking behind the backcloth of peaks when they reached the final peak of the range, and here they were halted in a fir forest, carpeted with wonderful rich heather already burnt brown by the summer sun. The order to bivouac was given and no sooner were the mules safely tethered than each man lay down and fell asleep in his tracks. Methuen freed himself from his bandoliers and his coin-coat and followed suit, falling almost at once into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He woke to find Black Peter shaking him by the shoulder and saying: “Wake up now. Get under cover.” Everyone was ordered into the shadow of the trees and elaborate precautions were taken that none of the animals should stray outside the radius of the wood. As the light grew Methuen understood why for they were camped on the crown of a hill which overlooked one of the main roads into Serbia. In this corner of the picture there was also a good deal of activity; frequent cars and lorries rolled along in the dawn light sending up their plumes of dust. They heard, too, a few desultory bangs in the east which might have been the noise of guns, but for the most part the landscape around them seemed as peaceful as a charm.

They lay up here for the whole of that day, eating what food they could lay hands on; those lucky enough to have some bread of their own shared it, and the supply of water was strictly rationed. Black Peter and his little band of sharpshooters lay at the edge of the wood carefully watching the road for signs of military movement. Methuen for his part spent the day dozing. The constant marching and countermarching of the last forty-eight hours was beginning to tell on him, and moreover he had been troubled by a nail projecting from the sole of his left boot. He took ample advantage of the long wait to massage his feet and to get what rest he could. Despite the relative freedom of movement he enjoyed the rope on his arm had begun to annoy him, chiefly because it meant being tethered to Branko and Branko smelt very strongly. He swore that that night he would untie his end of the rope and lash his jailor to some more appropriate bondsman — a mule.

Twice they were visited by aircraft that day, and the second time a reconnaissance plane circled the hill most carefully before flying away to the east. Discipline was perfect and not a soul moved; indeed the cover itself was magnificent and one could lie at ease in the bracken without fear of being detected. Nevertheless these visitations put everyone on the qui vive, and Methuen could detect an increase of nervous tension among the men when dusk began to fall. Once more before they set out Black Peter made a short speech reminding them all of the pledge they had taken to win through with the treasure, and Methuen could not help reflecting that this alone betrayed the one weakness of a Balkan soldier — forgetfulness. He must each day be reminded what he is fighting for and exhorted to do his duty.

They set off in the grey dusk and after traversing several shallow ranges all of a sudden reached the foot of a mountain which dominated the whole landscape with its jagged white slopes. The surface had changed again and the noise of the mules’ hooves on the loose stones sounded tremendous in the silence. Away to the west they could see a line of bivouac fires — though whether they were troops or shepherds it was impossible to tell. A thin refreshing drizzle fell for an hour and then a wind sprang up and cleared the sky. The young moon looked in on them and they could see the groins and limestone precipices of the mountain they must scale glimmering in the dusky light. They had started on a barren flinty shoulder which climbers would call a glacis; thousands of feet below they could see the tossing woods of Spanish chestnut and wild vine.

At their first resting-place Black Peter came in search of Methuen, full of excitement. “You see now?” he said. “We have not seen a soul, and once we reach the top there is a narrow stone path above the Black Lake which will carry us over to the next mountain. Impossible to ambush us there. It will be like swinging from tree to tree, eh? From mountain-top to mountain-top while the troops walk up and down the valleys.” He was tremendously excited. For his own part Methuen did not like it at all; he thought it ominous that so far they had encountered no trace of enemy opposition. But there seemed little point in saying so.

Besides, another and more serious question was beginning to gnaw at him. He must soon make a bid for it if he was to reach the road in time to contact Porson. It was already a long walk as far as he could judge, and a daylight escape would be virtually impossible. He had already experimented with the rope round his arm and found that he could undo it easily enough and tether it to a mule without Branko noticing. But how and when could he slip out of the column and disappear? He would wait, he thought, until dawn when the men were tired.

They trudged on up the mountain for several hours until they reached a large ravine at the top and here, at a bend in the path, an involuntary hoarse cry broke from the throats of the men as they saw the glittering expanse of the Black Lake lying below them. They knew that once they had skirted it the worst part of the journey would be over.

They halted for half an hour and re-formed before entering the gulley which was to lead them by a narrow path along the sides of the lake. The path was of a decent width, allowing two mules to walk abreast for the most part; only in certain spots did it narrow enough to become dangerous. The view from here was indescribably lovely, for they looked down upon the polished surface of the Black Lake from the position of eagles.

Methuen hoped that by dawn they would have finished with this narrow path and emerge into more open country, for his chances of escape were nil under present conditions. Two mules walked ahead of him and two behind, and left no room for someone to squeeze past. The only way out would have been to jump into the Black Lake itself, and that he did not fancy.

Nevertheless he tied Branko to one of the mules without the old man noticing anything and waited for his chance to come. At one of the halts on this rocky staircase Black Peter came back to see if everything was going well. “I am so happy,” he said. “I know in my heart that we will get through now. They have missed us.”

Who could know the nature of the ambush into which they were walking?