White Eagles Over Serbia

CHAPTER EIGHT. Journey Into the Hills

It was still dark when the little green alarm-clock beside the bed set up its discreet purring and woke Methuen from a sleep which had been relatively calm and dreamless. Sitting up in bed at the brink of day he felt like a diver poised above a pool. Soon he must dive into the unknown waters of adventure. Where they would carry him he did not know; but action was a relief from too much meditation. It brought into play a different side of his character, the part where experience and will took over from doubt and conjecture; where the buccaneer took over from the comparatively timid and law-abiding person he was.

Carter came into his room with a cup of tea and found him shaving with methodical care, whistling softly under his breath as he did so. The young major noticed a new spareness, a new litheness in his movements as he walked to the window and drew the curtains on the darkness which would soon be lifting.

“What time is it light?”

In June the light comes relatively early and as they walked across the dew-drenched grass of the garden the first streaks of yellow began to touch the eastern sky. Carter started up the engine of his car with a harsh clatter that woke the sentry in the makeshift sentry-box at the end of the road. He let in the clutch and they went swaying carefully down the pot-holed road towards the Sava, crossed the tram-lines and turning right, gathered speed along the tree-lined avenue which led them to the Embassy. The morning air was deliciously damp and fresh with the moisture of the river flowing out of sight among the trees to their left, scoring out its path in the rich alluvial mud of the Serbian plain.

There were no cars on the road, but they encountered a long procession of sleepy drays bringing their wretched freight into the markets of the capital: for the most part consignments of maize cobs for bread. Their drivers sat like comatose owls on the seats wrapped in their torn clothes against the early morning chill; while in many carts lay a sprawl of women and children, frowsily sleeping. Carter drove expertly but in silence, for which Methuen was grateful as it gave him time to collect and marshal his inner resources for the adventure which lay ahead.

In the foreground of his thoughts too rose the figure of Vida — the dark beseeching eyes which silently implored his belief in a cause which everyone deemed dead — freedom. Thinking of those candid and ingenuous eyes, and of that rich friendly personality Methuen almost forgot how wretched the cause she advocated was; it was certainly better than what existed at present here — but would it prove any less of a disappointment if once it should triumph? He could not tell. He could only say that the present was unjust, cruel and dedicated to death.

Porson and Carter arrived simultaneously at the Embassy and raced round the drive together before leaving their cars in the car park. Then the three of them made their way to the side entrance and pressed the brass bell-push. A sleepy night-guard peered at them through a brass socket for a second and let them in; he was in his shirt and trousers, and had been sleeping in an arm-chair in the hall.

“Now then,” said Porson, “to business. Hubbard, will you make us a cup of coffee and bring it to my office?”

“Yessir.”

Porson adjusted his monocle and sat down in a leather armchair, throwing one lanky leg over the other, and placing the tips of his fingers together. “Mark me well,” he said with the air of a celebrated K.C. summing up for a suburban jury, “the duty car we use is in the garage at the back of the Embassy. There is a back entrance which I’ll show you. You’ll lie down in the back and cover up. Presently I’ll appear at the front entrance, whistling nonchalantly, and drive the car round to the Chancery entrance to pick up Blair, the clerk who is coming with us. Then we are away. At the last check-point beyond Avala we shall slow down and flourish our travel-permit, there will be a rapid counting of heads (keep yours down) and then we’ll be waved through. A hundred yards after that a large black Buick, packed to the gunwales with gibbering analphabetic policemen, will slide out from behind a bush and follow us. You can then emerge and do your toilet at leisure, transform yourself into whatever sort of creature you wish, before propelling yourself into the bog as per schedule.”

“Where is my gear?”

“Already in the car.”

“My trout-rod?”

“Yes. Yes,” said Porson testily and raising his eyes to heaven moved his lips in soundless prayer for a moment; then, apparently addressing his Creator, he said: “I ask you. All he bothers about is his trout-rod. What has SOq done to deserve such single-minded egoists?”

There was still a little time to spare while Blair and the clerks made up the bag for the Skoplje Consulate. They drank their coffee to the accompaniment of a running battery of waggish remarks by Porson who seemed a trifle light-headed — perhaps it was due to the early hour at which he had been forced to rise.

“Well,” he said at last.

“I’m ready,” said Methuen, and there was music in his step as he followed the lanky secretary down the corridor into the Residence, and down the stone stairs to the cellar; here they branched left and traversed the large handsome billiard-room and ballroom combined until they reached the kitchen. From a corner a small green door opened directly into the dark garage. “Here,” said Porson. The huge Mercedes lay like a noble old ship at anchor in the darkness. Methuen cast a quick appraising eye over her. Old she certainly was, but her powerful engine and heavy springing made her a most suitable transport for the sort of roads one encountered in Serbia and Macedonia.

He shed his coat and waistcoat and shoes and handing them to Porson he climbed into the back and lay down on the floor. A rug was spread over him and Porson said: “Now not a word.” The green door closed with a bang and Methuen lay in the darkness smelling the odour of polish and petrol which had impregnated the air. He had not long to wait, however, for presently he heard steps approach on the asphalt drive and the main doors of the garage rumbled back on their grooves. Whistling (though just how nonchalantly he could not see), Porson climbed aboard and started up the engine. Its deep satisfying murmur blotted out everything. The car rolled smoothly out into the drive and drew up at the Chancery office entrance where Blair was waiting with the white sack over his arm.

“All aboard!” cried Porson, and they were soon booming along the streets of the capital, slithering in tram-lines and bouncing among the pot-holes of the main road. Porson drove with an erratic swiftness, and to the accompaniment of much cursing and swearing as he grazed the backs of buses or drove pedestrians in flocks out of the path by the power of the old-fashioned klaxon with which the car was equipped.

“Don’t hit anything, Mr. Porson,” said Blair nervously. “We should have had it then.” He was a pale freckled north countryman. Porson tossed back his head and said: “Psaw! Me hit anything? I’ve got a clean licence, Blair. Fear nothing.”

They were racing along the winding roads which lead south through the pleasant rolling pastures and woodlands where the dark bulk of Avala Hill rears itself from the flat plain. The old Mercedes got into her stride and the powerful six-cylinder engine settled down to a smooth continuous purring note which bespoke power. Dawn was coming up fast now and Methuen wished he could watch the remembered landscape of his student days unroll once more on either side of him. It was hot under the rug. They swept through a number of small sleepy villages and up to the foot of the fir-crowned hill before Porson said, over his shoulder: “Now for the counting of heads, Methuen, and we are through.”

A blue-clad militiaman appeared in the road holding a white wooden signal in his hand. Porson slowed down to give him time to see the diplomatic number-plates of the car, while Blair leaned from the window holding out his documents. The policeman nodded and stepped back. They were through. The Mercedes gathered power again and they raced round the crown of the hill where the road drops steeply to the plain. “Now for the escort,” said Porson, and as they flashed past a side-turning a long sleek Buick edged itself into the road and started out in pursuit of them. “Why there should always be four people in it,” said Blair, “I can’t see.” Porson grunted. “They can’t come for the ride,” he said and once more turning his head back added: “Methuen, you can get up now. We are all set.”

Methuen rose stiffly from the floor and sank on to the cushions of the back seat with a sigh. The back of the car was closed and the side-screens were up, making it impossible for the following car to see into the interior of the Mercedes. They still had several hours to go before they reached the Ibar valley, and he set himself methodically to sort his kit and to dress. They had started much earlier than usual so that he should have as much daylight as possible ahead of him when once the jump into the unknown had been made.

As he pulled on the heavy riding-boots he gazed out at the early morning landscape, the green rolling country that swept away southward towards the dark mountains which as yet were simple mauve smudges upon the skyline. They were able to make good time along the excellent metalled highway which leads out in a series of graceful curves and loops towards Topola, rising like a swallow through cuttings and dipping in and out among the richly-cultivated hills. Vineyards stretched away on either side of them and Methuen could not resist giving Porson a short lecture on the Serbian wines he had once studied with affectionate care. This was a celebrated part of the wine country. “Out of bounds alas!” said Porson, “or I should by now have collected enough material for a monograph. We get inferior stuff in town!”

The black Buick held on to them, staying always about three hundred yards behind. Methuen took a peep at it through the curtained window. “They are awfully close,” he said, and Porson smiled a knowing smile as he answered: “Wait till the dust begins. They have to eat our dust all the way into Macedonia. You should see them when we arrive at Skoplje — as if they were all wearing powdered wigs and false moustaches. Don’t worry, Methuen. We’ll have plenty of time.”

Methuen smoked and pondered as the great car whistled onwards. His fishing-rod and the bulkier part of his equipment he had wrapped in the light bed-roll. Into the various pockets and slings of his magnificent coat he had placed his pistol and compass, some solid fuel, a half-pint Thermos, and his beloved Walden. “By God,” said Porson, “anyone would think you were going to stay for months.” “I am,” said Methuen grimly. The sun was quite hot by now and Porson said approvingly: “There’s going to be a hell of a lot of dust. Good show!”

They swayed and scrambled through the cobbled streets of Mladenovac and whistled out into the countryside beyond. The Buick came smoothly on behind. Blair produced some biscuits and an excellent bottle of white wine which they shared. Their spirits rose, but behind the fooling of Porson, Methuen sensed a tension and a reserve which had been absent before. For his part, though he looked out at that smiling landscape with familiar pleasure recaptured in memory, he felt the dark wings of danger spreading themselves above them — and out of it all the thought of Vida’s death rose up to afflict him, leaving him with a slow-burning resentment and determination.

“You won’t forget to ring up Belgrade,” he said, “and drop any messages there are for me in the ditch as per arrangement.” Porson nodded. “On my way back. We’ll start at midnight and be with you just before light.”

Half-way between Mladenovac and Kralevo the road began to deteriorate into patches of pitted cobbles, and then as they swept round a wooded curve Porson said: “Now watch this.” The asphalt abruptly ceased and the car wallowed on to the pitted country road of dust and loose stones. A cloud arose round them which powdered the lower branches of the trees. “Look behind,” said Porson gleefully. Methuen did so. They were throwing up a smoke-screen of bilious yellow dust — impenetrable in volume. “God,” he said, with genuine pity for the Buick-load of police which followed them. “From here on they drop about a quarter of a mile behind,” said Porson gleefully. “Sometimes we annoy them by slowing up too.”

Kralevo passed in a cloud and the note of the car changed as they headed across the plain for the mountain-range which now loomed up at them from the south; the river sprawled to the left of them gleaming green and yellow in the flat plain. The road and river converged slowly upon the looming shadowy gorge which marked the entrance to the Ibar valley. “Pretty soon now,” said Porson in a voice which betrayed an ill-controlled excitement. Methuen puffed quietly at his cigarette before tossing it out of the window.

At the entrance of the sullen gorge, where the mountains rise to right and left, the road, railway and river, having conducted a seemingly endless flirtation, are suddenly squeezed together and pass through the narrow rock entrance side by side. Here the Ebar becomes swift, brown and turbid; giant poplars and willows, their roots gripping the shaly banks like knuckles, shade the whole length of the road. The air becomes dense with the smell of water, for several smaller rivers have cut their way through the mountain to empty themselves into the Ibar, and the crumbling rocky walls which flank the gorge are bursting with freshwater springs. The valley for all its gloom is alive with the ripple of bird-song which mingles with the thunder of the Ibar’s waters as they roar down towards Rashka.

The railway looked like a toy. It had been cut in the side of the mountain and the tracks passed through a series of rock-tunnels each of which was closely guarded by pickets. Methuen saw the diminished figures of these guards walking along the stone parapet, stopping to gaze down curiously at the car as it passed. Each section of tunnel had its own patrol, and the soldiers lounged in the sun on the stone balconies, idly smoking or tossing pebbles into the swift waters of the Ibar below.

“What about them?” said Methuen, and Porson said quickly: “The part where you jump is completely enclosed with greenery. They can’t see. Only when you climb the hill you’ll have to keep out of sight. Look, a train!”

They heard a series of muffled shrieks and a heavy rumbling across the river. The guards came to life and took up position. The rumbling increased in volume and finally an absurdly toy-like train emerged from the rock-tunnel with a puff of grey smoke — as if it had been fired from the mouth of a gun. It rolled slowly across the balcony-like parapet, trailing a long banner of sooty dust and smoke, and with a catarrhal whistle plunged once more into the rock, its wheels making a hard resonant noise, as of a billiard ball being rolled across a stone floor. Sixty yards later, before the tail of the train had come into view on the first parapet, the engine emerged once more with another cough. “In and out of the rock,” said Porson, “like a needle in cloth.”

“Hard work cutting that railway,” said Methuen with mild professional interest; the river looked too strong for any swimmer. “It’s well guarded,” said Porson, “though one good burst in a tunnel.…”

They rolled onwards between the flickering crowns of the trees which reached up at the road from the river bank. Behind them the yellow cloud of dust volleyed away down the road reducing visibility to nothing. Yellowhammers and magpies frolicked in the trees, and here and there the stem rock-faces to their right stood back and fanned away into dome-like mountains, steeply clad with beech and fir, and showing small pockets of cultivation. A crumbling Frankish fortress dominated one height and Methuen caught the flicker of sunlight on something which might have been the barrel of a gun at the eastern corner. He had a small but powerful pair of glasses in his kit but there was no time to train them on this tempting target. “There’s a company of soldiers up in the fort,” said Porson. “They supply the pickets for the railway. Two machine-guns. Nothing heavier.”

He was gradually reducing speed and the great car rolled effortlessly along the beautiful river road, in and out of the shadows thrown by the trees. They turned a corner and the fort was swallowed; and here the trees grew in great clusters, chestnut and eucalyptus raising their dusty crowns to the sky. “We’re coming to it,” said Porson; round the next corner there was a white milestone by a ruined signalman’s hut which was their marker. “All set,” said Methuen quietly and gripped his bed-roll as he let down the massive window of the car. “Do you see it?” The milestone climbed out of the mauve shadows of the rock-face and came towards them like a pointing finger. “Let her go. Good luck!” cried Porson. Methuen gave a heave and tossed his bed-roll into the ditch; then opening the door he plunged out after it into the deep grass, slipping and sliding to the bottom as the great car gathered speed and covered him in a cloud of pungent dust. Porson gave a hoot on the klaxon which echoed like the wild cry of some solitary bird among the rocks.