The Longest Winter (13 page)

‘James!’ It was Anne in heady exultation.

‘I beg you, don’t hang back, girls,’ panted James.

Sophie said nothing, saving her breath for sustained effort. Only a slow-witted person would have failed to recognize the latent menace of
those men, and she sensed that what James had recognized was a menace that was frightening. He was intense in his urgency to get her and Anne out of harm’s way. But why? Why should those men want to harm them? James’s cryptic reference to Franz Ferdinand had puzzled her.

They were rushing downwards, the sloping, winding path bordered by bushes and long wispy grass taking them in headlong flight to where the river, littered with fallen rock, danced and sparkled. They reached the smooth stony bank.

‘Run!’ said James. He knew they could be seen from the village above. They had to reach a sheltered way. In the distance the bald bank of the river gave way to bush and tree. They needed the cover it would give them. They ran. He was sweating. Anne’s hair was tumbling loose, Sophie’s bobbing. They gasped for breath as he urged them on. Discarding modesty they picked up their skirts and ran more freely. Anne ran hard and fast, supple limbs flashing. Sophie ran with long strides. Good girls, thought James. God, he had to get them out of this. His was the responsibility, he the one who had wanted to come here. He wondered if he should pray, but since he couldn’t remember when he had last paid reverent devotions he decided that to call on divine help now might be construed as slightly impertinent.

Their chance of escaping close pursuit depended on how long it took Ferenac and the other two men to dispose of the car. It was the obvious thing for Ferenac to get it out of the
way as quickly as possible. Its presence pointed positively to the fact that its occupants had been in Kontic, and the fact that Ferenac wanted to move it indicated intentions that were sinister.

There was quite a way to go along the hard, shelving bank of the river before they could reach the shelter of the straggling bush and pine. In places the ground was strewn with fallen boulders big and small, and their progress over these stretches was awkward and comparatively slow. The river sang cheerfully on their left, swirling around protruding stone and gurgling over submerged rocks. Farther to their left the hills rose barren, bleak and inhospitable, yet were tempting in the multitude of sheltering crevices they offered. But Joja had said not to go up into the hills.

They sped over a clear incline. The sun was hot, its heat brazenly trapped in the valley. Sophie’s dress and petticoat whipped around her slender calves. Anne, a little more uninhibited, had hers hitched to her knees. White silk stockings were brilliant in the sunlight. James, running protectively behind the girls, experienced a moment of detached admiration amid his worries. Anne and Sophie, undeniably, had shapely legs. He urged them on. He was certain of one thing now. Ferenac meant to assassinate the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, either in Ilidze or Sarajevo, and was not going to be foiled by having anyone inform on him. Hell, thought James, if the idiot would only go back to Vienna and play his violin he would save the situation
for himself and everybody else. But no, he had to go on with it and to remove anyone who stood in his way.

And if he could murder the archduke, what were three lesser people?

‘I’m going to fall,’ panted Sophie.

‘No, you’re not,’ shouted James, ‘you’re not an old lady yet.’

Anne was sucking in great draughts of air. James came up with them, took Anne by the hand, patted Sophie on the back and ran with them. The pine trees drew them on. James saw they were sparser than they seemed at a distance and the girls would look like pale summer ghosts flitting through them. He glanced back. He saw no one in the bright valley. He glanced upwards. The village was well behind them now, away up on their far right. But they could still be seen from the place. There would be eyes watching them, for all those closed doors.

Sophie lost a pointed shoe. She stumbled and hopped on one foot. James retrieved the shoe and slipped it quickly back on to her slim stockinged foot.

‘Thank you, James.’ She was darkly flushed, her forehead damp, her hair spilling and her mouth open as she gulped in air.

‘We must go on,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she said and Anne, breathless, nodded. They picked up their skirts again and ran again. James followed. They reached bushes showing shiny leaf and plunged into the shelter of the foremost trees. The ground was softer,
there was earth here which was saved from being washed by rain into the river by a ridge of stone that in the distance rose higher.

They ran between the trees until Anne gasped, ‘James, we must rest for just a moment.’ She stopped, sank to her knees and Sophie sank down beside her. James, affected by their physical distress, let them have their break. They were healthy girls but they were not international athletes. They were not trained for a long run.

After a short while he said, ‘We’ll walk for a spell now, we can’t run all the time, I know. So come on, my lovely ones, they haven’t spotted us yet.’

‘Lovely ones? Oh, James,’ said Sophie and laughed a little breathlessly. ‘Have you looked at me lately?’ Her loosened hair clung damply at her temples, her delicate make-up marked by perspiration. Anne was no better.

‘You’re both at your best,’ said James. He helped them to their feet.

‘You’re a great comfort, James,’ said Anne.

‘I don’t feel a comfort,’ he said, ‘I feel responsible. Come on.’

They went on, walking quickly through the sparse woodland, their feet crunching the dry needles, the air hot but finely scented. The hills rose high across the river, and on their right the slope covered with straggling bush ascended to the road.

‘If we could climb up somewhere,’ said Anne, ‘we could reach the road, couldn’t we?’

James shook his head.

‘We can’t show ourselves yet,’ he said, ‘we must keep to this valley for as long as possible. Ferenac and his men probably know every rock and blade of grass in this area, and they’ll realize we’ll need to get up to the road. Damn,’ he said as the filtering light changed a little way ahead to glaring brightness. They broke from the trees and found themselves on a stretch of hard, sloping bank. The ridge on their left had fallen away, they could see the river again, a swirling, running flow. But there were more pines two hundred yards away. All the same, thought James, they would be out in the open for that distance. ‘Damn,’ he said again.

‘Shall we run, James?’ asked Sophie.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and now, like the devil.’

They ran, the girls’ shoes clicking over the smooth shelf of stone, the afternoon sun burningly plucking at their heads. Slender legs gleamed. James kept behind the girls, constantly urging them on. Two hundred yards, that was all. But the sloping shelf and the feeling that there must be eyes on their backs made the distance seem so long. When they reached the trees Anne and Sophie were gasping again. James turned and looked back. He squinted through the bright light, over the wooded stretch they had left and taking in the rising line of their retreat beyond. He caught his breath. Well beyond the vegetation a humped ridge showed like a sharp, undulating black line. Movement was breaking the line. A tiny silhouette showed. Then another.

‘Oh, hellfire and brimstone,’ breathed James.
He joined the waiting girls. ‘Good,’ he said cheerfully, ‘you look fine. We’ll need our second wind.’

‘I think I’m on my fifth,’ said Sophie.

‘Well, make good use of it,’ said James, ‘because we need to run again. Go on, pick your feet up.’

Sophie and Anne did their best but the trees were thicker and brush hampering. They skirted bushes and ducked under low branches. James took the lead, breaking or holding a way through for his companions. They ran where they could and where they could not they at least had a respite from lung torture. The heat closed in on them and twigs reached to pluck at frisking skirts. James knew they were going as fast as they could and did not ask for more. The river seemed to be farther from them, hidden by another rising bulwark, yet it came louder to their ears, rushing and tumbling. Its insistent noise pounded at the hammering heart of Anne. She saw James kicking and savaging his way through tangled undergrowth in front and she was sure he was making demands on his repertoire of international adjectives.

The pines increased in density. They were hidden from any pursuers now. But that did not mean they were safe.

The skirt of Sophie’s dress tore.

‘Now that is tragic,’ she gasped.

‘I’ll buy you another, Sophie, I promise,’ said James, ‘so come on.’

They went on, they struggled on and at times
they ran on. The pines began to thin. He hoped they were not going to lose their cover again. No, the wooded area stretched on. Even so, there was a weakness in the course they were taking. Ferenac and his men would know this was the only way they could go unless they emerged and climbed the dizzy slope to the road. And if they did emerge they would be seen. And they could not count on stopping a passing vehicle. Not in this area. Two carts a day along that road would be a good average. One motor car a month a high average. In any case, Ferenac would ensure that that avenue of escape was watched. The hills on the other side of the river were a temptation again, the huge boulders, the dips and ledges, and the crevices, affording hiding places.

Sunlight dappled the pines and the earthy ground as they hurried on, Sophie and Anne breathless but unwavering. James felt proud of them. To their left the stone ridge petered out and there was the river once more. It was bright and foam-flecked, running fast. The earth became harder, the growth poorer. James stopped objectively, the girls thankfully. Perspiration soaked them all. James wiped his forehead with his hand.

‘I should rather like to sit in a heap of snow,’ said Anne.

‘Oh, sweet winter,’ said Sophie.

James looked at the river. It curved at this point. It spanned a wide course, fifty yards or so. The opposite bank rose to merge with the foothills. There was a profusion of jammed
boulders and the foothills themselves were split by dark, triangular fissures. But the river, how deep was it? The flowing waters sucked around the shallows, rushed and foamed around central islands of boulders.

‘What do you think, shall we cross?’ he said.

‘In a boat?’ said Sophie, dabbing at her face with a tiny handkerchief.

‘James, are you sure they’re behind us?’ asked Anne.

‘I’m afraid so, dear girl. I saw them. And they won’t give up while they think we’re in this valley. They know we can’t turn back, only go forward. But they won’t expect us to have crossed the river here. Frankly, it looks too damned rough. We’re going to get very wet.’

‘James, I have immense faith in you,’ said Sophie, ‘but are you sure we’re only going to get wet?’

‘Look, my sweet things,’ said James, ‘if we can cross here they’ll not see us, the river bend is in our favour. Once across we’ll get under cover. They can’t turn over every boulder or poke their noses into every cave. Damned if I know for certain, though. But what do you say, shall we risk it?’

‘We can’t swim,’ said Anne, eyeing the rushing river uncertainly.

‘Well, there are other activities young ladies are far more graceful at,’ said James, ‘and in any case swimming isn’t going to be the best pastime in that current. We’ve got to go across by making use of the rocks. I’ll see what it’s like.’

He buttoned his jacket and walked down into the shallows. He went on. The water was soon up to his calves, then his knees. And it was bitingly cold. He moved from one river-sprayed rock to the next, the level gushing and pulling at his legs. It was up to his thighs before he reached the middle and around his waist a moment later. It staggered him with its buffeting surges, but the standing boulders provided solid help. He was able to move although the river roared and foamed around him. Seconds were precious. In the middle of the river the waters tugged violently at him, but the wet, glistening outcrops of fallen stone were bastions of protection. Sophie, watching the tide beating at him on his way back, paled under her perspiration. If he slipped—

‘Oh, be careful,’ she whispered, her heart thumping painfully. And Anne, thinking of men who could not be far away now, breathed, ‘Hurry, James, hurry.’

He splashed through the shallows, ran up the bank and back into the trees. He streamed water on the way, his face and hair wet from spray.

‘I think we can do it,’ he said, ‘but I suggest you take your dresses off. They’ll get soaked and heavy. I’m sorry, but I don’t want you sinking.’

They did not argue. Sophie went a little pink, that was all. He turned his back. Quickly they removed their dresses. He took them, folded them tightly and tucked them inside his jacket. The girls were brightly, lacily delicate in waist petticoats and snowy corsets. And they were both pink now.

‘Lead on, James,’ said Sophie, her smile a desperate effort, ‘and you hang on for dear life, Anne. I’ll come with my eyes closed. I shall also pray.’

James took them down to the edge of the river. They stared at the menacing flow, at the spray and the foam, at the glistening boulders.

‘There’s a lot of it, I know,’ said James, ‘but it’s only water.’ And he went in, the girls with him, each using a hand to grip the belt on the back of his tweed jacket. Sophie shuddered at the icy cold of the water and Anne drew a hissing breath. James splashed forward, intent on crossing by the simple but precarious expedient of plunging from each sheltering rock to the next. But not every boulder was as near to the next as he’d have liked, and it was this that made the crossing such a risk. To lose a footing could mean being swept away.

Anne stifled gasps as the rising level icily embraced her legs and knees. She clung to James’s belt and to Sophie’s hand. The cold, surging waters were taking Sophie’s breath. She felt the tidal pull at her feet. She hung on. James’s tweed belt was strongly sewn to the jacket. Sometimes such belts were secured by buttons. Buttons would have ripped off. She thanked someone for the strong stitches.