White Eagles Over Serbia (22 page)

He had not long to wait. The dust settled slowly and the dawn-light crept along the sides of the hill opposite, scooping great pools of violet shadow in the sides of the mountains. He heard, thin and sweet in the chill morning air, the klaxon of the Mercedes crying down the gorge, and he could not supress an involuntary cry of joy. “Good old Porson,” he said over and over again, every muscle tense with expectation, as he waited for the car to appear around the bend.

A thousand yards away Porson himself was swearing volubly as he drove the old car around the curves of the road. He was in a bemused and shaky condition, having nearly been run down by the convoy of lorries a little further down the valley. In addition to this he had spent time mending a puncture, and had twice been stopped by troops at a road-block, and forced to show his papers. If Methuen was still alive, and if he had managed to reach the point of rendezvous, perhaps he (Porson) was arriving too late? Perhaps there were troops around the white milestone? If so what should he do? His teeth were chattering with cold and excitement as he gradually throttled down the car and slackened speed, while Blair kept a check on their escort through the back. This time they had kept the hood of the car raised and the side-curtains drawn.

They clattered round the last bend and into the cover of the trees when all of a sudden Porson gave a great yelp of surprise for a battered-looking scarecrow with bare feet suddenly plunged into the road by the white milestone, waving its arms. It limped grotesquely and seemed about to collapse under the wheels of the car. “He's done it,” said Blair. But for a moment Porson could not believe it was Methuen, so wild and ragged did the figure seem. He pressed the brake and the car slowed down. “Good show!” shouted Methuen in a thin voice and clutching the handle of the door swung himself by a mighty effort into the back of the car, where Blair immediately threw a rug over him.

“My God,” said Porson in a shaky voice as he accelerated once more, “Methuen, are you all right?” but Methuen was pressing his cheek to the dusty floor carpet of the car and thinking that he had never felt so glad to hear English voices in all his life. So great was his relief that he was completely bereft of speech. He tried once or twice to say something but only a dull croak came out of his mouth. Perhaps it was sheer fatigue or the dust he had swallowed. But he became conscious now that he was hot, indeed that he had a high temperature.

He heard Porson say: “Just in time”, and then he heard the rumble of another convoy of lorries. The two young men were too busy to pay much attention to him for a moment or two. The car was fairly speeding along the road when Porson turned a pale face over his shoulder and said: “Blair, for heaven's sake, see if he is dead?”

Once more Methuen tried to speak but could only utter a dull croak. Blair's white face peered down at him and a hand touched his cheek. “No. He's not dead. He's smiling,” said Blair academically, and Porson made an impatient movement. “For goodness' sake, Blair,” he said, “get into the back and see if he's wounded.”

With an heroic effort, Methuen rolled over on to his back and croaked. “Not dead, Porson, not dead,” and Blair, like a man coming out of a trance, suddenly went into action. He gave Methuen a long shaky drink out of a thermos, and climbing over him on to the back seat, examined him roughly for wounds. “I'm all right,” said Methuen feebly, glad that he was recovering his voice at last. “My leg is shot up a bit.”

Porson let out an explosive breath of relief. “Thank God!” he said, and there were tears in his eyes. “We'd really given you up as lost. The place is swarming with troops and some sort of battle seems to be going on.”

Methuen drank once more, deeply, and spilled some water over the crown of his head. It was wonderfully refreshing. “I know,” he said, and even
in extremis
he could not prevent a touch of innocent pride creeping into his voice, “I know. It was going on all round me.”

Blair's methodical examination had by now reached his injured leg and Methuen began to protest at these amateur ministrations with a vigour which showed that he was far from seriously wounded. “You just leave it alone until we get in,” he said. Blair peered at him gravely. “But it's bleeding,” he said. “Colonel, it's bleeding. It may need a tourniquet.”

He was vainly trying to recall a diagram he had once seen in the
Scouts' First Aid Manual
of how to apply a tourniquet. You took a pencil and a piece of string.… He could not remember exactly. Methuen brushed him aside and repeated: “You leave it alone until we get to the Embassy doctor. I've walked a good thirty miles on it and it'll last out awhile.”

“But what,” said Porson, jumping up and down in the driving-seat in an ecstasy of curiosity, “what has been happening up there in the mountains? Did you find the White Eagles?”

“They found me,” said Methuen, “and darned nearly kept me. I've been trotting up the mountains with them, trying to get the Mihaelovic treasure to the coast, believe it or not. But the troops surrounded us.”

“Crumbs,” said Porson solemnly, “did you really?”

Blair was feeding him slowly and carefully with bread and butter from a paper bag, and after a long gulp of wine Methuen felt sufficiently recovered to prop himself on one elbow. “The puzzle all fitted together very nicely,” he said, “once I reached the White Eagles, though they took some finding. They'd unearthed the treasure, you see. We were fools not to think of that.”

Porson blew a great blast on his klaxon in order to express his surprise as he said: “Of course. There is a whole file about it which I read a few months ago. What idiots we are. But Methuen, will they get it out?” Methuen smiled sadly—for in his mind's eye he saw once more those toppling kicking figures falling into the gulf of the Black Lake. “Laddie,” he said soberly, “there's not a hope in hell. We walked into the neatest ambush you've ever seen. Regular troops. Caught us in a defile.”

But it was useless to attempt a connected conversation for he was still far more tired than he himself knew. His voice tailed away into a sleepy mumble. “I'm going to have a nap now,” he said, and propping his head on his arm he closed his eyes and felt the great car racing on towards Belgrade. “And I've lost my fishing-rod,” he added as an afterthought.

“His fishing-rod,” said Blair in accents of pious horror, raising his eyes to the sunny sky.

“His fishing-rod,” repeated Porson, wagging his head.

Methuen began to snore.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sorting Things Out

T
he staff of the Embassy attended morning prayers in the gaunt billiard-room and ballroom combined. This was a custom upon which the Ambassador insisted under pain of his displeasure. The service was a modest one and consisted only of a hymn and a short lesson which was usually read by the Head of Chancery. After this ceremony the staff trooped upstairs and the servants went about their duties in the residence.

It was seldom that anything ever happened to disturb the tranquil monotony of this short service, and on the morning in question things were going normally enough when the oak doors at the end parted to reveal the distraught features of the Sixth Secretary. He seemed full of some important intelligence, and though the Ambassador frowned savagely at him, he continued to stand at the door and beckon away sundry members of the staff with a long finger. Sir John was particularly annoyed by this behaviour as he was reading the lesson himself this morning, and felt in particularly good voice. The spectacle of his congregation being lured away one by one was extremely annoying.

First Duncan the Embassy doctor tiptoed out, and then Carter. What the deuce did young Porson think he was up to! With one eye on his text the Ambassador fixed the interrupter with a sombre and disapproving glance which should under normal circumstances have been enough to drive him precipitately out of the room. He was meditating a sharp but kindly reproof to be administered to Porson later in the day when all of a sudden he remembered Methuen. Doubtless all this infuriating interruption concerned Methuen—for was it not? Yes it was! Porson had just returned from.…

Sir John beckoned to his Head of Chancery and surrendered the makeshift lectern to him, telling him in a hoarse whisper to continue reading the lesson. Then he too slipped out of the room and turned down the corridor in the direction of the garage. He reached the kitchen entrance in time to see the door into the garage open. Carter and the doctor backed towards him, holding what he took to be Methuen's corpse, while Porson followed, holding its legs. “How is he?” said the Ambassador, fearing for a moment that Methuen had met with the same fate as Anson. He was relieved to hear the corpse groan in realistic fashion as Porson banged his leg on a door.

“Thank goodness!” exclaimed the Ambassador with genuine fervour. And bearing a share of the burden he helped the trio to carry Methuen up a flight of stairs to the neat white infirmary where they laid him on the table and stood back to give the old Scots doctor room. “I'm feeling perfectly well”, said Methuen, “except for this leg of mine.”

“I'll just get my carving-knife,” said Duncan sombrely, “and be right with you.”

“My dear chap,” said the Ambassador, catching his hand and wringing it. “I can't tell you how glad we are.”

“I'm afraid I'm fearfully dirty, sir,” said Methuen who had suddenly become extremely conscious of his sweat-stained clothes and his matted hair. He fingered the stubble on his chin apologetically and added: “One gets simply filthy sleeping out.”

Duncan was back now with a huge pair of surgical scissors and they carefully peeled his clothes from him while he lay at ease on the white operating table feeling rather pleased with himself. “If I could have half an hour to wash up, sir,” he said, “I'd like to report to you, and perhaps Porson would be good enough to draft something for you to see.”

“A hot bath with plenty of soap,” said Duncan who was examining his leg with an air of disappointment. “You have four wee holes in your legs, Colonel. Some bits of lead in the calf. Some, I think, should be left to lie but there's a wee one here I'll fish out when we've cleaned you up.”

They left him now, and while Duncan swabbed his aching leg with alcohol he lay listening with voluptuous pleasure to the noise of the hot bath running next door. He felt his head. “I've got a temperature,” he said and Duncan nodded wisely. “Exposure and fatigue. Twenty-four hours in bed. As for your leg … I'm going to excavate a wee bit now so hold tight.”

Methuen turned over on his stomach and held tight, gripping the edges of the table while the Scotsman probed the wounds, grunting as he did so. This proved to be more painful than anything Methuen had so far undergone and he sank his teeth into the padded pillow in order not to groan.

“There,” said Duncan at last, and he heard the tinkle of lead in a basin. “That's two I've fished out. The others can lie awhile. They'll not trouble you. And by the way, Colonel, it's not lead you'll be glad to know, but bits of rock. Were you peppered by a blunderbuss full of odds and ends?” He chuckled comfortably.

“Rock?” said Methuen.

“Aye. Fragments of Bosnia.”

He lay in the white bath and soaked himself for nearly an hour while Duncan sat beside him on the bathroom stool, smoking and asking questions. Methuen felt his tiredness oozing from his very bones as he lay there. It seemed almost too good to be true. Then Porson appeared with all the clothing shed so recently by Mr. Judson and a fat file of telegrams from Dombey. “Everything has gone wonderfully,” he said. “Mr. Judson has been in bed with 'flu for a day or two, and now he has sprained his ankle. How soon will he be walking again, Doc?”

“It's a terrible post this for practice,” said Duncan with genuine disappointment. “He should be up day after tomorrow. May need crutches for a day or two if the muscles are seized up. But it's not serious, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” said Methuen indignantly.

“Have pity on me,” said Duncan. “Apart from an occasional cough or cold I have nothing to do. I was full of hope when Porson brought you in. I thought I'd have some real work to do.”

“Selfish fellow,” said Porson.

“I'm beginning to feel apologetic,” said Methuen.

“Oh, it's not your fault,” said Duncan kindly. “You did your best for us. Lucky you didn't come back on a slab like poor Anson.”

“By the way,” said Porson, “you are going to be kept here to-day. In the state bedroom. The Ambassador's orders. He wants to have a long talk with you; and you'll presumably want to do some dictating.”

“Yes,” said Methuen. “Help me up, will you?”

He was bedded down in some luxury in the bedroom usually reserved for important visitors after Duncan had given him an amateurish shave with the Ambassador's own razor. Sir John himself came flitting in and out every few moments, obviously most anxious to hear his story and to compose his telegrams to the Foreign Office. “I don't want to rush you if you feel tired. Do have a sleep. We can talk this evening. I'll keep a clerk on duty to send anything we need.”

“I'd like just half an hour to lie quite quiet and get it all clear in my mind,” said Methuen, “and then I can dictate something. Perhaps Porson would take it.”

He lay for a while with closed eyes, luxuriating in the feather mattress of the bed, and trying to compose the events of the last few days into a coherent picture; but when Porson tiptoed into the room again he found Mr. Judson sleeping a profound and happy sleep.

They did not disturb him and it was long past teatime when Methuen awoke and rang for the butler. The door opened to admit Sir John himself, wheeling a trolley crammed with tea-things. “Ah!” he said. “So you are awake at last.”