at him, to tear him to pieces with its tusks; but instinct told it it could not keep its footing on the thin round trunk of the tree. Frustration made it rage even more and Cabell, slowly easing his way back, the bark wearing away at the insides of his legs, never taking his eyes off the animal, waited for the boar to hurl itself across the intervening space. Which it all at once did.
He saw it coming at him like a giant blunt-nosed shell; then there was a shot. The boar’s head seemed to blow apart; the hurtling beast slipped sideways in the air. It hit the tree-trunk only two feet in front of Cabell, bounced off and thudded down between the two boulders. It twitched, then lay still.
Cabell, clinging to the still screaming, struggling Olga, saw Eden come out of the trees, one hand holding her shoulder, the other the double-barrelled shotgun. With her was Frederick and, some paces behind, easing his way cautiously out from behind a tree, was Nikolai.
Cabell brought Olga forward from his shoulder, sat her facing him on the log and gently slapped her face. She gasped, drew in her breath; then her screaming quietened to a soft whimpering. Cabell patted her arm, then nodded down at the dead boar beneath them.
‘He won’t worry us any more, Olga. Relax, honey – it’s all over.’
Olga whimpered, gulped, still trembled. Then Nikolai, overcoming his fear, certain now that the boar was dead, came in beneath the tree-trunk and Cabell lowered Olga down to him. Then, very conscious of his chafed thighs, Cabell lifted himself up and walked off the log and slid down the boulder to stand beside Eden and Frederick as they came up to him.
‘Thanks, Eden. We’re even.’ He looked at the dead boar. ‘He even looks a bit like General Bronevich.’
She was massaging her shoulder; trembling a little, too. She would never make such a lucky shot again; she hated to think what would have happened if she had missed. Or if her shot had been wide of the boar but not of Cabell and Olga. ‘I’ve never a fired a gun like this before, only a light one.’
She gave the gun to Frederick, went to Olga and comforted her, leading her away through the trees and back to the camp. Cabell looked at Frederick. ‘That was quick thinking, Freddie, getting Miss Eden here with the gun.’
The boy wanted to be a hero but he was too honest. ‘She was already coming this way with the gun. As soon as she heard Olga scream—’
Cabell put his arm round the boy’s shoulders; only then did he realize how much Frederick had suffered at seeing his sister in danger. The wiry young body was trembling as much as Olga’s had been; all the juvenile arrogance was gone. He wanted the comfort of an adult.
‘Freddie … About last night. I’m sorry. Sometimes my tongue gets away from me. It won’t happen again, if I can help it.’
‘Will you be coming with us then?’
Cabell sighed. ‘I’m afraid I may have to.’
They walked back to the camp, he with his arm still round the boy’s shoulders, while Nikolai, a coward but not insensitive, quietly followed them.
[2]
Pemenov rubbed the insides of his short thighs, feeling the chafing there. It was months since he had ridden a horse for such a distance; he had always travelled with General Bronevich in the car. But he would have to suffer the soreness till he became accustomed to the saddle again: there was a lot of riding ahead of him.
He had picked up the trail of the car he was chasing on the road that skirted south of Verkburg. He had pulled his horse into a farmhouse and, producing the General’s pistol and instantly wiping the derisive laughter off the farmer’s face, had demanded food, a water-bag and the farmer’s own straw hat. The farmer, aware now that this strange little man was quite capable of killing him and his family, had hurriedly obliged. Then, under questioning from Pemenov, he said yes, he had seen a motor car heading down this road. Yes, this was the only road till it joined the main road ten miles farther on. No, he did not know much about the main road except that his brother, who worked in Verkburg, said that it was the only road that went south and these days not many people travelled it.
So Pemenov headed south and now in the cooling evening he was making camp amongst some trees just beyond where the secondary road joined the main route. When he had eaten he wrapped himself in the stinking blanket that had held the soldier’s saddle roll and settled down to sleep between the two fires he had lit. The horse was tethered to a nearby tree on a lead-rope long enough to give it room to move if it was attacked by a bear or wolves.
Pemenov put the loaded rifle beside him, closed his eyes and went off to sleep at once. He would need an early start tomorrow and it would be a long ride. He knew that motor cars, though they travelled faster, broke down more than horses. He fell asleep absolutely certain that he would catch up eventually with the American.
[3]
‘We’ll have to get more food. Some fruit and jam and honey, things like that. And some tea or coffee. Mr Cabell, are you listening to me? You haven’t spoken since breakfast.’
They had had their meagre breakfast, none of them having any real appetite after the encounter with the boar; then they had re-packed the trailer and got on the road again. As they had driven out on to the road Cabell had seen the crows already coming in above the trees to the spot where the dead boar lay.
They had driven through the village where Nikolai had bought the mutton and bread. The villagers, alerted by the shouts of their children and the barking of their dogs, had come out of their wooden houses to stand and stare at the car as it rolled grandly down the single street. They saw only the occasional truck and never a car here; the outside world did not intrude, even the civil war was a war between strangers. The children and some of the women waved and one or two of the older men saluted: they had no idea who was in the car or whom it belonged to, but it was a symbol. Hands had been touching forelocks for centuries: it was a habit, good for one’s health.
‘I’m thinking about how far we have to go,’ said Cabell. ‘I wish to hell there was some quicker, safer way. An airplane, maybe.’
‘That’s wishing for the moon, Mr Cabell. I don’t think we should pray for miracles. I didn’t think lapsed Catholics ever did any praying.’
‘It’s a reflex action. You got any suggestions about what we should do?’
‘Just keeping heading south and hoping for the best.’
‘That’s constructive. How about this war that’s going on? It’s all over the place. We’ve got no way of knowing whether, we’re going to run into a battle. I don’t want to be caught in the goddam middle.’
‘Watch it!’
‘You have a knack for making anyone swear, Miss Penfold.’
‘Were you in the Great War, Mr Cabell?’ Frederick had recovered from his fright at seeing the danger his sister had been in. He was also recovered from his hurt at what Cabell had said to him last night. But he was still the little aristocrat, sitting upright in the back of the car while Cabell, the chauffeur, took him out for his morning spin. Despite what the American had said last night, he was not going to descend from prince to commoner overnight. His mother had coached him too well in his rank. ‘The war against the Germans?’
‘No. I was searching for oil.’
‘That wasn’t dangerous, was it? Not like fighting in a battle.’
‘No, it was a joy-ride. Just like the last couple of days.’
‘My father fought at Tannenburg, where he was wounded, and at Stanislau.’
Prince Gorshkov seemed to have had bad luck with his battles: Cabell wondered what other defeats he was presently headed for.
‘Bully for him.’
The reply left Frederick nonplussed: his ear was still too young for an adult’s sarcasm. But Eden looked at the American and wondered how he felt about his not having been in the Great War. He sounded as if he had some guilt about it. She