A.J., mingling during the day with the crowds in the town and sleeping at
nights on the bare boards of an inn-floor, could sense the keying of the
atmosphere to higher and more dangerous levels. He did not feel any
particular apprehension, still less any indignation; he had seen too many
horrors for either. Every barbarism perpetrated by the Reds could be balanced
by some other perpetrated by the Whites; the scales of bloodshed and cruelty
balanced with almost exquisite exactness. There was also a point of
experience beyond which even the imagination had no power to terrify, and
A.J. had reached such a point. What he felt was rather, in its way, a sort of
selfishness; out of all the chaos and wretchedness that surrounded him he
felt inclined to seize hold of anything that mattered to him locally and
personally in any way. And so little, when he came to think of it,
did
matter to him. Up to now he had been a blind automaton, letting Fate push him
whither it chose and calmly accepting any task that was nearest. He had not
cared; at Khalinsk he had been kind and wise and hard-working, but he had not
cared. Yet now, for the first time, he felt a curious uprise of personality,
a sort of you-be-damnedness entering his soul as he paced the streets and
observed, still quite coldly, the wreckage of a world that cared as little
for him as he for it.
Only very gradually did he perceive that he wanted the woman to escape. To
any normally-minded person it would have seemed an absurd enough want, for
the prison was strongly and carefully guarded. But A.J., just then, was not
normally-minded. The more he tried to reconcile himself to the fact that his
former prisoner would eventually he shot, like hundreds of other pleasant and
possibly innocent persons, the more he felt committed to some kind of
personal and intrepid intervention. But how, and when? He guessed that the
revolutionary ardour of the soldiers would soon boil over and lead to the
overthrow of Polahkin and the massacre of the White prisoners; he had seen
that sort of thing happen too often not to recognise the familiar preliminary
portents. Whatever was to be done must be done quickly—yet what could
be done? He did not know in which part of the prison she was kept, nor even
whether she were alone or with others. No doubt, wherever she was, she was
being well guarded as one of the star-turns of some future entertainment.
At the prison entrance there was always a Red soldier on guard, and it was
through these men alone that A.J. fancied he could accomplish anything. He
silent many an hour furtively watching them and speculating which of them
might be most likely to be useful for his purpose. At last he singled out a
rough, fierce-looking fellow whom, about midnight, when the street was fairly
quiet, he saw accept a small package from a passing stranger and transfer it
guiltily to his own pocket. A.J. took the chance that thus offered
itself.
“Good-evening, comrade,” he began, walking up to the man a
moment later and looking him sternly between the eyes. “Do you usually
do that sort of thing?”
It was a blind shot, but a lucky one. The guard, for all his fierce
appearance, was a coward as soon as he thought himself discovered. He
obviously took A.J. for an official spy who had been set deliberately to
watch him, and A.J. did not disabuse him of the notion. He soon drove the
fellow to an abject confession that he had been systematically smuggling
tobacco into the prison for the benefit of the White officers. “Only
tobacco, your honour,” he insisted, and produced from his pocket the
little packet he had just received. “You know, your honour, how hard it
is for a poor soldier to make a living in these days, and the White officers
who are going to be shot very soon, promised me twenty roubles for this
little packet. After all, your honour, I don’t have the chances that
some of our men get—I had to be here on duty all that night when they
were looting the shops.”
“That was unfortunate,” said A.J. dryly. “All the same,
you must be aware of the penalties for smuggling things into the
prison?”
“Yes, your honour, but surely you wouldn’t wish to get a poor
man into serious trouble—”
And so on. After a quarter of an hour or so A.J. felt he had succeeded
pretty well. He had learned all about the positions and arrangements of the
prisoners, their daily habits, and the way in which they were guarded; and,
most important of all, he had given the guard a note to be delivered secretly
to the Countess. He wrote it in French; it merely said that he was on the
spot and ready to help her to escape, and that she must be prepared to do her
share in any way and at any time he should command. He told the guard it was
merely a family message. “I am a Red,” he added, “but I do
not see what harm there can be in treating a woman prisoner with ordinary
courtesy. No more harm, anyway, than in smuggling tobacco for the men.”
The guard agreed eagerly. “You are quite right, your honour—and I
have said the same, even to my comrades. Why not be more civil and polite to
people before you shoot them? It is not the shooting that makes so much bad
feeling but treating people like dogs.”
The next time the guard was on duty A.J. received back his note together
with an answer. It was a verbal one—merely a conventional ‘Thank
you,’ which, though not very enlightening, seemed, in the
circumstances, sufficient. He felt, anyhow, that something was being
accomplished. He knew that she was in a ground-floor cell overlooking a yard
which was patrolled by sentries day and night. Any romantic escapade with
ropes and ladders was thus out of the question. The tobacco-smuggling guard,
whose name was Balkin, had stressed how carefully she was watched, and after
much thought and the formation of many tentative plans, A.J. reached the
conclusion that escape could only take place, if at all, during some general
commotion that would temporarily upset the prison routine. This, as clays
passed, seemed more likely to happen, for the clamour of the extremists
increased and there were strong rumours that at any moment Polahkin’s
writ might cease to run. Then no doubt, there would be a brief civil war,
culminating in a mob- attack on the prison and the massacre of its
occupants.
A.J. argued thus: the attack on the prison would probably take place at
night, if only because at such a time men’s spirits were always most
inflamed with speechmaking and drink. The prison-guards might or might not
attempt any resistance, but in either case it was unlikely that the regular
routine of the sentry-patrol would remain unaffected. Most likely there would
be either fighting or hilarious fraternisation. In the darkness a good many
of the invaders would not know where they were, or where to look for the
prisoners; there would be confusion of all kinds. Most fortunately, as it
happened, the Countess’s cell was among the last that could be reached,
being the end one in a long corridor. And let into the corridor wall close by
was an ordinary unbarred window overlooking the yard. If only the prisoner
were once outside her cell, it would not be too difficult to climb out
through that window. A.J. did not wish to rely too much on Balkin’s
assistance, for he did not seem a man of either trustworthiness or
intelligence; the only promise to be exacted was that, as soon as there might
be any hint of trouble, he should slip a small revolver through the bars of
the cell. “You sec, Balkin, you are a kindhearted fellow, and I
don’t mind telling you the truth—the poor creature wishes to kill
herself rather than fall into the hands of the soldiers. Personally, I
sympathise with her in that, and you also, I am sure, will feel the same. Is
it not enough that she should die, without being torn to pieces to amuse a
crowd? Let her have a decent death—the sort that a soldier, if he could
choose, would ask for.” Balkin, greatly stirred, put his hand
sentimentally on A.J.’s shoulder. “You are quite right, your
honour. It is only fair that she should die properly. Why, I will shoot her
myself rather than let her fall into the hands of those ruffians!”
“No, no—all you need do is to give her the revolver. She is no
coward, and would rather do the job in her own way. It is more
dignified—more seemly. Do you not understand?”
Balkin at length and with great melancholy admitted that he did
understand; and he agreed also to take a further message to the woman. A.J.
wrote it out and handed it over with the revolver.
That was in the morning; from all outward indications the crisis was
likely to develop that night. Polahkin had already been openly insulted in
the streets, and a brutal loutish Jew named Aronstein had been haranguing the
crowd all afternoon. The actual
coup d’état
took place about
seven o’clock. Polahkin was arrested and Aronstein duly
‘elected’ in his place. One by one all the official buildings in
the town went over to the extremist party, and at last came the inevitable
attack on the prison. Aronstein had promised the attackers that not a single
counter-revolutionary life should be spared, and in such a mood of
anticipated blood-lust the mob surged round the building. The guard at the
entrance-gate offered no resistance, and within a few moments the invaders
were pouring into the inner courtyard.
A.J., in a narrow lane behind the prison, waited with keen anxiety. At
first it seemed that the whole affair was being conducted far too
methodically, but soon the traditional chaos of all insurgency began to be
evident. He could hear the shouts of the crowd; then he saw the sentries
suddenly run from their posts in the prison-yard, from which the lane was
separated only by tall iron railings. That was his signal for action. He
walked along the railings quickly till he reached a certain spot; then he
halted and listened. There was a loud commotion proceeding inside the
prison—shoutings and screamings and revolver-shots; it was difficult to
judge exactly the right moment. However, the lane looked quite deserted, and
in the darkness it would be hard to see him in any case. He got hold of two
of the iron railings and lifted them out of their sockets. He knew from
previous observation that those particular railings were loose, for he had
seen the sentries lift them out to admit women into the yard.
He waited for several minutes, refusing rather than unable to draw
conclusions from what he could hear; he knew that noise could mean anything
and everything; he knew also that Balkin was stupid and perhaps unreliable,
that he might do the totally wrong thing, or else just nothing at all, either
from error, slackness, or malice. He knew that the chance he had planned for
was fantastically slender, that at a dozen points there were even odds of
disaster. And he knew, too, that even if the miracle did happen, there were
still further miracles to be accomplished in leaving the town and reaching
comparative safety.
Then suddenly he saw a dim and shadowy figure rushing across the yard. He
gave a loud cough; the figure stopped for a fraction of a second, changed its
direction slightly, and came rushing towards him. He said softly:
“Here—here—through here. Wait—T must put them back
afterwards. Take this coat—I have another underneath. Quickly—but
keep calm. Are you hurt at all?”
“No.”
“You managed it all right?”
“Yes—I had to fire into the lock three times—it’s
surprising how little damage a bullet can do.” She laughed quietly.
“Don’t laugh. Don’t talk either, now. Put your collar
up. If we meet anybody, we must be drunk. There are clothes hidden in a field
for you.”
The greatcoat was useful in making her look, at any considerable distance,
like an ordinary Red soldier; at any nearer encounter the semblance of
drunkenness would give them their best chance. A Red soldier, half tipsy,
taking a half-tipsy woman towards the outskirts of the town was not an
unusual sight, and for the woman to be wearing a soldier’s coat was
common enough in days when currency depreciation was making payment in kind
increasingly popular.
They passed several people on their way and the stratagem seemed to
succeed. One of the passers-by, a soldier, called out to ask what was
happening in the town; A.J. replied, with fuddled intonation, that he rather
thought the prison was being attacked. “Ah,” answered the other,
laughing, “but I see you’ve evidently got something more
important to do than join in, eh?” A.J. laughed, and the woman laughed
too, and they passed on.
They reached the end of the town and climbed over the roadside into the
fields. Hidden in a ditch were the clothes he had carefully obtained and
carefully placed in position an hour before; it was a relief to find them,
for there had always been the possibility of their being found and stolen in
the interval. The clothes consisted of a more or less complete military
outfit, including top-boots and a shabby peaked cap such as soldier or
civilian might equally be wearing.
“Well?” she whispered, as he showed them to her. “So I
am to be your obedient prisoner once again?”
He did not answer, except to urge her to dress quickly. Her own clothes,
as she discarded them, he rolled into a bundle—it would not be safe to
leave them behind. She was very calm; that was a good thing, yet he wondered
if she realised that difficulties were beginning rather than ending, and that
in a short while hundreds of blood-drunken searchers would be scouring the
district for the escaped White countess. One thing he was sure of—the
peasant disguise would never work a second time near Saratursk. Everyone knew
that she had escaped as a peasant before; everyone would be prepared for the
same disguise again. There was only the slender chance that as two soldiers
they might escape through the cordon into safer country.
“Please hurry,” he said again. “And we had better not
talk much.”
“I’m ready now, except for the boots.”
“Let me do them.”
He knelt on one knee and laced them quickly.