Lawrence Durrell - White Eagles Over Serbia

As dusk was falling small knots of armed men began to come into camp from several different quarters of the compass. Each new arrival was signalled by sharp cries and whistles, and some two or three were greeted by Black Peter as old friends.

Methuen had braced himself for the arrival of the escort, for surely among this band was someone capable of detecting the falseness of his cover story; someone from headquarters who would give him away.… His anxiety mounted as Black Peter advanced to meet some of these new arrivals, to greet them with affectionate tenderness, kissing their faces and hugging them with bearish enthusiasm.

Methuen walked slowly across the grassy depression and climbed the hillock on the other side from where he could just see the upper part of the Janko Stone. A ring of sentries lay in the grass facing inwards towards the depression in which the camp was situated. Nobody was allowed beyond a certain radius, lets he showed himself in the skyline, and in consequence the whole wild panorama of peaks and mountains was out of sight. Methuen would have liked to climb up as far as the obelisk but he was prevented. Branko walked behind him all the way.

Escape was out of the question. And if he were discovered to be an agent sudden death might follow immediately. Methuen braced himself against an ordeal by interrogation which he felt must soon come. In order to compose his mind he examined an old working in detail, admiring the rich and varied seams of rock which the spades of forgotten men had uncovered; snowy quartz, fragments of rich iron ore glittered over by the scales of mica, pale green serpentine, and dappled jasper. He stopped to pick up a beautiful piece of chalcedony, a network of glittering crystals, which he handed to his jailor, saying: “Look at the riches of this place.” Branko grunted doubtfully as he turned the specimen over in his fingers. “And look there is gold,” added Methuen, picking up a piece of fractured iron pyrites with its enticing yellowish gleam. “Gold?” said Branko with interest. “Yes. Here, take it.”

These pleasantries were interrupted by a guard who sought them out and said curtly: “Black Peter wants to see you at once in the cave.” Methuen drew a deep breath and braced himself. “Now it is coming,” he thought as he walked slowly back into the depression which was now swimming with golden warriors and richly caparisoned mules, turned to a dazzle by the last fainting rays of the sunlight.

The cave had been stripped of everything now, and a huge bonfire burned in one corner on which the old man was putting various oddments of equipment and some papers from a wallet. Black Peter sat at the table with a preoccupied air and motioned Methuen to the chair which faced him.

“Well,” said Methuen.

“I was hoping some of these people might be able to confirm your story.”

“So was I.”

“They can’t. They’ve been in touch with headquarters, but not for a day or two; and their field of operations has been around Sarajevo.”

“O damnl” said Methuen with a wild joy in his heart which he disguised by holding up his tethered wrists for inspection. “Must I really go about like this? After all the camp is surrounded by sentries. One can’t even get up to the Janko Stone to look at the view — much less escape, just supposing I wanted to do so.” Black Peter nodded vigorously, and then shook his head once more. “I refuse to take chances,” he said with slow obstinate determination.

The room had slowly been filling up with guerillas and it was obvious that he had not more time to spare for Methuen. “Go and get ready,” he said. “We march in a little while.”

Methuen walked into the starry darkness with a light step. He was overwhelmed with relief. His shaggy janitor now led him to the cave which contained the treasure, and having first untied his hands, slipped a coat of coins over his head. The weight was really staggering — it could hardly have been less than that of a medieval suit of armour. To this was added a double bandolier of coins which rested on his hips. “My God,” said Methuen, “one can’t carry ammunition as well as this.” Branko gave a chuckle. “You won’t be expected to use any. As for us we are strong.”

“We shall see,” said Methuen. The latest arrivals were being loaded with their bandoliers and he noticed that ammunition had been cut to the minimum. It did not argue well for any action they might have to fight on their way to the coast; and food? He had noticed a flock of sheep among the mules and presumed that they would drive a few with them and kill them whenever they camped. “This is going to be some journey,” he said soberly and Branko grunted as he replied: “Come along man. Our ancestors did as much and more.” Methuen looked suitably shame-faced as he replied: “Yes. It is well said.”

Outside the cave in the starlit night the mule-teams had formed up and the camp was bustling with life. Having loaded Methuen up Branko took the opportunity of attaching a long piece of rope to his left arm. This would enable the jailor to walk behind his charge in the night and yet keep a secure hold upon him by means of the rope. They were not going to have him slipping away in the darkness.

Now the melodious voice of Black Peter came at them out of the darkness and a great silence fell. “Men!” said the invisible orator. “Everything is prepared and we are about to set out. I must remind you that none shall speak, and none shall smoke until I tell you. To-night and tomorrow night will be dangerous. Say prayers for your loved ones and for the King in whose name we will perform this exploit or perish.”

Branko now led him across the dark grass to join the little group which stood about Black Peter like an unofficial bodyguard. “We will march with them in front,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and they set their faces to the west, climbing the slopes under the Janko Stone slowly and laboriously, in their coats of mail.

There was a young moon half-hidden by clouds and looking back from the great obelisk Methuen saw the black serpent of the mule-train coiling behind them on that windless mountain. In the darkness around they could see the great clusters of peaks and canyons which surrounded the Janko Stone. The grass was damp from the heavy mountain dew. Black Peter headed the procession with a cluster of armed men round him; then came Methuen and his jailor, closely followed by the leader of the first mule-team.

The path led steadily down towards a watershed and the going was not as even as Methuen had hoped as he stumbled along with Branko tugging at the rope. They walked in complete silence except for an occasional hoarse word of command or a whispered confabulation about their direction among the little party which led the way. For the greater part of the descent they were in the open and it was fortunate that the moon was hidden by clouds, for once or twice they heard the noise of an aircraft overhead — and perhaps the glitter of moonlight on coin might have been visible. Once they had descended into the shadowy watershed visibility became limited and in the inky darkness there were one or two minor accidents — a broken girth, and a man who fell down a steep bank and knocked himself almost insensible with his rifle-butt. But in general their progress was steady and the disciplined behaviour of the men excellent. Methuen kept up as well as he could, glad to be on the move once more, but with his brain swimming with half-formulated plans and hopes which he did not know how to achieve.

They marched through a dark wood and over some rolling dunes of grass reminiscent of the mountain range they had just left. To their left in the darkness they could hear the ripple of water rushing in a stony bed. Once the whole column halted for a while while the scouts went forward to investigate something suspicious. After much whispering they continued bearing sharply to the left and crossing a swift stream at a shallow ford. Methuen was rapidly becoming exhausted both by the weight he carried and by the acute discomfort caused by his pinioned wrists. He repeatedly asked Branko in a whisper if he could talk to Black Peter but each time he was met by a grunt of refusal.