The Man who Missed the War (37 page)

From what he could see she had been shot through the ribs and had fainted from loss of blood. He put his hand on her heart and found that it was still beating; but he was filled with terror that her life was ebbing from her and that, unless he could do something quickly, she would die as he lay there beside her.

Propping the torch against a nearby rock so that it shone upon her, he pulled and tore at her clothes until he had bared her side and could see the wound. There were two holes separated by about five inches and just below her right lung: a neat round one to the front and an ugly jagged tear at the back where the bullet, having smashed a lower rib, had come out.

First, Philip made a pad of his handkerchief, which he placed on top of the wound; next, he struggled out of his coat and shirt, tore the shirt into strips and tied them together, then passed the long bandage he had made backwards and forwards round Gloria’s body as tightly as he could. It was a rough job, but it was the best he could do for the moment.

He was feeling very groggy now and sat for a moment swaying from side to side. He wanted to be sick, but repressed the feeling with an effort and set about tending his own wound. While he had been bandaging Gloria he had kept his leg in one position, and it had gone stiff; as he moved it now it gave him pain for the first time. He felt it gingerly, but he was already certain that the Russian’s bullet had smashed his bone below the knee. The saliva ran hot in his mouth as he gritted his teeth and peeled the torn trouser-leg away from the wound. It was a nasty mess and he had nothing with which to clean it. All he could do was to tear the lining out of his jacket and bandage it up with that. He just managed to finish the job before he fainted.

When he came round, as soon as he could think clearly again, he heard a sound that chilled his blood and made his heart hammer in his throat. A sound of heavy breathing and scraping boots was coming from somewhere above on the big rock beside which he lay. It could mean only one thing: that the murderous Russian was still alive and climbing down towards them.

The torch still burnt, propped between the rocks where Philip had placed it, and it exposed both Gloria and himself in its glare. He wondered why Solgorukin had not used its light to finish them off from the top of the rock. Perhaps, having just come out of a faint himself, he took their stillness for death and was coming down the rock to verify his impression. On the other hand, he might open fire at any moment.

With that thought in mind Philip was terribly tempted to make a grab at the torch and switch it out, so as to secure at least the ephemeral protection of darkness. But there was another movement which it was even more imperative that he should make. He must snatch up the pistol that lay just beyond his reach where Gloria had dropped it as she fell. He dared not risk making the two movements together, in case he bungled both; and he knew that he would have only time to make one successfully before the Prince could act on the knowledge that there was still life in at least one of his victims; so the torch must be left.

Philip forced himself to remain very still. The least movement might have betrayed him. He did not even dare to open his eyes, but watched the great mass of shadow about the rock under half-closed eyelids. Solgorukin seemed to take hours in his downward climb, although the gradient of the rock was easy and its surface broken. He gasped, swore and groaned as he came, so he was evidently in great pain, even if not seriously wounded. When he reached the bottom of the rock he rested there for some time, breathing stertorously. Then, having regained his strength, he came on again.

At last the shadows parted and the Russian appeared on the fringe of the area lit by the torch. Philip could guess now why he had not shot at them again. It was either because he had no ammunition left or because he had dropped his rifle and lost it in the darkness through its sliding away down the slope of the
rock. In any case, he was no longer carrying it. Instead, he had a large hunting-knife, the naked blade of which gleamed dully between the lips of his bearded mouth. It was clear, too, that one or more of Gloria’s shots had struck him in the leg as he, like Philip, was now compelled to drag himself along, and was carrying the knife in his teeth because he needed both his hands.

Philip let him get within ten feet then suddenly sat up, grabbed the pistol, levelled it and fired. Solgorukin’s dark eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. The knife fell from his mouth and tinkled on the stony bed of the ravine. A long, low moan issued from his lips, and like a great ship sinking he slowly crumpled to the earth.

The strain and effort had temporarily exhausted Philip. Relaxing, he flopped back against a rock and remained quite still for a while. It was a movement from Gloria that next roused him. She had opened her eyes and was trying to sit up, but she slipped back with a groan.

‘Steady, darling!’ He found that his words came with difficulty. His mouth was dry and parched. Taking her hand he pressed it.

‘Me head!’ she moaned. ‘Oh, me head!’

Picking up the torch, he gently lifted her head and saw something that he had missed before. There was blood on her hair. Evidently, when she fell backwards she had either cut her scalp or fractured her skull; but the bleeding had stopped and her curls were so thick that he felt fairly confident that, however badly her head might be aching at the moment, the injury was not a serious one.

He began to talk to her, telling her that the Russian was dead and that everything would be all right; that they would have to stick out there for the night, but that, somehow, they would get back to the valley in the morning. But she did not respond, and soon he realised that she was only semi-conscious. From time to time she muttered a little, but the only words that he could catch were: ‘ ’Tis so cold, ‘tis so cold!’

Now that it was some time since Philip had exerted himself he was beginning to feel seriously affected by the cold himself. The ravine was near enough to the valley to benefit to some extent from its freak climate, so, although they were far above the normal snowline, there was no snow on the ground, but
every inch of rock was dripping wet with the unceasing thaw which always seemed to be in progress on the plateau and in its vicinity. This damp cold was much more penetrating than a moderate degree of frost would have been, and Philip felt that, unless ague and rheumatic fever were to be added to their sufferings, he must do something to counteract it.

With Gloria seriously wounded and his own leg broken, he knew that any attempt to get as far as the valley would prove absolutely hopeless while darkness lasted, so the only relief from the bitter searching cold lay in securing further coverings. The sledge with the supplies from the raft, among which was a quantity of bed and table linen, was well over fifty yards away—a long and exhausting crawl for a man with a broken leg—and it suddenly occurred to Philip that there was extra clothing within ten feet of him—on the Prince’s body.

Getting out his torch he crawled over to the Russian and, fixing the light to shine upon him, began to undo his fur coat preparatory to pulling it off. To his utter horror Solgorukin’s eyes suddenly opened. He was not yet dead, and his black eyes were hard and unforgiving. In a harsh, rasping voice he started to speak.

‘You can make the weather you want with human blood … if you know how. That is the secret … the secret of… of the Lords of the Mountain. I hope … they get you. I… I should like to see you taken by the … the Dog.’

As he ceased speaking a rattle started in his throat. The horrible sound continued for nearly two minutes. When it stopped he suddenly went limp, and Philip knew that this time his enemy was really dead.

Philip was shivering now, and it was only with difficulty that he could prevent his teeth from chattering; so without the least compunction he set about stripping the still warm body of the Prince. His useless leg hampered him considerably, and such garments as he could not get off fairly easily he cut away with the Russian’s knife.

When he had done he took the whole bundle in his arms and crawled over to Gloria. Some of the Prince’s underclothes he used as extra bandages for her wound and his own. Then he wrapped her in the big fur coat, pulled on the dead man’s furlined
trousers and lay down beside her. She had either fainted again or was asleep, but her body was warm to the touch and her breathing fairly regular. He now felt utterly exhausted, and even the dull throbbing in his leg formed only a part of a nightmare that he seemed to have been experiencing for hours on end. In another few moments he had fallen into a fitful sleep.

As it was now getting towards the end of November the nights were becoming very short, and Philip roused himself as soon as the morning light began to filter into the ravine where they lay. His sleep had done him little good, and he was feeling ghastly, but he knew that somehow he had to make a stupendous effort and get Gloria back to the valley. Her face was now flushed with fever, and she was muttering deliriously. Directly he moved, his leg gave him such a spasm that he almost cried out, but he fought down the pain and crawled along the ravine till he was back in the gorge and had reached the sledge.

Having eaten some chocolate and biscuits, he put more in his pocket, had a long drink of water and filled his flask. Next, he broke the tentpole in half and made a rough splint with it for the lower part of his leg, and, as he knelt, lifted it a little behind him by strapping his ankle to the back of his belt, so that the leg should no longer drag behind him and send a twinge of pain through him every time his foot bumped on the ground. Then he converted two table-cloths into thick knee-pads and taking up a sheet returned with it to Gloria.

After forcing some water from the flask between her parched lips, he folded the sheet lengthwise until it was a long narrow band. Laying the centre of this across her chest, he pushed the ends under her arms and turned her over sideways. Then he lay down back to back with her, drew the ends of the sheet under his own arms and tied them as tightly as he could on his chest. When he knelt up again he had her strapped to his back with her legs dangling behind him on his left-hand side, away from his injured leg. He then began to shuffle forwards on his hands and knees. In this way he got her as far as the sledge. Having unloaded the stores he tied her, now raving with delirium again, to the sledge, and by using another folded sheet as a kind of breast harness for himself, he began to drag the sledge slowly up the gorge.

It took him an hour to reach the entrance to the plateau, and three to cross it. The strain of covering such a distance on all fours while dragging such a weight was tremendous, and all the time his smashed leg was throbbing and burning as if it were on fire. On reaching the edge of the cliff he fainted.

When he came to again he knew from the position of the sun that it well was past midday, so he must have been out for some time; but the enforced rest had had the effect of restoring some of his strength. After he had eaten some of the chocolate and biscuits and had a drink of water he felt up to attempting the descent to the valley, which, although difficult and tricky, would at least be downhill.

He was in hopes that he would not have to drag Gloria all the way to the Palace unaided, as he was almost certain to pass fields in which some of the pigmies were working, and he meant to call upon them to provide stretcher parties.

For another hour he stumbled and wormed his way grimly down the track until he came to the region of the terraced plots; then, after a short rest, he cupped his hands and began to shout.

As there was no result he struggled on for another quarter of mile and repeated the process. This time, after about five minutes, two of the little brown-clad farmers came running up the path, but directly they saw him they stopped dead in their tracks and, in spite of his beckonings and callings, refused to come any nearer.

Grimy, sweating, red-eyed, he wearily crawled towards them, but, to his disgust and fury, they turned and ran away. Another ten minutes’ plodding on his aching knees brought him to the next corner. They were both lurking there behind the angle of a low wall, and one of them had secured a short pitchfork. Suddenly he darted out and made a nervous stab with it at Philip’s face.

Philip dodged the thrust, and his roar of astonished anger sent the two little men scampering to safety a dozen yards away. But, in spite of his surprise and fatigue, he was quick to realise that this new development might prove exceedingly serious. Knowing that he would need every ounce of his strength to carry Gloria, he had left both his pistol and the Prince’s rifle behind in the gorge, so he was completely unarmed.

Of course, the explanation for the attack was simple. He and Gloria were covered with dried blood, and it was obvious that they were both badly wounded; while the fact that she was wearing the Prince’s blood-stained furs was a fair indication that the latter was either dead or lying somewhere up in the mountains too badly wounded even to crawl. The little people had no cause to love their king, and, not unnaturally, they had associated his two guests with all his doings. Now, seeing their opportunity, they were out for revenge.

Even wounded and crawling as he was, Philip felt that he could prove a match for two or three of them; but the thought which almost brought panic to his mind was that the example of the little brute who had first thought of fetching his pitchfork might be followed by others. If a dozen or more of them launched an attack with such weapons, Philip knew that he and Gloria would be stabbed to death in no time. If ever there was a case of making a swift example this was it.

With a plan already forming in his brain, he began to advance again, while the little men warily keeping this distance, backed away before him. Gradually he slowed down his pace, then put his hand to his head as though he were about to faint, swayed for a moment and fell forward on his face.

He was careful to let his head roll sideways, so that he could watch his adversaries through his eyelashes. Within a moment of his staging his pretended collapse the man with the pitchfork ran at him. In one swift movement Philip grabbed the fork and tore it from the pigmy’s hand. Next moment he brought its butt-end cracking down on the little devil’s head.