Greenmantle by John Buchan (snow like ashes series .txt) 📕

no love for the woman⁠ ⁠… They’d follow me through hell if I bade them, but they would rather it was my own show.”

“That’s all right,” I cried. “It is the one thing I’ve been doubtful about. Now observe this map. Erzerum isn’t invested by a long chalk. The Russians are round it in a broad half-moon. That means that all the west, southwest, and northwest is open and undefended by trench lines. There are flanks far away to the north and south in the hills which can be turned, and once we get round a flank there’s nothing between us and our friends⁠ ⁠… I’ve figured out our road,” and I traced it on the map. “If we can make that big circuit to the west and get over that pass unobserved we’re bound to strike a Russian column the next day. It’ll be a rough road, but I fancy we’ve all ridden as bad in our time. But one thing we must have, and that’s horses. Can we and your six ruffians slip off in the darkness on the best beasts in this township? If you can manage that, we’ll do the trick.”

Sandy sat down and pondered. Thank heaven, he was thinking now of action and not of his own conscience.

“It must be done,” he said at last, “but it won’t be easy. Hussin’s a great fellow, but as you know well, Dick, horses right up at the battlefront are not easy to come by. Tomorrow I’ve got some kind of infernal fast to observe, and the next day that woman will be coaching me for my part. We’ll have to give Hussin time⁠ ⁠… I wish to heaven it could be tonight.” He was silent again for a bit, and then he said: “I believe the best time would be the third night, the eve of the Revelation. She’s bound to leave me alone that night.”

“Right-o,” I said. “It won’t be much fun sitting waiting in this cold sepulchre; but we must keep our heads and risk nothing by being in a hurry. Besides, if Peter wins through, the Turk will be a busy man by the day after tomorrow.”

The key turned in the door and Hussin stole in like a shade. It was the signal for Sandy to leave.

“You fellows have given me a new lease of life,” he said. “I’ve got a plan now, and I can set my teeth and stick it out.”

He went up to Peter and gripped his hand. “Good luck. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met, and I’ve seen a few.” Then he turned abruptly and went out, followed by an exhortation from Blenkiron to “Get busy about the quadrupeds.”

Then we set about equipping Peter for his crusade. It was a simple job, for we were not rich in properties. His getup, with his thick fur-collared greatcoat, was not unlike the ordinary Turkish officer seen in a dim light. But Peter had no intention of passing for a Turk, or indeed of giving anybody the chance of seeing him, and he was more concerned to fit in with the landscape. So he stripped off the greatcoat and pulled a grey sweater of mine over his jacket, and put on his head a woollen helmet of the same colour. He had no need of the map for he had long since got his route by heart, and what was once fixed in that mind stuck like wax; but I made him take Stumm’s plan and paper, hidden below his shirt. The big difficulty, I saw, would be getting to the Russians without getting shot, assuming he passed the Turkish trenches. He could only hope that he would strike someone with a smattering of English or German. Twice he ascended to the roof and came back cheerful, for there was promise of wild weather.

Hussin brought in our supper, and Peter made up a parcel of food. Blenkiron and I had both small flasks of brandy and I gave him mine.

Then he held out his hand quite simply, like a good child who is going off to bed. It was too much for Blenkiron. With large tears rolling down his face he announced that, if we all came through, he was going to fit him into the softest berth that money could buy. I don’t think he was understood, for old Peter’s eyes had now the faraway absorption of the hunter who has found game. He was thinking only of his job.

Two legs and a pair of very shabby boots vanished through the trap, and suddenly I felt utterly lonely and desperately sad. The guns were beginning to roar again in the east, and in the intervals came the whistle of the rising storm.

XX Peter Pienaar Goes to the Wars

This chapter is the tale that Peter told me⁠—long after, sitting beside a stove in the hotel at Bergen, where we were waiting for our boat.

He climbed on the roof and shinned down the broken bricks of the outer wall. The outbuilding we were lodged in abutted on a road, and was outside the proper enceinte of the house. At ordinary times I have no doubt there were sentries, but Sandy and Hussin had probably managed to clear them off this end for a little. Anyhow he saw nobody as he crossed the road and dived into the snowy fields.

He knew very well that he must do the job in the twelve hours of darkness ahead of him. The immediate front of a battle is a bit too public for anyone to lie hidden in by day, especially when two or three feet of snow make everything kenspeckle. Now hurry in a job of this kind was abhorrent to Peter’s soul, for, like all Boers, his tastes were for slowness and sureness, though he could hustle fast enough when haste was needed. As he pushed through the winter fields he reckoned up the things in his favour, and found the only