They felt the barge bumping against the quayside; they heard sharp voices questioning Akhiz and the latter’s slow, good-tempered answers; then they heard footsteps scampering on deck and over the piled timber. A.J. could not hear much that was said, but from the whole manner of the proceeding he guessed that a search was, after all, to be made.
About a quarter of an hour later voices came quite near to them. One said: “Well, you know, this may be all right as far as we’ve seen, but look at all this timber—anyone could hide amongst it.”
A.J.’s arm tightened round Daly, and from her sudden stillness he thought she must be half-fainting.
Another voice said: “Yes, of course, that’s true. And this fellow’s been putting in for nights at all kinds of lonely places—nothing at all to stop anybody from coming aboard while he’s been asleep.”
Akhiz said: “Timber very heavy to move.”
“She had a man with her.”
Akhiz repeated: “Timber very heavy.”
“Yes, you fool, you’ve said it once.”
Then from various sounds and movements it was apparent that a few of the men were trying to move some of the logs.
Later a voice said: “Well, how do you move the stuff then?”
“Big crane comes along,” said Akhiz.
“Well, keep a look-out when you unload, that’s all. I don’t suppose anyone can be here, but still, as I say, keep a look- out.”
After which the voices and footsteps disappeared. That was during the afternoon, and Akhiz did not release his prisoners until dusk. By that time they were stiff with cramp and chilled to the bone. “Very heavy, eh?” whispered Akhiz, beaming at them, when he had pushed the log a foot or so out of place. He seemed delighted at his own share in the escapade, though still incurious as to what it was all about. The quays were quite dark; the whole town, which in daylight had looked so important and flourishing, was now an overmastering stillness. Akhiz gave them scalding tea in his cabin; A.J. then gave Akhiz the twenty-four roubles agreed upon, plus another six for his extra services in outwitting the searchers, plus a small tin of American baked beans. Then they bade good-bye to their faithful host and saviour, who kissed A.J. with tremendous fervour, and even then, at that last moment, forbore to ask where they were going or what they were intending to do. Finally Akhiz went on deck to see if the quays were clear for them. There were sentries patrolling around, on the look-out for pilfering, but it was not very difficult to choose a safe moment to cross the litter of railway tracks and reach one of the steep alleys leading up from the docks to the town.
When they carne to the less deserted streets they were able to judge that Saratof was in a scarcely happier condition than Novarodar. The shop-windows were empty; the cafés closed and shuttered; no trams were running. It was all depressing enough, except for the fact that it was, after all, Saratof—the last important stage-point on their long journey from danger into safety. The Whites were but a few score miles away, which, after reckoning for so long in terms of hundreds of miles, seemed next to nothing at all; Denikin’s army, too, might have been advancing and have made the interval even less. As he trudged over the crunching snow, A.J.’s spirits rose as he contemplated the future.
But there was a more immediate future to be decided. Refreshed and abundantly fit after the river-journey, he would have pushed on that very night, and Daly also was anxious to avoid delay. For a time they talked of reaching some village perhaps ten miles or so out of Saratof and seeking accommodation there. Villages were safer than towns; the people in them were usually more kindly, less terrified of the authorities, and less likely to be inquisitive about passports and travel-permits.
But before they reached the suburban fringe of the town this plan became suddenly impossible, for Daly was clearly on the point of collapse. It was obvious that she could not walk another mile, much less the unknown distance to the nearest village, and there was nothing for it but to contemplate the risks of seeking shelter in Saratof itself. The town was noted for its strongly Red sympathies, and A.J. did not feel happy at the prospect of spending a night in it. He tried a few cottages, playing the part of the wandering but not quite penniless working-man who could pay a small sum for a bed for himself and his wife until the morning; but in every case he was turned away. One haggard housewife told him that nobody was allowed to take in strangers, and that if he wanted accommodation he had better apply to the Labour Bureau at the commisariat offices of the local Soviet. When he reached Daly, whom he had left a little distance away, he found her lying on the snow-covered pavement. He picked her up; she was shivering and trying to smile, but incapable of speech and only able to stagger along with great difficulty. There remained one last resource, which he had not wished to be driven to—the address of the ex-butler. He mentioned it, and she nodded agreement. Then he called at another house and enquired the way; by good fortune it was in the same quarter of the town, quite close.
A few moments later he was tapping at the door of a small workman’s- cottage. An elderly, white-haired man appeared, to whom he said: “Does Stapen live here?” At that the man’s face took on an expression of sudden terror. “Stapen?” he exclaimed, acting very badly. “No, there is no one here of that name.” Then A.J. realised the fears that might be in the man’s mind, and added: “I was sent here by the Valimoffs, of Novarodar.” The old man stared incredulously and, after a pause, asked them inside. He had been almost dumb with fear, and now was in the same condition with astonishment. A.J. talked a little to reassure him, while Daly sank into a chair, too weak to take any part in the conversation.
In the end their identities were satisfactorily established, and the old man admitted that he was himself Stapen, the ex-butler. He was also more than willing to help them, though he had very little food and no money. His wife was out at that moment, trying to get bread. Life was terrible in Saratof, and he prayed that Denikin’s army might arrive soon.
Daly recovered a little in front of the fire, and Stapen recognised her—or so he said—he had seen her in the old days in Moscow. Daly also said (but perhaps from mere politeness) that she thought she remembered him.
It was soon apparent that Stapen’s mind was obsessed with some other matter which he was afraid to mention until Daly broached it first. She said: “Well, and have you the little girl with you still?” Stapen’s voice dropped then to a throbbing whisper, he was evidently delighted that the strangers knew all about it, yet at the same time awestruck to be discussing it with them. He replied: “Yes, the princess is upstairs. She has been ill—she has had typhus—but she is now getting well. You would wish to see her, eh? Or no—she may be asleep—perhaps to-morrow will be better. You are going to take her with you when you go?” He turned to A.J. and added: “Ah, I knew the Valimoffs would make a good choice—how I have been longing for the day when I should hand her over to someone such as yourself!”
His sincerity and devotion were beyond suspicion, but A.J. at that moment was hardly in a mood to be appreciative. He felt, indeed, a little impatient with the fellow. Did nothing matter except the rescue of a princess? He realised again how difficult and complicated would be the escape to Denikin’s lines if he and Daly were to be burdened with a small and illustrious child.
“For the present,” he answered, rather coldly, “we can hardly look ahead as far as that. My wife is ill and needs rest.”
Stapen bowed, controlling his excitement like a well-trained servant who allows it to be supposed that he had momentarily forgotten himself. Within a short time he had prepared a bed and Daly was being put into it. She whispered, as A.J. laid her head on the pillow: “Dear, why are you so angry with people like Stapen? You were angry with the Valimoffs too.” He answered: “I’m not really angry with them—I’m everlastingly grateful in most ways. It’s just that they seem to think other things matter more than you.”