Wenzel shook his head. "Waste no words, Apor. I know full well what
you would tell me. I understand and sympathize. Yet you must curb
your impatience. If I should be recognized and escape no harm will
be done, but should you once be seen you could be of no further use
to me. One thing more before I go. If I get killed Terhune will
carry on my work. Give him your allegiance, Apor, in the same spirit
as you have given it to me. You will?"
Too moved for words the Hungarian held out his hand. Wenzel gripped
it tightly, and knew he need have no doubt of his follower. Then he
bent low and crept away through the trees toward the train.
He reached the fringe of the wood; before him the Death Train snorted
impatiently, radiating a brilliant glow of light, and Wenzel was able
to see for himself the ghastly thing of which he had heard so much.
It consisted all together of the four coaches; the first two he
noticed to be first-class saloon cars, the last two ordinary
third-class. This fact he noted in a sweeping glance which embraced
the whole of the train; then he turned his inspection upon the two
Pullman cars, and as he noted one detail after another it seemed to
him that his eyes must be playing him a freakish trick.
He blinked once or twice, but when he looked again the picture
remained unaltered, and slowly the realization sank into his brain
that what he saw was no fleeting chimera, no fanciful dream, but
stark, actual fact.
He had travelled in _de luxe_ Pullmans of pre-War days, and
considered them the acme of comfort, yet they were cheerless and
commonplace compared with the coach which Szamuelly had adopted as
his home, and in which he now lived permanently, surrounded by his
guard of wicked Terrorists.
All the regular furnishings of the car had been stripped away;
instead was substituted gorgeous furniture, filched from the palaces
of the King of Hungary, or from the palatial town and country
residences of the magnates, from the castles of the aristocrats, the
_châteaux_ of the ruling Magyars.
The walls were hung with exquisite tapestry, worked long ages ago,
and depicting the glories of Hungary's past, the heroic deeds of
Losonczy at Tenescar, of Szondi at Dregel, Zrinyi at Szigetvar, and
vaguely Wenzel wondered how each thread, worked by dainty fingers,
must have twisted in shame and disgust, as it hung there and
witnessed other deeds, black and bloody, blotting the later pages of
Hungary's chivalrous history!
Beautiful bevelled mirrors were displayed upon the walls, and pure,
deep glass glitteringly reflected the fragile gilt Louis XVI
furniture which stood everywhere, its pink brocade dimly reminiscent
of another revolution, while lastly, in the centre of the first
coach, stood a delicate, feminine writing-table, its dainty carving
in harmony with the cushioned settle by its side.
To Wenzel, gazing into the lighted saloon from the shadows of the
wood, it was as though he might have been peeping from the dark,
overcast present into the brightness of the past. Not one adornment
in the saloon but had survived many decades, not one piece which
could not have breathed the fame of Deak or Kossuth.
Wenzel wrenched his gaze away. What of the third-class compartments
by which the train earned its ghastly title? Therein travelled the
unfortunate prisoners of the Terrorists, therein the walls and floors
were bare of any ornament other than the rusty stains of dried blood
which covered them--the blood of the murdered. Well was it named the
Death Train!
There in the two end carriages countless executions took place at the
command of Szamuelly, who sat at the fragile desk in the
parlour-coach. At his word his captives were butchered, and their
bodies flung through the windows, so that the railway tracks of
Hungary during the days of the Red Terror were littered with naked
corpses.
With a shuddering gasp, which even he could not altogether restrain,
Wenzel turned his attention to the Terrorists themselves, who
strolled along the down track, glad of the opportunity to stretch
their legs.
In a sense they were uniformed, not only in costume but in face.
Most of them wore Army service uniforms, some with puttees, others
wore their trousers loose, but every one boasted the voluminous,
heavy overcoat and fatigue cap. It was their features where the
similarity was mostly to be glimpsed, not in actual likeness, but in
the same degenerate cast, in the same surly, lowering glance, in the
same cruel, tightened lips, and receding forehead.
Only one stood out conspicuously. Wenzel had a good view of him as
he stood still, right in a path of light. He was a Jew, of small
stature, dressed in black, with leggings. He was different. His
hair, crinkly, curled, was not shaven to the scalp like the majority
of the others. His forehead was high, and apparently intellectual,
his eyes open and fearless.
The lower part of his face was covered with a beard, but it was
carefully trimmed, and that, with his heavy moustache, gave him a
handsome appearance. Wenzel would have believed him a prisoner of
the brutes who surrounded him, but, even as the White Knight was
watching, one of the Terrorists called to the Jew, and the name he
cried was "Kohn-Kerekes."
Kohn-Kerekes! Szamuelly's favourite hangman! The man who once had
an argument with Gustav Nick, a freed murderer and Terrorist, as to
whether it were possible to hang two or three men within the space of
five minutes!
This, then, was the trainload of murderers who were on their way to
Bira to put down the counter-revolution. Something seemed to tighten
around Wenzel's heart at the mere thought. Somehow he must delay
them, hold them back long enough for Arnold to get to Bira and warn
the rebels of Szamuelly's approach. Yet how?
The engine was left unguarded, the engine-driver and his mate having
joined their fellow-Terrorists. Wenzel's eyes flared with
suggestion. He knew nothing of engines, yet he felt confident that
if he could but work his will on the levers, the handles, and all the
different controls, he was bound to do some damage or other.
He made up his mind to attempt the feat, but firstly he realized that
it would be necessary to cross the line and approach the engine from
the other side. As far as he could see, all the Terrorists were on
the down track, some seated on the rails, some walking up and down,
so that, to judge from appearances, the farther side was apparently
unprotected.
He slunk farther back into the shadows of the trees, then took a
direction which would bring him well to the front of the train,
assuming that there he would be less likely to be seen, by reason of
being behind the light cast by the engine boiler-fire.
When he had traversed the distance of a hundred yards or so he
considered that he had gone far enough, and made his way toward the
track again. Where the trees finished to make way for the iron lines
he paused, ready for the crossing.
He peered into the gloom on each side of him, and listened acutely
for any suggestion of an approaching Terrorist; but everything was
calm and peaceful.
Doubling his tall bulk he moved cautiously forward, and without a
sound crossed the track into the belt of wood the other side, and
once there made his way back again toward the train.
It was as he had suspected: all the men were congregated on one side
of the train, leaving the approach on the other absolutely clear,
though how long such a state of things was likely to continue he did
not know. He realized that he must work at once or perhaps fail to
have another opportunity.
Poised ready for instant flight in the event of discovery he advanced
toward the train, step by step, and at each stride his eyes flickered
from side to side for any sign of interruption.
On the other side of the coaches he heard the chatter of their
tongues and the crunching movement of their feet as the Terrorists
walked to and fro. By peering low between the carriage wheels he
could even see some of them, and knew that, contrariwise, if one of
them should chance to look his way, discovery would be inevitable,
and all chance gone of delaying the Death Train.
In a man's way he prayed that he might reach his destination. As he
advanced and nothing happened he began to believe that Fortune was
playing into his hands. At last! The steps to the driver's platform
were before him. He swung himself on to the engine with a lithe
movement, but even as he did so, a flashing glance toward the end of
the train made him aware that the driver and the fireman were slowly
strolling back to their allotted places.
He could not retreat, for now he was cut off. He could not go
forward, for the dozens of Terrorists on the down track. Swiftly he
glanced around, for hide himself he must. There was only one
possible place: on top of a coach.
He clambered silently up the tender, and then, trusting to luck that
he would not be seen, hoisted himself on to the roof of the first
coach, and on his stomach wormed his way along. He was only just in
time, for even as he reached the shadows he saw the driver and his
assistant mount the engine platform.
Despite the precariousness of his situation he could not help
appreciating the humour of it. Undoubtedly, of the many predicaments
in which he had found himself from time to time since his adoption of
the role of White Knight, the present one was the most curious and
unusual.
By lifting his head slightly he could see the Terrorists below; so
visible were they to him, indeed, that he felt sure that he himself
must naturally be equally outstanding to anyone who should chance to
look up, until he reflected that he was above the radius of the light.
Their voices rose clearly to him, and concentrating on one couple,
who seemed either to be nearer than the others or talking more
loudly, he was able to hear their conversation.
"Three-quarters of an hour we have been here. Why don't we get on
instead of hanging about?" said one.
"Obviously Szamuelly wants to get to Bira just after daybreak so that
he can catch the White Revolution in the act."
The questioner spat on the ground. "Good enough, comrade; but as we
are here why not let us go right ahead? A man hangs as well in the
dark. Alternatively, we might as well have slept in Budapest. There
are at least women there."
"Use your brains, Kerner. If we should arrive in Bira too early
every one would be asleep, and if they should wake up to see us
standing in the station they would speedily forget to be White and
would don their Red cockade again. Every one would be innocent, and
there would be no one to hang." The speaker laughed.
"Well, and could we not have stopped in Buda, and have left there in
time to arrive in Bira soon after daybreak?"
"Perhaps Szamuelly thought we should not be too willing to get up."
"Huh!" The first man grunted. "Maybe he was right. Once I tumble
into bed I prefer to stick there."
Wenzel did not listen any more--he had heard sufficient. What need
to draw attention to an enemy in their midst by tampering with the
engine when, if the Terrorists below were to be believed, Szamuelly
was of his own accord delaying the train? He could trust Arnold to
do his work well. When Szamuelly arrived he would find no one upon
whom to wreak his sanguinary vengeance.
There remained nothing else for him to do but to make his escape from
the present situation as quickly as possible. Unfortunately he could
not return as he had come, the engine-driver effectively barred the
way, but he believed that he might creep along to the edge of the
coach, and slip down the space in between it and the next one.
Still lying flat on his stomach, he moved gradually away from the
engine and nearer to his way of escape, but as he looked around he
began to realize that, just as a rat confidently enters the inviting
trap, only to find his exit barred, so was he too in a somewhat
similar position.
The Terror Boys were restless. Groups of them sauntered in every
direction, many of them now encircled the train in a regular
promenade, and the White Knight, as he felt the cold penetrating
through his clothes, did not need to conjecture the reason for their
movements.
With the utmost care he wriggled into a position from where, at the
first favourable opportunity, he would be able to slip down to the
ground and scuttle back into the wooded slopes again, and waited.
The minutes ticked by--minutes which began to total into respectable
fractions of an hour--but still many of the Terror Boys kept up their
unceasing tour. Round and round they marched till the blood glowed
as redly as possible in their wan and dissolute faces, and in the
meantime the White Knight became more and more chilled.
He longed to move, to circulate his freezing blood--to do, in fact,
what his enemies themselves were doing--but it seemed that Fate,
having once permitted him to board the train, was set on keeping him
there, irresponsibly transferring her favour to the other side;
coquettishly flirting, now with him, the next moment conspiring
against him.
Once there was a lull. For some reason the Communists suddenly
assembled together in argument, and as the group swelled, so one side
of the train was left to itself.
Wenzel tensed himself for his escape, but even as he drew himself to
the edge, preparatory to clambering down to the buffers, the
engine-driver alighted and walked along, swinging his arms as he
moved. By the time the man was warm again the promenade had
recommenced and Wenzel's opportunity had gone.
Later the Terrorists began to climb back into the train, and Wenzel's
eyes glistened with anticipation; but his hopes were very quickly
shattered. Szamuelly, with the cunning of a serpent, set two guards,
one on each side of the train.
So the night passed. Despite everything, his watch and his
discomfort, Wenzel fell into a fitful slumber--not sleep in the
actual sense of the word, but a restless jerky doze from which he
forced himself to awake every few minutes until his head ached with
the effort.
Without warning there was a grinding jerk. Wenzel opened his eyes
with a start. The train was moving; with a sense of dismay he
realized that eventually he must have given way and actually slept.
Now it was too late to escape--he was being carried with the Death
Train to Bira.
The engine gathered speed and, with its added velocity, rocked
unsteadily from side to side. Then for Wenzel began a nightmare of
inconceivable hideousness. He gripped hold of something--he never
knew what--and held to it with a tenacity which presently became
subconscious, but even so his body was turned, rolled, and banged on
the sloping roof.
The billowing clouds of smoke blew into his face until his throat and
nose were filled with cinders, and he felt sick from the taste of the
acrid fumes. Somehow he repressed the burst of coughing which
threatened to seize him every second, but to do so he had to fill his
body with deep breaths which served to suck in still further supplies
of the smoke.
Fortunately there was enough wind from the east to keep the smoke
sufficiently away to enable him to retain consciousness, but in doing
so its scurrying rush deadened his senses and numbed his limbs and
bones.
Time ceased to be of consequence, he knew only that he must hold
tight if he wished to retain his life. So, somehow, his fingers
continued to grip, even when his consciousness practically vanished.
The train pounded on, but except for a sensation of unreality he was
totally unaware of what else was happening. From head to foot his
body ached and pained. Bruised all over from the buffeting of the
train, frozen by the cold, deafened by the shrieking of the wind,
blinded by the smoke-dust, he believed then that Hades itself could
not contain more suffering, and he groaned slightly with the torture.
At last it was over. He felt the train slowing down, and released
one hand to free his eyes from their covering of grime and dirt.
During the journey the day had dawned, and in the misty half-light he
saw the name of Bira written on the railway embankment in small,
white stones, and in the distance the station.
He knew that there was no time to be lost, so gathering up what
strength there was still left in his limbs he climbed down to the
buffers. Quietly and ominously the train slid into the station and
quiveringly halted; the next moment Wenzel jumped to the ground,
crossed the lines, and was out of the station.
He dimly expected a hail, if not from the train, then perhaps from
the station, but he had not been noticed. He breathed softly with
relief, and looked round.
There was an ominous, brooding silence, and over the neighbourhood in
which he was there seemed to hang a pall of oppression and
apprehension. It was whispered by the wind which sighed sullenly
through the telegraph wires; it was told by the Red flags hung out at
intervals, which flapped angrily with staccato reports; it was
suggested by the tightly shut windows and doors.
Wenzel's face broke into a smile of gratification. Evidently Arnold
had done his work well. Not only was there no one about, but so
quickly had Bira turned Red again at the news of the approach of
Szamuelly that nowhere could Wenzel catch a glimpse of white. There
was no work for Szamuelly's butcher hangmen in Bira.
All this he noted in a quick, fleeting glance, for a backward look at
the train revealed to him that its travellers were tumbling out in
pell-mell haste. Wenzel knew that he must hide quickly.
Before the front of the station was a wide square. He knew if he
doubled across it he might be seen. Obviously it would be better to
hide on the station roof. He looked up and noted that the stone
coping formed a convenient ladder upward. A few seconds later he was
securely hidden, watching the movements of the Terrorists below.
Szamuelly, carefully guarded by four or five men, each of whom
flourished a serviceable revolver, sauntered toward the station, to
halt scarcely a yard or so from where Wenzel was hidden.
In quick, precise tones Szamuelly gave his orders, and small parties
of his men dispersed to different parts of the town. In the
meantime, while he waited for their return, Szamuelly smoked a
cigarette and jested with his own special guard.
"Well, comrades, ready for your work, eh?"
One man grunted. "Everything looks strange. Where is the White
counter-revolution which we have come to suppress, may I ask? There
are Red flags by the plenty, but I see no signs of the White cockade."
Szamuelly laughed grimly. "The revolutionaries are skulking away.
We will drag the rats from their holes. When they stand before me,
waiting for my verdict, we shall soon see by their faces whether they
are loyalists or not. We will let go free all whose faces go
red--eh, friends?--and string up those who go white at the sound of
their sentence. Will that not be judgment worthy of Solomon himself?"
Then the conversation drifted into more personal channels. There was
a woman in Budapest whom one had seduced, and the tale was well worth
the telling. As the story progressed the laughter of the listeners
became incessant.
Presently the Terror Boys returned, group by group.
"Where are the prisoners?" Szamuelly asked, and his voice grew
harsher as he heard the same answer from all quarters:
"There has been a mistake, comrade. Bira is Red. There is no
counter-revolutionary movement here. The Red flag flies everywhere."
"Fools, dolts, idiots! Do you think we have come all this way to go
back again like a lot of lost sheep? If we cannot track out the
revolutionaries themselves then we must find their supporters with
whom to set an example. When I leave here Bira will hesitate to tear
the Red flag down again. Go on, boys, fetch them out."
Then followed a ghastly scene, which Wenzel viewed with indescribable
horror. Filled with enthusiasm, the Terror Boys crossed the station
square and burst into surrounding houses. Presently the air was
filled with the sounds of struggle; here and there the reverberating
echo of shots intermingled with the wailing of women, the pleading of
children. Half dressed, unkempt, and dishevelled, the victims of the
Terror Boys were hustled across the square to the station, where they
were lined up before Szamuelly.
"Ho, you!" Szamuelly strode up to one of the prisoners. "So you are
one of the scum who saw fit to try and overthrow our glorious cause,
are you?"
"No, no, comrade, I swear I am not. I am a loyal Communist. For
God's sake, do not hang me! My wife--she is giving birth to a child,
even at this minute. Mercy, mercy, for the love of Christ! Mercy!"
The trembling wretch sank on his knees, the tears ran down his
cheeks. Szamuelly laughed.
"Is his face red or white, comrades?"
There was a roar of laughter from his followers, and the verdict was
unanimous: "White, Comrade Szamuelly, white!"
"Then he hangs. Throw a rope over that tree yonder."
Willing hands were found to obey the injunction. In less than a
minute a rope was thrown over a lower branch, a running loop formed,
and underneath it a chair was placed.
To it the victim was dragged and forced up upon the chair. The loop
was adjusted round his neck. Everything ready, Szamuelly crossed and
stood in front of the man. He took the cigarette from his mouth, and
suddenly placed its lighted end upon the hapless victim's bare foot.
The poor wretch howled with pain, kicked backward, the chair fell
over, and the loop tightened....
There were seven other trees near by, and in less than twenty minutes
at every tree twisted and swayed a lifeless body at the end of a
rope. After that Szamuelly was satisfied.
"Come along, comrades. Do you think Bira will go White again?"