'What'll we do with the swine?' asked the Sergeant. 'I've rarely come across so great a bastard. It would be a sin just to kill him where he lies. I've a dozen weals still smarting from that knout of his. I vote we let him come to, then thrash him to death.'
'I'm with you,' agreed Vitu. 'But, better still, let's put his feet on the red-hot stones of the fire until he passes out, then pitch him in and let him burn to death.'
'No,' Roger answered sharply. 'If we did either, his cries would bring his comrades running. Anyhow, we have no time to waste. Though I agree that the brute deserves to die.'
‘I have it!' Vitu exclaimed. 'We'll gag him, strip him, tie his ankles and his hands behind his back, then throw him to the pigs.'
Fournier laughed. 'That's a grand idea. Pigs like human flesh. I know of a child who fell into a sty and they made a meal off the poor brat before anyone realised that he was missing.' Without more ado, the two N.C.O.S began to tear the unconscious Kutzie's garments off him.
Roger was in half a mind to intervene; but he knew that his two companions would resent any mercy being shown to this Prussian brute who had delighted in flogging all three of them, and he decided that being bitten by pigs until one died from loss of blood would be a less painful death than being left to roast slowly; so he let the N.C.O.s have their way.
Kutzie, naked, gagged and unable even to murmur, was carried out from the barn and pitched on to a huddle of grunting pigs. It was one of the most callous things that Roger had ever seen done; but he knew that his own prospects of survival lay in the Sergeant's and Corporal's willing acceptance of his orders, and that, had he even been the Angel Gabriel, he could not have prevented them from making certain that the brutal Kutzie endured a prolonged and horrible death. As it was, with happy laughter, they showed their delight in this method of paying off old scores, and were obviously prepared to accept Roger's future orders without argument.
Having disposed of the Baron and Kutzie, they again spent a few minutes listening tensely. On the opposite side of the courtyard from their barn, but somewhat nearer the castle, there stood a building in which they knew that the serfs had their quarters. From it there now came faintly the sounds of sad, but melodious singing.
With a nod of satisfaction, Roger led the way to another bam, where he knew the horses to be stabled. In it there were seven animals. Selecting three, he had them given a good feed of oats then, with their muzzles bound to prevent them from neighing, he had them harnessed to a troika which had been dragged from a nearby coach house.
He had no idea where the French army was but, taking the stars for a guide, he intended to head south-west, feeling confident that, if they could avoid running into enemy patrols, by moving in that direction they would, sooner or later, come upon their compatriots.
Having wrenched off the bells that would have jingled from the inverted U-shaped arch over the neck of the central horse of the troika, they piled into the carriage. Roger took the reins and they set off.
A three-quarter moon had come up and its light reflected from the snow made the scene almost as bright as day. As the troika emerged at a fast trot from the trees surrounding the castle, in the far distance Roger saw a black patch moving rapidly across the white, frozen waste. Almost immediately he realised that it was a body of horsemen and they were coming towards him. With sudden consternation, it flashed upon him that they must be the Cossacks whom the Baron had feared might pay the castle a visit. At the same moment, Fournier cried:
'Them's Cossacks! You can tell by their little horses.'
Hauling hard on the near rein, Roger nearly turned the troika over, in his frantic haste to slew it round and make off in another direction before they came face to face with the Russians. He could only hope that, against the background of the dark trees, the trioka would not have been noticed. Urging his three horses into a gallop, he took a course parallel to the edge of the wood.
For a few moments all seemed well. Then, just behind him, Vitu cried, 'Mort Dieu! They've seen us. They've changed direction too.'
Roger threw a quick glance over his shoulder. From a trot, the Cossacks had spurred their mounts into a canter. There were about twenty of them and a tall officer some ten paces in front of the others was calling on the troika to halt.
For a moment Roger thought of pulling up and running off into the wood; but, lame as he and his companions were, they would be overtaken in no time—that is, if the Russians bothered to come after them. If they did not, without food or shelter and unable to walk either fast or for any great distance, the fugitives would freeze to death.
Realising that there was no escape, Roger lay back on the reins and brought his team to a standstill. With fury in his heart he watched, as the Cossacks, crouching low over their little steeds and giving vent to wild cries of elation, came charging up to the troika. With superb horsemanship they brought their shaggy, steaming ponies to an instant halt.
Leaning forward in his saddle, the officer asked Roger in Russian, 'Who are you? Why did you attempt to avoid us? Where are you off to?'
Roger's Russian was good enough for him to reply. 'To Vilna, may it please you, Sir.'
Stained and bedraggled as the uniforms were that he and his companions were wearing, they were still easily recognisable as French.
Slapping his thigh, the officer gave a hearty laugh. 'What? On the way to your enemy's headquarters? Is it likely that I'd believe that? You are Frenchmen, and my prisoners.'
A Desperate Gamble
It was futile to argue. Even if Roger could have passed himself off as a Lett or Ukranian who had taken a French uniform from a corpse, he could not possibly explain away his companions.
As he gave a resigned shrug, the officer said, 'We were making for Baron Znamensk's castle, since it seemed as good a place as any in this neighbourhood to pass the night. Turn your troika and accompany us.'
Roger did as he was bade; but, as the little cavalcade headed for the entrance to the clearing he was suddenly struck by a thought that, during the emergency of the past ten minutes, had not crossed his mind. It so appalled him that for a moment the blood drained from his face.
To have been cheated of his hopes of freedom at the eleventh hour and taken prisoner by the Russians was ill fortune enough. But a return to the castle must inevitably lead to the discovery of the Baron's body, and nobody would have any doubts about who had murdered him. Freda of the huge bottom and breasts would be screaming for vengeance and Roger could see no reason whatever why the tall Cossack officer should not grant it to her by having Fournier, Vitu and himself promptly shot.
Ten minutes later, when they arrived within sight of the castle, Roger saw that his worst fears looked like being realised. Several of the barred ground floor windows of the squat ugly building were lit up and men with lanterns were moving about near the big barn.
As the cavalcade came to a halt in front of it Freda, her huge breasts wobbling and her long, fair hair streaming behind her, came running up to the Cossack officer, pouring out a spate of German. Following her came two men, bearing a rough stretcher, upon which reposed the dead body of the Baron. Pointing at it, then at Roger and his companions, she denounced them as her husband's murderers and demanded that they should be handed over to her for treatment suited to the heinous crime they had committed.