As light dawns, the hopelessness of our position becomes all too clear. We peer out from our hiding-place and look across the lake in the early morning light. We can see several guards patrolling on the far side of the water. And now and then, we hear the voices of others above us. At one point in the morning, they even come inside the upper part of the boathouse: the planks creak above our heads, and we hear them talking.
“How far away are the Czechoslovak Legion, Ivan?”
“Some say the Czechs are just a day or two’s journey away from us. They are one of the most feared regiments of the White Army. Everyone says they are better armed than us – and better trained. Perhaps the city will be bombarded by artillery.”
Their conversation continues gloomily. It’s clear that Yekaterinburg is about to become a battleground.
The day passes with agonising slowness. I’m shocked numb by the events of last night, but my mind can’t face up to those thoughts. Instead, what I feel is the physical discomfort of our position among the wooden struts. I end up taking my shoes off and sitting with my feet in the water, because it is slightly less painful.
We alternate attempts to rest in our cramped postures with whispered conversations, all of which involve how we might get to the railway station and onto a train without being detected. But we all know that guards will be looking out for us at the station, checking anyone boarding a train. All our ideas of escape are completely futile. Tonight, we will have to do something, but we have no idea what.
In the middle of the afternoon, Rufus shifts about restlessly. He groans out loud. “I’m sure you two are more comfortable than I am.”
“Shut up!” hisses Axelson.
Rufus ignores him, and clambers across the beams to try to find a better spot. After a minute of so in his new position, he calls softly to us.
“Come here, and look.”
He points down. Under the middle of the boathouse, and covered in a tarpaulin, is a small, low boat. It’s barely more than a large canoe. The professor peers down at it.
“It must have been a pleasure-boat, for use on the lake.”
Rufus whispers. “We can escape in it.”
“The professor shakes his head. “No. You two have been confined at the hotel, but I have had my visits to see Yurovsky. So I took the opportunity to find out about the layout of this city. This lake is in fact part of the Iset River – and, the railway station is located upstream from here. The water looks smooth, but the current is actually very strong. There is no way we could row up the river to the station.”
“I’m not suggesting we row, Prof. I’m suggesting we get in the boat, untie it, and let the current carry us.”
“That’s a thought! – but a very improbable one. This lake is created by a dam, the Plotinka, that was built to power the industries in Yekaterinburg. The lake water flows out of the lake through arched tunnels in the top of the dam, and then down a high weir. A boat like that wouldn’t survive a fall down the weir. And if by a miracle we were to escape, then I have no idea where this river goes.”
I look at Rufus, then at the professor, and say the first thing that comes into my head. “None of us have any better ideas.”
Rufus continues. “If we waited until midnight – we might not be noticed.”
The professor sighs. “If we’re not spotted and shot, then the likeliest outcome is that we will drown. And if by a miracle we survive the weir and the river, we will starve to death in the Siberian forests.”
“The alternative is to be shot – with total certainty.”
The weather is our friend. It’s a moonless night. We feel our way in the gloom, down through the beams and joists to the boat. We reach out and gingerly peel away the tarpaulin. The boat sways under my feet as I step down, so slowly, avoiding any noise of my shoes on the floor of the hull. I feel long poles, laid along the line of the keeclass="underline" they must be oars.
The professor is a shadowy silhouette against the gloom: he’s untying the boat. Then Rufus and the professor pull the tarpaulin back into place to the cover the top of the boat, to hide us. We start to slide out into the lake, away from the boathouse. We all peer out from under the edge of the tarpaulin.
Ahead, I see the outline of a huge church, towering against the inky sky. Below it, I can make out a slight glint of ruffled water. I must be looking through the arches of the tunnels, out onto the crest of the weir beyond. But I barely glance ahead, because we are all looking intently into the darkness of the lake shore. The willows and alder trees of the park sweep down to the water, and we can make out nothing, really: but we are alert for any sign of movement, any clue that guards or soldiers are in the park, looking for us.
All is still and quiet. We slide smoothly through the water in near-total blackness.
The boat’s hull shudders, just slightly. We’re being pulled into the stronger current in the middle of the lake. Ahead of us now the arches of the Plotinka are growing closer, the water is faster, the suction can be felt, accelerating us moment by moment in the dark stream. We can see nothing except the outline of the tunnels, but the sensation of speed and movement increases every second.
Suddenly, I’m struck blind: pitch-darkness means we’re under an arch of the dam. The tunnel causes turbulence: the boat sways and slithers across the stream: I hear roaring, rising to a crescendo in my ears. Then a odd, floating sensation. We shoot like a bullet out over the weir.
The boat tumbles in space, landing with a crash in a chaos of waves: water sprays everywhere, the hull swings over as if to capsize. Then we’re jolted back the other way, and for a moment the boat levels, then sways again. We’re like a fragment of wood thrown in the torrent, flung this way and that. My head bangs the side of the boat, then I’m thrown up in the air, bouncing back downwards off the tarpaulin like an inverted trampoline. Someone kicks me savagely in the stomach: I can’t tell who. All three of us are flung about like tossed chaff. There’s no food in my stomach, but bile fills my mouth. But the next jolt is, thankfully, less violent.
“By Jove, we’ve survived!”
“It seems so, Mr du Pavey. I’m feeling around the hull of the boat: it is good news. Very little water has got in, and the planking seems intact. The boat isn’t seriously damaged. I was wrong, and you were right.”
Thankfully, the turmoil of the river is lessening every second. A minute passes, and each of us feels for the side of the boat; we can look out again from under the tarpaulin. We see around us that the Iset River is still fast-flowing, but the cataracts are behind us. We’re passing the foundries and factories that line the banks below the weir. I can see no guards, none at all. Have we escaped?
Ahead of us, in the darkness on the bank of the river, is a single light. We’re still travelling at speed, and after a few moments I see what the light is: a lamp above the door of a late-night bar. Four figures are coming slowly and unsteadily out of the doorway; they’ve clearly had a lot to drink. Two of them are Red Guards; each has the slender figure of a woman draped around him. Rufus whispers to me.
“They won’t see us; they’ve got something far better on their minds.”
But one of the women is looking in our direction. She’s saying something to the man she’s with; he glances reluctantly towards us, while his hand slides down her back. She’s talking to him, and pointing at us. Now he’s listening and nodding, and she starts speaking to the other couple. Suddenly, all four figures are staring at us. The tarpaulin-covered boat, coasting along in the river like a toy yacht, must make an odd sight, especially at this time of night. But then one of the men seems to lose interest; he bends his head and kisses the woman he’s holding. They all stop watching us.