Wayward Winds (47 page)

 92 
Gavrilo Princip

The young Bosnian student whom Amanda had seen around the house began eyeing her more regularly at meals and speaking to her whenever he chanced to find her alone. This Gavrilo Princip was younger than Amanda by four or five years and his English was not the best. And though he had a certain wild and frightening look, she did not think to be afraid, since he was one of the apparent regulars of the place. His dark skin, perpetually stubbly face—as if he had always shaved about five days before—and deep-set narrow black eyes might have caused some young women alarm. But thus far he had kept mostly to himself and she had not taken much notice of him. Everyone else seemed to know him, although he only had one close friend, a Herzegovinian Muslim by the name of Muhamed Mehmedbasic.

One afternoon when the others were away, Princip approached her. Would she like to go out with him for a visit to the coffeehouse where all the communists gathered?

The mere word struck mystery in her heart. He observed her reaction.

“These are exciting times,” he added. “This is where the revolution in Russia is being planned—right here in Vienna.”

“Revolution!” she repeated in shock.

“Of course. Surely you cannot be so naïve in England as not to know it is coming.”

Amanda shrugged noncommittally. She and the Pankhursts had spoken of such things, but they had always seemed to her remote and far removed from her actual life. Now here she was in eastern Europe where everything she had only
heard
about was actually happening. It was both exciting and frightening.

“And some things even closer to Vienna than that,” he added mysteriously. “Come . . . see for yourself,” pressed Princip. “This is
real
socialism, not just the women's rights you suffragettes think of.”

“How do you know of my connections with the suffragettes?”

“Ah, Princip knows all!” laughed the Bosnian. “Come!” He tried to take Amanda's hand to lead her out of the house. She pulled it back, yet nodded with a smile.

Thirty minutes later they were seated at the Kaffe Kellar sipping strong cups of Kapuziner. Amanda gazed around with wide-eyed fascination. It was exactly as Princip had described. A thin haze of blue smoke hung over the dimly lit room, where no less than five languages could be heard in heated debate around various of the tables. Amanda took it all in with the captivation of having entered a dark and shadowy political underworld. Princip seemed to know many of those present, and several came up to him and spoke in languages and dialects Amanda could not understand.

“How would you like to see even more of the country?” Princip asked after several minutes.

“I don't know . . . how do you mean?” replied Amanda.

“Come with me. I am going to Sarajevo where I have business with some associates. We are then going on to Moscow.”

“Moscow!”

“I can tell you want to go with me.”

“But why are you going there?”

“In Russia we will achieve more than mere votes. We will turn society upside down. Come with me—it is your chance to make history.”

“Make history?”

“Yes—don't you want to be known, to be famous, to change the course of history? Your name will be remembered alongside mine for all time.”

The words rung a faint familiar chord in Amanda's brain, reminding her of a time long ago and a small girl's dreams. But from the mouth of Gavrilo Princip, it all sounded wrong.

“Will there be others?” she asked. “I couldn't go with you . . . alone.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn't be proper.”

Princip laughed. “You English with all your rules. It will not matter much longer anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because everything will be changed.”

Amanda took in the Bosnian's words in light of all she had learned recently about the Fountain and its new order. Was Gavrilo Princip talking about the same thing? As he looked across the table, the fire in his eyes showed at least that whatever his ultimate intent, there could be no doubt that he was deadly serious.

 93 
Bedside

Bobby McFee was resting comfortably in his bed in Heathersleigh Cottage.

Charles sat beside him, spooning tiny bits of water into his mouth, though whether Bobby himself was conscious of the operation it would be difficult to tell. As weak as he was, transporting him home, then setting the leg had been difficult procedures. Besides being in obvious pain, Bobby was utterly exhausted. He now lay limp, pale, and motionless. Catharine had gone for the surgeon, though it was doubtful he would do more than commend Jocelyn's work and pronounce extended bed rest as the most needful restorative.

Jocelyn and Maggie had just left the room and walked slowly into the sitting room.

“His body has had a dreadful shock,” said Jocelyn in a low voice. “More than anything now, Maggie, he needs rest and nourishment.”

“I'll get as much liquid down him as he'll take . . . hot soup, tea, broth, whatever I can. How serious do you think it is?”

“His leg is badly broken,” said Jocelyn. “With the wooden splint we made, and keeping it well wrapped and still, the bones will heal. But it will be slow. He will not walk for three months or more.”

“My poor Bobby.”

“The worst of the pain is over,” said Jocelyn, trying to reassure her. “The swelling is not as bad as it might have been because of the
stream. He was fortunate for the leg to land submerged as it did. He is only weak, but not suffering.”

Maggie sighed. Jocelyn's words gave some comfort. But her heart was torn for the poor man she had loved so many years, who had always been so lively and vigorous.

“The doctor will be here shortly,” added Jocelyn, “and we will see what he says. You know about these things as well as I do. But one of us will come and sit with you so that you will not be alone through it. One of the four of us will be with you until Bobby is at least recovered from the exhaustion and shock.”

“How can I thank you, Jocelyn, my dear?” said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears. “You are so good to us.”

“You and Bobby have been the best friends and neighbors ever a family could have,” replied Jocelyn.

The two women embraced warmly and long without further words, then set about together making a pot of soup.

 94 
Alone and Far From Home

As to the question of whether or not Princip was connected with the Fountain, Amanda did not have long to wait for an answer. Later that same evening she overheard the Englishman talking in angry tones with Mehmedbasic.

“Get rid of your friend, Muhamed,” Barclay was saying. “I do not like his look.”

“Princip is harmless.”

“Harmless is the last word I would use to describe him.”

“Besides, he is with
Die Schwarze Hand
.”

“Yes, and the Black Hand is rapidly getting out of control,” insisted Barclay. “Our involvement with them is nearly at an end. We cannot afford to have either of you here any longer. You bring danger to us all. I mean what I say—I want him gone. I know more about some of your activities than you may realize. We cannot afford to provide sanctuary for hotheads.”

“I will talk to him,” replied the Muslim.

The following morning Mrs. Thorndike announced that she would be leaving Vienna at week's end.

Unconsciously, Amanda sensed several sets of eyes around the large wooden table subtly turn in her direction.

Mrs. Halifax spoke up before anyone else had a chance to reply.

“You
will
be staying on with us here, won't you, Amanda?” she said. Her tone of voice suggested that it was already a foregone conclusion.
“I've already spoken with Mrs. Thorndike about returning to England without you . . . now that you are involved with our cause.”

“I . . . I don't know,” said Amanda, taken momentarily by surprise. She knew Hartwell Barclay's eyes were upon her. She shrank from glancing in his direction.

“Please stay, my dear,” went on Mrs. Halifax. “The Fountain needs you. Mr. Barclay has told me that you plan to begin writing leaflets and articles enlightening people back home.”

“We . . . we only spoke of it a time or two—possibly, I suppose.” Amanda began to feel drowsy again. It always happened when Mr. Barclay looked at her that way.

What did she have to go home to anyway? Where would she live? What would she do? And with just forty-three pounds left to her name . . . what other choice did she have?

By week's end Mrs. Thorndike was gone.

Amanda awoke the following morning feeling more isolated and alone than ever before in her life. But for better or worse she had cast her lot with these people. There was no going back on her decision now.

Within the week Amanda Rutherford was busily engaged in writing an anti-English leaflet on which Hartwell Barclay placed great hopes for the swaying of public opinion in Great Britain against the man who had spoken out against the Fountain.