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This was the most dangerous moment, Lloyd thought.
Sergeant Eisenstein was in charge of a platoon of fifteen or twenty men. Everyone helped to unload the supplies: bread, sausage, fresh fish, condensed milk, canned food. The soldiers were pleased to get supplies and glad to see new faces. They merrily attempted to engage their benefactors in conversation.
The fugitives had to say as little as possible. This was the moment when they could so easily betray themselves by a slip. Some Germans spoke French well enough to detect an English or American accent. Even those who had passable accents, such as Teresa and Lloyd, could give themselves away with a grammatical error. It was so easy to say "sur le table" instead of "sur la table," but it was a mistake no French person would ever make.
To compensate, the two genuine Frenchmen in the party went out of their way to be voluble. Any time a soldier began to talk to a fugitive, someone would jump into the conversation.
Teresa presented the sergeant with a bill, and he took a long time to check the numbers, then count out the money.
At last they were able to take their leave, with empty backpacks and lighter hearts.
They walked back down the mountain half a mile, then they split up. Teresa went on down with the Frenchmen and the horses. Lloyd and the fugitives turned onto an upward path.
The German sentries at the clearing would probably be too drunk by now to notice that fewer people were coming down than went up. But if they asked questions, Teresa would say some of the party had started a card game with the soldiers, and would be following later. Then there would be a change of shift and the Germans would lose track.
Lloyd made his group walk for two hours, then he allowed them a ten-minute break. They had all been given bottles of water and packets of dried figs for energy. They were discouraged from bringing anything else: Lloyd knew from experience that treasured books, silverware, ornaments, and gramophone records would become too heavy and be thrown into a snow-filled ravine long before the footsore travelers crested the pass.
This was the hard part. From now on it would only get darker and colder and rockier.
Just before the snow line, he instructed them to refill their water bottles at a clear cold stream.
When night fell they kept going. It was dangerous to let people sleep: they might freeze to death. They were tired, and they slipped and stumbled on the icy rocks. Inevitably their pace slowed. Lloyd could not let the line spread: stragglers might lose their way, and there were precipitate ravines for the careless to fall into. But he had never lost anyone, yet.
Many of the fugitives were officers, and this was the point where they would sometimes challenge Lloyd, arguing when he ordered them to keep going. Lloyd had been promoted to major to give him more authority.
In the middle of the night, when their morale was at rock bottom, Lloyd announced: "You are now in neutral Spain!" and they raised a ragged cheer. In truth he did not know exactly where the border was, and always made the announcement when they seemed most in need of a boost.
Their spirits lifted again when dawn broke. They still had some way to go, but the route now led downhill, and their cold limbs gradually thawed.
At sunrise they skirted a small town with a dust-colored church at the top of a hill. Just beyond, they reached a large barn beside the road. Inside was a green Ford flatbed truck with a grimy canvas cover. The lorry was large enough to carry the whole party. At the wheel was Captain Silva, a middle-aged Englishman of Spanish descent who worked with Lloyd.
Also there, to Lloyd's surprise, was Major Lowther, who had been in charge of the intelligence course at Ty Gwyn, and had been snootily disapproving--or perhaps just envious--of Lloyd's friendship with Daisy.
Lloyd knew that Lowthie had been posted to the British embassy in Madrid, and guessed he worked for MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service, but he would not have expected to see him this far from the capital.
Lowther wore an expensive white flannel suit that was crumpled and grubby. He stood beside the truck looking proprietorial. "I'll take over from here, Williams," he said. He looked at the fugitives. "Which one of you is Watermill?"
Watermill could have been a real name or a code.
The mysterious Englishman stepped forward and shook hands.
"I'm Major Lowther. I'm taking you straight to Madrid." Turning back to Lloyd he said: "I'm afraid your party will have to make your way to the nearest railway station."
"Just a minute," said Lloyd. "That truck belongs to my organization." He had purchased it with his budget from MI9, the department that helped escaping prisoners. "And the driver works for me."
"Can't be helped," Lowther said briskly. "Watermill has priority."
The Secret Intelligence Service always thought they had priority. "I don't agree," Lloyd said. "I see no reason why we can't all go to Barcelona in the truck, as planned. Then you can take Watermill on to Madrid by train."
"I didn't ask for your opinion, laddie. Just do as you're told."
Watermill himself interjected, in a reasonable tone: "I'm perfectly happy to share the truck."
"Leave this to me, please," Lowther told him.
Lloyd said: "All these people have just walked across the Pyrenees. They're exhausted."
"Then they'd better have a rest before going on."
