Shout at the Devil

by Wilbur Smith

  As he fumbled a fresh clip of cartridges from his bandolier, Flynn glanced sideways at her. Even in this moment of hot excitement Flynn felt the prickle of disquiet as he saw his daughter’s face. There was a madness in her eyes, the madness of grief too long sustained, the madness of hatred too carefully nourished.

  His rifle was loaded and he switched his attention back to the valley. The scene had changed. From the rush of fear-crazed bearers, the German, whom Flynn had earlier watched through the binoculars, was rallying a defence. With him was the big Askari, the one that Flynn had missed with his first shot. These two stood to hold the guards who were being carried away on the rush of panic-stricken bearers, stopping them, turning them back, pushing and shoving them into defensive cover around the four huge wheels. Now they were returning the fire of Flynn’s men.

  ‘Mohammed! Get that man! The white man – get him!’ roared Flynn, and fired twice, missing with each shot. But his bullets passed so close that the German dodged back behind the metal shield of the nearest wheel.

  ‘That’s done it,’ lamented Flynn, as his hopes of quick success faded. ‘They’re getting settled in down there. We are going to have to prise them loose.’

  The prospect was unattractive. Flynn had found from experience that while every man in his motley band was a hero when firing from ambush, and a master in the art of strategic retreat, yet their weak suit was frontal assault, or any other manoeuvre that involved exposure to the enemy. Of the hundred under his command, there were a dozen whom he could rely on to obey an order to attack. Flynn was understandably reluctant to issue such an order, for there are few situations more humiliating than bellowing, ‘Charge!’ – then having everybody look at you with a ‘Who, me? You must be joking!’ expression.

  Now he steeled himself to do it, aware that with every second the battle madness of his men was cooling and being replaced by sanity and caution. He filled his lungs and opened his mouth, but Rosa saved him.

  She rolled and lifted her knees, coming on to her feet with one fluid motion whose continuation was a catlike leap that carried her over the shale bank and into the open. Boyish, big-hipped, but graceful – the rifle across her hip, firing. Long hair streaming, long legs flying, she went down the slope.

  ‘Rosa!’ roared Flynn in consternation, and jumped up to chase her in an ungainly lumbering run like the charge of an old bull buffalo.

  ‘Fini!’ shouted Mohammed, and scampered after his master.

  ‘My goodness!’ Sebastian gasped where he lay on the opposite side of the valley. ‘It’s Rosa!’ and in a completely reflex response he found himself on his feet and bounding down the rocky slope.

  ‘Akwende!’ yelled the man beside him, carried away in his excitement, and before any of them had time to think, fifty of them were up and following. After the first half-dozen paces they were committed, for once they had started to run down the steep incline they could not stop without falling flat on their faces, they could only accelerate.

  Down both slopes of the valley, scrambling, sliding on loose stone, pell-mell through thorn bush, screaming, shouting, they poured down on the cluster of Askari around the wheels.

  From opposite sides, Rosa and Sebastian were first to reach the perimeter of the German position. Their momentum carried them unscathed through the first line of the defenders, and then with the empty rifle in her hands Rosa ran chest to chest against the big Askari who rose from behind a boulder to meet her. She shrieked as he caught her, and the sound exploded within Sebastian’s brain in a red burst of fury.

  Twenty yards away Rosa struggled with the man, but she was helpless as a baby in his arms. He lifted her, changing his grip on her body, snatching her up above his head, steadying himself to hurl her down on to the pointed rock behind which he had hidden. There was such animal power in the bunched muscles of his arms, in the thick sweat-slimy neck, in the muscular straddled legs, that Sebastian knew that when he dashed Rosa against the rock he would kill her. Her spine, her ribs must shatter with the force of it; the soft vital organs within her trunk must bruise or burst.

  Sebastian went for him. Brushing from his path two lesser men of the bewildered defenders, clubbing the Mauser in his hands because he could not fire for fear of hitting Rosa, silently saving his breath for physical effort, he crossed the distance that separated them and reached them in the moment that the Askari began the first downward movement of his arms.

  ‘Aah!’ A gusty grunt was forced up Sebastian’s throat by the force with which he swung the rifle, he used it like an axe, swinging it low with the full weight of his body behind it. The blade of the butt hit the Askari across the small of his back, and within his body cavity the kidneys popped like over-ripe satsuma plums. He was dying as he toppled backwards. As he hit the ground Rosa fell on top of him, his body cushioning her fall.

  Sebastian dropped the rifle and stooped to gather her in his arms, crouching over her protectively.

  Around them Flynn led his men boiling over the defenders, swamping them, knocking the rifles from their hands and dragging them to their feet, laughing in awe of their own courageous assault, chattering in excitement and relief.

  Sebastian was on the point of straightening up and lifting Rosa to her feet, he glanced around quickly to assure himself that all danger was past – and his breathing jammed in his throat.

  Ten paces away, kneeling in the shadow of one of the huge steel wheels was the white officer. He was a young man, swarthy for a German, but with pale green eyes. The tropical white of his uniform was patchy with damp sweat stains, and smeared with dust; his cap was pushed back, the gold braid on its peak sparkling with incongruous gaiety, for beneath it the face was taut and angry, the mouth pulled tight by the clenched jaws.

  There was a Luger pistol clutched in his right hand. He lifted it and aimed.

  ‘No!’ croaked Sebastian, clumsily trying to shield Rosa with his own body, but he knew the German was going to fire.

  ‘Mädchen!’ cried Sebastian in his schoolboy German. ‘Nein shutzen dis ein Mädchen!’ and he saw the change in the young officer’s expression, the pale green glitter of his eyes softening as he responded automatically to the appeal to his chivalry. Yet still the Luger was levelled, and over it Sebastian and the officer stared at each other. All this in seconds, but the delay was enough. While the officer still hesitated, suddenly it was too late, for Flynn stood over him and pressed the muzzle of his rifle into the back of the German’s neck.

  ‘Drop it, me beauty. Else I’ll shoot your tonsils clean out through your Adam’s apple.’

  – 56 –

  Strewn along the floor of the valley were the loads dropped by the native bearers, in their anxiety to leave for far places and fairer climes. Many of the packs had burst open and all had been trampled in the rush, so the contents littered the ground and discarded clothing flapped in the lower branches of the thorn trees.

  Flynn’s men were looting, a pastime in which they demonstrated a marked aptitude and industry. Busy as jackals around a lion’s kill they gleaned the spoils and bickered over them.

  The German officer sat quietly against the metal wheel. In front of him stood Rosa; she had in her hand the Luger pistol. The two of them watched each other steadily and expressionlessly. To one side Flynn squatted and pored over the contents of the German’s pockets. Beside him Sebastian was ready to give his assistance.

  ‘He’s a naval officer,’ said Sebastian, looking at the German with interest. ‘He’s got an anchor on his cap badge.’

  ‘Do me a favour, Bassie,’ pleaded Flynn.

  ‘Of course.’ Sebastian was ever anxious to please.

  ‘Shut up!’ said Flynn, without looking up from the contents of the officer’s wallet which he had piled on the ground in front of him. In his dealings with Flynn, Sebastian had built up a thick layer of scar tissue around his sensitivity. He went on without a change of tone or expression

  ‘I wonder what on earth a naval officer is doing in the middle of t
he bush – pushing these funny contraptions around.’ Sebastian examined the wheel with interest, before addressing himself to the German. ‘Bitte, was it das?’ He pointed at the wheel. The young officer did not even glance at him. He was watching Rosa with almost hypnotic concentration.

  Sebastian repeated his question and when he found that he was again ignored he shrugged slightly, and leaned across to lift a sheet of paper from the small pile in front of Flynn.

  ‘Leave it,’ Flynn slapped his hand away. ‘I’m reading.’

  ‘Can I look at this, then?’ He touched a photograph.

  ‘Don’t lose it,’ cautioned Flynn, and Sebastian held it in his lap and examined it. It showed three young men in white overalls and naval peaked caps. They were smiling broadly into the camera with their arms linked together. In the background loomed the superstructure of a warship, the gun-turrets showed clearly. One of the men in the photograph was their prisoner who now sat against the wheel.

  Sebastian reversed the square of heavy cardboard and read the inscription on the back of it.

  ‘“Bremerhaven. 6 Aug. 1911.”’

  Both Flynn and Sebastian were absorbed in their studies, and Rosa and the German were alone. Completely alone, isolated by an intimate relationship.

  Gunther Raube was fascinated. Staring into the girl’s face, he had never known this sensation of mingled dread and elation which she invoked within him. Though her expression was flat and neutral, he could sense in her a hunger and a promise. He knew that they were bound together by something he did not understand, between them there was something very important to happen. It excited him, he felt it crawling like a living thing in his loins, ghost-walking along his spine, and his breathing was cramped and painful. Yet there was fear with it, fear that was as cloying as warm olive oil in his belly.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered huskily as a lover. ‘I do not understand. Tell me.’

  And he sensed that she could not understand his language, but his tone made something move in her eyes. They darkened like cloud shadow on a green sea, and he saw she was beautiful. With a pang he thought how close he had been to firing the Luger she now held in her hand.

  I might have killed her, and he wanted to reach out and touch her. Slowly he leaned forward, and Rosa shot him in the centre of his chest. The impact of the bullet threw him back against the metal frame of the wheel. He lay there looking at her.

  Deliberately, each shot spaced, she emptied the magazine of the pistol. The Luger jumped and steadied and jumped again in her hand. Each blurt of gun-fire shockingly loud, and the wounds appeared like magic on the white front of his shirt, beginning to weep blood as he slumped sideways, and he lay with his eyes still fastened on her face as he died.

  The pistol clicked empty and she let it drop from her hand.

  – 57 –

  Sir Percy held the square of cardboard at arm’s length to read the inscription on the back of it.

  ‘“Bremerhaven. 6 Aug. 1911,”’ he said. Across the desk from him his flag-captain sat uncomfortably on the edge of the hard-backed H.M. issue chair. His right hand reached for his pocket, checked, then withdrew guiltily.

  ‘For God’s sake, Henry. Smoke that damned thing if you must,’ grunted Sir Percy.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Gratefully Captain Henry Green completed the reach for his pocket, brought out a gnarled briar and began stuffing it with tobacco.

  Laying aside the photograph, Sir Percy took up the bedraggled sheet of paper and studied the crude hand-drawn circles upon it, reading the descriptions that were linked by arrows to the circles. This sample of primitive art had been laboriously drawn by Flynn Patrick O’Flynn as an addendum to his report.

  ‘You say this lot came in the diplomatic bag from the Embassy in Lourenco Marques?

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Who is this fellow …’ Sir Percy checked the name, ‘Flynn Patrick O’Flynn?’

  ‘It seems that he is a major in the Portuguese army, sir.’

  ‘With a name like that?’

  ‘You find these Irishmen everywhere, sir.’ The captain smiled. ‘He commands a group of scouts who raid across. the border into German territory. They have built up something of a reputation for darring-do.’

  Sir Percy grunted again, dropped the paper, clasped his hands behind his head and stared across the room at the portrait of Lord Nelson.

  ‘All right, Henry. Let’s hear what you make of it.’

  The captain held a flaring match to the bowl of his pipe and sucked noisily, waved the match to extinguish it, and spoke through wreaths of smoke.

  ‘The photograph first. It shows three German engineering officers on the foredeck of a cruiser. The one in the centre was the man killed by the scouts.’ He puffed again. ‘Intelligence reports that the cruiser is a “B” class. Nine-inch guns in raked turrets.’

  ‘“B” class?’ asked Sir Percy. ‘They only launched two vessels of that class.’

  ‘Battenberg and Blücher, sir.’

  ‘Blücher!’ said Sir Percy softly.

  ‘Blücher’ agreed Henry Green. ‘Presumed destroyed in a surface action with His Majesty’s ships Bloodhound and Orion off the east coast of Africa between 16 and 20 September.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, this officer could have been a survivor from Blücher who was lucky enough to come ashore in German East Africa – and is now serving with von Vorbeck’s army.’

  ‘Still dressed in full naval uniform, trundling strange round objects about the continent?’ asked Sir Percy sceptically.

  ‘An unusual duty, I agree, sir.’

  ‘Now what do you make of these things?’ With one finger Sir Percy prodded Flynn’s diagram in front of him.

  ‘Wheels,’ said Green.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Transporting material.’

  ‘What material?’

  ‘Steel plate.’

  ‘Now who would want steel plate on the east coast of Africa?’ mused Sir Percy.

  ‘Perhaps the captain of a damaged battle cruiser.’

  ‘Let’s go down into the plotting room.’ Sir Percy heaved his bulk out of the chair, and headed for the door.

  His shoulders hunched, massive jaw jutting, Admiral Howe brooded over the plot of the Indian Ocean.

  ‘Where was this column intercepted?’ he asked.

  ‘Here, sir.’ Green touched the vast map with the pointer. ‘About fifteen miles south-east of Kibiti. It was moving southwards towards …’ He did not finish the statement but let the tip of the marker slide down on to the complexity of islands that clustered about the mouth of the long black snake that was the Rufiji river.

  ‘Admiralty plot for East Africa, please.’ Sir Percy turned to the lieutenant in charge of the plot, and the lieutenant selected Volume II of the blue-jacketed books that lined the shelf on the far wall.

  ‘What are the sailing directions for the Rufiji mouth?’ demanded the Admiral, and the lieutenant began to read.

  ‘Ras Pombwe to Kikunya mouth, including Mto Rufiji. and Rufiji delta (Latitude 8° 17”S, Longitude 39° 20”E). For fifty miles the coast is a maze of low, swampy, mangrove-covered islands, intersected by creeks comprising the delta of Mto Rufiji. During the rainy season the whole area of the delta is frequently inundated.

  The coast of the delta is broken by ten large mouths, eight of which are connected at all times with Mto Rufiji.’

  Sir Percy interrupted peevishly, ‘What is all this Mto business?’

  ‘Arabic word for “river”, sir.’

  ‘Well, why don’t they say so? Carry on.’

  ‘With the exception of Simba Uranga mouth and Kikunya mouth, all other entrances are heavily shoaled and navigable only by craft drawing one metre or less.’

  ‘Concentrate on those two then,’ grunted Sir Percy, and the lieutenant turned the page.

  ‘Simba Uranga mouth. Used by coasting vessels engaged in the timber trade. There is no defined bar and, in 1911, the chann
el was reported by the German Admiralty as having a low river level mean of ten fathoms.

  The channel is bifurcated by a wedge-shaped island, Rufiji-ya-wake, and both arms afford secure anchorage to vessels of large burden. However, holding ground is bad and securing to trees on the bank is more satisfactory. Floating islands of grass and weed are common.’

  ‘All right!’ Sir Percy halted the recitation, and every person in the plotting room looked expectantly at him. Sir Percy was glowering at the plot, breathing heavily through his nose. ‘Where is Blücher’s plaque?’ he demanded harshly.

  The lieutenant went to the locker behind him, and came back with the black wooden disc he had removed from the plot two months previously. Sir Percy took it from him, and rubbed it slowly between thumb and forefinger. There was complete silence in the room.

  Slowly Sir Percy leaned forward across the map and placed the disc with a click upon the glass top. They all stared at it. It sat sinister as a black cancer where the green land met the blue ocean.

  ‘Communications!’ grunted Sir Percy and the yeoman of signals stepped forward with his pad ready.

  ‘Despatch to Commodore Commanding Indian Ocean. Captain Joyce. H.M.S. Renounce. Maximum Priority. Message reads: Intelligence reports indicate high probability …’

  – 58 –

  ‘You know something, Captain Joyce, this is bloody good gin.’ Flynn O’Flynn pointed the base of the glass at the ceiling, and in his eagerness to engulf the liquid, he did the same for the slice of lemon that the steward had placed in his glass. He gurgled like an air-locked geyser, his face changed swiftly to a deeper shade of red, then he expelled the lemon and with it a fine spray of gin and Indian tonic in a burst of explosive coughing.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Anxiously Captain Joyce leapt across the cabin and began pounding Flynn between the shoulder-blades. He had visions of his key tool in the coming operation being asphyxiated before they had started.

  ‘Pips!’ gasped Flynn. ‘Goddamned lemon pips.’

  ‘Steward!’ Captain Joyce called over his shoulder without interrupting the tattoo he was playing on Flynn’s back. ‘Bring the major a glass of water. Hurry!’