Shout at the Devil

by Wilbur Smith

  – 76 –

  The sun pushed up and sat fat and fiery as molten gold, on the hills of the Rufiji basin. Its warmth lifted streamers of mist from the swamps and reed-beds that bounded the Abati river, and they smoked like the ashes of a dying fire.

  Under the fever trees the air was still cool with the memory of the night, but the sun sent long yellow shafts of light probing through the branches to disperse and warm it.

  Three old eland bulls came up from the river, bigger than domestic cattle, light bluey-brown in colour with faint chalk stripes across the barrel of their bodies, they walked in single file, heavy dewlaps swinging, thick stubby horns held erect, and the tuft of darker hair on their foreheads standing out clearly. They reached the grove of fever trees and the lead bull stopped, suddenly alert. For long seconds they stood absolutely still, staring into the open palisade of fever-tree trunks where the light was still vague beneath the canopy of interlaced leaves and branches.

  The lead bull blew softly through his nostrils, and swung off the game path that led into the grove. Stepping lightly for such large animals, the three eland skirted the grove and moved away to blend into the dry thorn scrub higher up the slope.

  ‘He is in there,’ whispered Mohammed. ‘The eland saw him, and turned aside.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Flynn. ‘It is such a place as he would choose to lie up for the day.’ He sat in the crotch of a M’banga tree, wedged securely ten feet above the ground, and peered across three hundred yards of open grassland at the dense stand of fever trees. The hands that held the binoculars to his eyes were unsteady with gin and excitement, and he was sweating, a droplet broke from his hair-line and slid down his cheek, tickling like an insect. He brushed it away.

  ‘A wise man would leave him, and walk away even as the eland did.’ Mohammed gave his opinion. He leaned against the base of the tree, holding Flynn’s rifle across his chest. Flynn did not reply. He peered through the binoculars, swinging them slowly in an arc as he searched.

  ‘He must be deep among the trees, I cannot see him from here.’ And he loosened his leg grip from the crotch and clambered down to where Mohammed waited. He took his rifle and checked the load.

  ‘Leave him, Fini,’ Mohammed urged softly. ‘There is no profit in it. ‘We cannot carry the teeth away.’

  ‘Stay here,’ said Flynn.

  ‘Fini, the Allemand will hear you. They are close – very close.’

  ‘I will not shoot,’ said Flynn. ‘I must see him again – that is all. I will not shoot.’

  Mohammed took the gin bottle from the haversack and handed it to him. Flynn drank.

  ‘Stay here,’ he repeated, his voice husky from the burn of the raw spirit.

  ‘Be careful, Fini. He is an old one of evil temper – be careful.’ Mohammed watched Flynn start out across the clearing. He walked with the slow deliberation of a man who goes in good time to a meeting that has long been prearranged. He reached the grove of fever trees and walked on into them without checking.

  Plough the Earth was sleeping on his feet. His little eyes closed tightly in their wrinkled pouches. Tears had oozed in a long dark stain down his cheeks, and a fine haze of midges hovered about them. Tattered as battle-riven banners on a windless day, his ears lay back against his shoulders. His tusks were crutches that propped up the gnarled old head, and his trunk hung down between them, grey and slack and heavy.

  Flynn saw him, and picked his way towards him between the trunks of the fever trees. The setting had an unreal quality, for the light effect of the low sun through the branches was golden beams reflected in shimmering misty green from the leaves of the fever trees. The grove was resonant with the whine of cicada beetles.

  Flynn circled out until he was head on to the sleeping elephant, and then he moved in again. Twenty paces from him Flynn stopped. He stood with his feet set apart, the rifle held ready across one hip, and his head thrown back as he looked up at the unbelievable bulk of the old bull.

  Up to this moment Flynn still believed that he would not shoot. He had come only to look at him once more, but it was as futile as an alcoholic who promised himself just one taste. He felt the madness begin at the base of his spine, hot and hard it poured into his body, filling him as though he were a container. The level rose to his throat and he tried to check it there, but the rifle was coming up. He felt the butt in his shoulder. Then he heard with surprise a voice, a voice that rang clearly through the grove and instantly stilled the whine of the cicadas. It was his own voice, crying out in defiance of his conscious resolve.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he shouted. And the old elephant burst from massive quiescence into full charge. It came down on him like a dynamited cliff of black rock. He saw it over the open rear sight of his rifle, saw it beyond the minute pip of the foresight that rode unwaveringly in the centre of the old bull’s bulging brow – between the eyes, where the crease of skin at the base of its trunk was a deep lateral line.

  The shot was thunderous, shattering into a thousand echoes against the boles of the fever trees. The elephant died in the fullness of his run. Legs buckled, and he came toppling forward, carried by his own momentum, a loose avalanche of flesh and bone and long ivory.

  Flynn turned aside like a matador from the run of the bull, three quick dancing steps and then one of the tusks hit him. It took him across the hip with a force that hurled him twenty feet, the rifle spinning from his hands so that as he fell and rolled in the soft bed of loose trash and leaf mould, his lower body twisted away from his trunk at an impossible angle. His brittle old bones had broken like china; the ball of the femur snapping off in its socket, his pelvis fracturing clean through.

  Lying face down, Flynn was mildly surprised that there was no pain. He could feel the jagged edges of bone rasping together deep in his flesh at his slightest movement, but there was no pain.

  Slowly, pulling himself forward on his elbows so that his legs slithered uselessly after him, he crawled towards the carcass of the old bull.

  He reached it, and with one hand stroked the yellowed shaft of ivory that had crippled him.

  ‘Now,’ he whispered, fondling the smoothly polished tusk the way a man might touch his firstborn son. ‘Now, at last you are mine.’

  And then the pain started, and he closed his eyes and cowered down, huddled beneath the hillock of dead and cooling flesh that had been Plough the Earth. The pain buzzed in his ears like cicada beetles, but through it he heard Mohammed’s voice.

  ‘Fini. It was not wise.’

  He opened his eyes and saw Mohammed’s monkey face puckered with concern.

  ‘Call Rosa,’ he croaked. ‘Call Little Long Hair. Tell her to come.’

  Then he closed his eyes again, and rode the pain. The tempo of the pain changed constantly – first it was drums, tom-toms that throbbed and beat within him. Then it was the sea, long undulating swells of agony. Then again it was night, cold black night that chilled him so he shivered and moaned – and the night gave way to the sun. A great fiery ball of pain that burned and shot out lances of blinding light that burst against his clenched eyelids. Then the drums began again.

  Time was of no significance. He rode the pain for a minute and a million years, then through the beat of the drums of agony he heard movement near him. The shuffle of feet through the dead leaves, the murmur of voices that were not part of his consuming anguish.

  ‘Rosa,’ Flynn whispered, ‘you have come!’

  He rolled his head and forced his eyelids open.

  Herman Fleischer stood over him. He was grinning. His face flushed as a rose petal, fresh sweat clinging in his pale eyebrows, breathing quickly and heavily with exertion as though he had been running, but he was grinning.

  ‘So!’ he wheezed. ‘So!’

  The shock of his presence was muted for Flynn by the haze of pain in which he lay. There were smears of dust dulling the gloss of Fleischer’s jackboots, and dark patches of sweat had soaked through the thick grey corduroy tunic at the armpits. He hel
d a Luger pistol in his right hand and with his left hand he pushed the slouch hat to the back of his head.

  ‘Herr Flynn!’ he said and chuckled. It was the fat infectious chuckle of a healthy baby.

  Mildly Flynn wondered how Fleischer had found him so quickly in the broken terrain and thick bush. The shot would have alerted him, but what had led him directly to the grove of fever trees?

  Then he heard a rustling fluting rush in the air above him, and he looked upwards. Through the lacework of branches he saw the vultures spiralling against the aching blue of the sky. They turned and dipped on spread black wings, cocking their heads sideways in flight to look down with bright beady eyes on the elephant carcass.

  ‘Ja! The birds. We followed the birds.’

  ‘Jackals always follow the birds,’ whispered Flynn, and Fleischer laughed. He threw back his head and laughed with genuine delight.

  ‘Good. Oh, ja. That is good.’ And he kicked Flynn. He swung the jackboot lazily into Flynn’s body, and Flynn shrieked. The laughter dried instantly in Fleischer’s throat, and he bent quickly to examine Flynn.

  He noticed for the first time how his lower body was grotesquely twisted and distorted. And he dropped to his knees beside him. Gently he touched Flynn’s forehead, and deep concern flashed across his chubby features at the clammy cold feeling of the skin.

  ‘Sergeant!’ There was a desperate edge to his voice now. ‘This man is badly injured. He will not last long. Be quick! Get the rope! We must hang him before he loses consciousness.’

  – 77 –

  Rosa awoke in the dawn and found that she was alone. Beside Flynn’s personal pack, his discarded blanket had been carelessly flung aside. His rifle was gone.

  She was not alarmed, not at first. She guessed that he had gone into the bush on one of his regular excursions to be alone while he drank his breakfast. But an hour later when he had not returned she grew anxious. She sat with her rifle across her lap, and every bird noise or animal scuffle in the ebony thicket jarred her nerves.

  Another hour and she was fretting. Every few minutes she stood up and walked to the edge of the clearing to listen. Then she went back to sit and worry.

  Where on earth was Flynn? Why had Mohammed not returned? What had happened to Sebastian? Was he safe, or had he been discovered? Had Flynn gone to assist him? Should she wait here, or follow them down the draw?

  Her eyes haunted, her mouth hard set with doubts, she sat and twisted the braid of her hair around one finger in a nervously restless gesture.

  Then Mohammed came. Suddenly he appeared out of the thicket beside her, and Rosa jumped up with a low cry of relief. The cry died in her throat as she saw his face.

  ‘Fini!’ he said. ‘He is hurt. The great elephant has broken his bones and he lies in pain. He asks for you.’

  Rosa stared at him, appalled, not understanding.

  ‘An elephant?’

  ‘He followed Plough the Earth, the great elephant, and killed him. But in dying the elephant struck him, breaking him.’

  ‘The fool. Oh, the fool!’ Rosa whispered. ‘Now of all times. With Sebastian in danger, he must …’ And then she caught herself and broke off her futile lament. ‘Where is he, Mohammed? Take me to him.’

  Mohammed led along one of the game paths, Rosa ran behind him. There was no time for caution, no thought of it as they hurried to find Flynn. They came to the stream of the Abati, and swung off the path, staying on the near bank. They plunged through a field of arrow grass, skirted around a tiny swamp and ran on into a stand of buffalo thorn. As they emerged on the far side Mohammed stopped abruptly and looked at the sky.

  The vultures turned in a high wheel against the blue, like debris in a lazy whirlwind. The spot above which they circled lay half a mile ahead.

  ‘Daddy!’ Rosa choked on the word. In an instant all the hardness accumulated since that night at Lalapanzi disappeared from her face.

  ‘Daddy!’ she said again, and then she ran in earnest. Brushing past Mohammed, throwing her rifle aside so it clattered on the earth, she darted out of the buffalo thorn and into the open.

  ‘Wait, Little Long Hair. Be careful.’ Mohammed started after her. In his agitation he stepped carelessly, full on to a fallen twig from the buffalo thorn. There was a worn spot on the sole of his sandal, and three inches of cruel red-tipped thorn drove up through it and buried in his foot.

  For a dozen paces he struggled on after Rosa, hopping on one leg, flapping his arms to maintain his balance and calling, but not too loudly.

  ‘Wait! Be careful, Little Long Hair.’

  But she took not the least heed, and went away from him, leaving him at last to sink down and tend to his wounded foot.

  She crossed the open ground before the fever-tree grove with the slack, blundering steps of exhaustion. Running silently, saving her breath for the effort of reaching her father. She ran into the grove, and a drop of perspiration fell into her eye, blurring her vision so she staggered against one of the trunks. She recovered her balance and ran on into the midst of them.

  She recognized Herman Fleischer instantly. She had run almost against his chest, and his huge body towered over her. She screamed with shock and twisted away from the bear-like arms outspread to clutch her.

  Two of the native Askari who were working over the crude litter on which lay Flynn O’Flynn, jumped up. As she ran they closed on her from either side, the way a pair of trained greyhounds will course a hare. They caught her between them, and dragged her struggling and screaming to where Herman Fleischer waited.

  ‘Ah, so!’ Fleischer nodded pleasantly in greeting. ‘You have come in time for the fun.’ Then he turned to his sergeant. ‘Have them tie the woman.’

  Rosa’s screams penetrated the light mists of insensibility that screened Flynn’s brain. He stirred on the litter, muttering incoherently, rolling his head from side to side, then he opened his eyes and focused them with difficulty. He saw her struggling between the Askari and he snapped back into full consciousness.

  ‘Leave her!’ he roared. ‘Call those bloody animals off her. Leave her, you murderous bloody German bastard.’

  ‘Good!’ said Herman Fleischer. ‘You are awake now.’ Then he lifted his voice above Flynn’s bellows. ‘Hurry, Sergeant, tie the woman – and get the rope up.’

  While they secured Rosa, one of the Askari shinned up the smooth yellow trunk of a fever tree. With his bayonet he hacked the twigs from the thick horizontal branch above their heads. The sergeant threw the end of the rope up to him, and at the second attempt the Askari caught it and passed it over the branch. Then he dropped back to earth.

  There was a hangman’s knot fixed in the rope, ready for use.

  ‘Set the knot,’ said Fleischer, and the sergeant went to where Flynn lay. With poles cut from a small tree they had rigged a combination litter and splints. The poles had been laid down Flynn’s flanks from ankle to armpit, with bark strips they had bound them firmly so that Flynn’s body was held rigidly as that of an Egyptian mummy, only his head and neck were free.

  The sergeant stooped over him, and Flynn fell silent, watching him venomously. As his hands came down with the noose to loop it over Flynn’s head, Flynn moved suddenly. He darted his head forward like a striking adder and fastened his teeth in the man’s wrist. With a howl the sergeant tried to pull away, but Flynn held on, his head jerking and wrenching as the man struggled.

  ‘Fool,’ grunted Fleischer, and strode over to the litter. He lifted his foot and placed it on Flynn’s lower body. As he brought his weight down on it Flynn stiffened and gasped with pain, releasing the Askari’s wrist.

  ‘Do it this way.’ Fleischer lunged forward and took a handful of Flynn’s hair, roughly he yanked Flynn’s head forward. ‘Now, the rope, quickly.’

  The Askari dropped the noose over Flynn’s head and drew the slip-knot tight until it lay snugly under Flynn’s ear.

  ‘Good.’ Fleischer stepped back. ‘Four men on the rope,’ he ordered. ‘Gently. Do
not jerk the rope. Walk away with it slowly. I don’t want to break his neck.’

  Rosa’s hysteria had stilled into cold horror as she watched the preparations for the execution, and now she found her voice again.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘He’s my father. Please don’t. Oh, no, please don’t.’

  ‘Hush, girl,’ roared Flynn. ‘You’d not shame me now by pleading with this fat bag of pus.’ He swivelled his head, his eyes rolled towards the four Askari who stood ready with the rope end. ‘Pull! You black sons of bitches. Pull! And damn you. I’ll beat you to hell, and speak to the devil so he’ll have you castrated and smeared with pig’s fat.’

  ‘You heard what Fini told you,’ smiled Fleischer at his Askari. ‘Pull!’

  And they walked backwards in single file, shuffling through the dead leaves, leaning against the rope.

  The litter lifted slowly at one end, came upright and then left the ground.

  Rosa turned away and clenched her eyelids tight closed, but her hands were bound so she could not stop her ears, she could not keep out the sounds that Flynn Patrick O’Flynn made as he died.

  When at last there was silence, Rosa was shivering. Hard spasms that shuddered through her whole body.

  ‘All right,’ said Herman Fleischer. ‘That’s it. Bring the woman. We can get back to camp in time for lunch if we hurry.’

  When they were gone, the litter and its contents still hung in the fever tree. Swinging a little and turning slowly on the end of the rope. Near it lay the carcass of the elephant, and a vulture planed down slowly and made a flapping ungainly landing in the top branches of the fever tree. It sat hunched and suspicious, then suddenly squawked and launched again into noisy flight, for it had seen the man coming.

  The little old man limped slowly into the grove. He stopped beside the dead elephant and looked up at the man who had been his master and his friend.

  ‘Go in peace, Fini!’ said Mohammed.

  – 78 –

  The alleyway was a narrow low-roofed corridor, the bulkheads were painted a pale grey that glistened in the harsh light of the electric globes set in small wire cages at regular intervals along the roof.