Amie in Africa Box Set 1

by Lucinda E Clarke

  It is such an amateurish plan, Amie fretted. This is not the stuff of movies. No one was going to call ‘cut’ if things didn’t go to plan, but it was the best the three women could do with few resources and no experience. They could only trust to luck and hope for the best.

  Peering over the last ridge and looking down on the camp, everything looked almost peaceful. As far as they could see, the two extra vehicles had gone, so hopefully there were fewer guards. They hadn’t made a huge effort to recapture the escaped women after all. At any rate it meant fewer adversaries and that could only be in their favour.

  Lying on her stomach and pulling herself along by her elbows, Amie leopard-crawled over the ridge, slithered down the bank and crept towards the overhanging trees that marked her previous hideout. As she slid down into her hole, she was horrified to find it was half full of cold water. She should have guessed that would’ve happened. It seeped into her boots and halfway up her trousers, and as she ducked down it swirled round her hips.

  Only just in time, Amie remembered she had tucked the gun into her waistband and wrestled it free before the water reached it. She would have to hold it up to keep it dry. While it was a comfort to feel it nestled in her hand, and it gave her lots of courage, she thought she was probably fooling herself. She was convinced she would never, ever have the guts to actually fire it, not at a living, breathing human being. Inside, she was still the suburban girl from England who’d had a pampered and sheltered upbringing, wanting for nothing. The only inconveniences were things like the bus arriving late or the car refusing to start.

  She scanned the camp observing it from one end to the other. She could see they’d already removed the flag, and there was only one fire burning low in the middle of the open space between the tents. Voices reached her on the gentle wind, and she saw one or two of the soldiers walk past. She would have to wait until most of them had turned in for the night.

  She hoped she wouldn’t have to wait for long. She’d left her backpack with the others as the idea was to go in as light as possible, and make their escape back across the river. Amie looked at the water for several seconds. It was gleaming silver in the moonlight as it flowed steadily on its way to the sea. It looked quite a bit deeper than it had before, but she thought they could still walk across. She could see no sign of anything in the water and hoped and prayed that any predators would stay away.

  There was a loud roar from somewhere to her left. A lion, but how close she was not sure. For a few minutes there was silence, then another roar, and this time it alarmed the men in the camp. She saw soldiers appearing from tents, while others ran to get their guns, and they gathered in a group behind the tent where she thought Jonathon, Charles and Ben were held.

  The men were arguing and Amie could only guess some of them wanted to stay right where they were, while others were eager to go hunting. The discussion became more violent with lots of shouting and screaming, until the commander approached the group. More talking followed, until at last, six of the men broke away and with their guns held high, they hurried off in the direction of the noise.

  At least that left fewer soldiers to avoid, Amie thought, but the rest were now fully awake and she knew it would be unlikely they’d settle down into a deep, untroubled sleep if they thought there were lions nearby. She sat and waited patiently.

  Should they go in now, while there were fewer people? For several moments she considered it, then reasoned their chances would be better if most of the camp was fast asleep.

  All remained quiet, until there was another roar, dozens of shots and distant shouts of triumph. Amie groaned, yet another of Africa’s magnificent creatures slaughtered for no reason. It was most unlikely any pride would attack a camp of several tents and pose any risk to the inhabitants. She settled down to wait some more.

  The next disturbance was the sound of the men returning to the camp, dragging behind them what could only be the carcass of the lion. How utterly stupid, thought Amie. Don’t they realize the smell of blood would attract every predator within miles? They might as well have set up neon lights announcing free food for every hunting dog, jackal and hyena in the area. It told her they knew nothing about bush craft.

  The carcass was rudely dumped outside the tents near the parked Land Rovers as the rest of the men came to poke and prod it. They were full of bravado, slapping each other on the back, laughing and punching each other playfully. It was sickening to watch. She might have the courage to use the gun after all.

  Shalima had tried to explain to her small audience how to use a firearm. She’d described how to load one and how to fire different makes. But without the hardware to look at or practice with, it was not going to be much use. Amie was convinced Shalima would have no hesitation whatsoever shooting anyone who stood in her way, and that was why she’d returned with them, for revenge. She’d come to do battle for a glorious cause, for her faith, and they’d trained her and made use of her as a prostitute for oversexed soldiers. She had plenty to be angry about.

  After all the excitement it was finally time for the men to sleep, and one by one they all disappeared into their tents. Amie couldn’t see a single guard on duty.

  It was time.

  11 THE RAID ON THE CAMP

  Amie gave several ‘huhu-huhu’ noises, trying to make them rise in scale and end with a whistling sound. Mrs Motswezi had made her practice over and over again, assuring her it was the call of the Greater Eagle Owl. It was like no owl Amie had ever heard in England, but it was a call she was more familiar with in Africa. She hoped it was loud enough to carry over the ridge.

  She kept an eye on the camp while listening for the approaching women. When fingers suddenly grabbed her shoulder she nearly jumped up in alarm, but the hand held her down firmly. Mrs Motswezi squeezed her arm and Shalima materialized in the deep gloom beside her. Amie hadn’t heard a thing, not a rattle of pebbles, not a footfall, but whether it was because they’d moved silently or if Amie’s hearing was to blame she wasn’t sure. For now, she was just happy they were all re-united.

  Staying close together, they crept down the bank to the river and one by one they stepped into the water. Where before the water had come halfway up Amie’s legs, this time it was waist high. Shalima was in the lead with Mrs Motswezi in the middle and Amie bringing up the rear. When they approached the opposite bank and hauled themselves out, there was no sign of life from the camp and they wrapped their wet burqas around themselves. Amie shivered in the cool night air, and when a thick band of cloud drifted across the moon, they were all but invisible. Their hands reached out and clasped together for a brief moment before they disappeared in different directions.

  Like a wraith, Shalima made for the stores tent. The sooner she was armed the better, even if the other two idiots didn’t know how to fire a gun, she sure as hell did. It was time to feel like a real fighter again. She was looking forward to it.

  Mrs Motswezi prayed she would find both Angelina and her own sister in the women’s tent. If they’d been taken away tonight by one of the soldiers, it was going to be near impossible to rescue them, and all this would be for nothing. Like many Africans, Mrs Motswezi was fatalistic about life and death, but if she had a choice, she would prefer to live many more years. She’d been born a teacher and she believed that was her mission in life; to love, care for, protect and teach the little ones.

  Amie crouched and ran towards the tent she thought housed Jonathon, Charles and Ben. She’d only caught one quick glimpse of them, and she had no idea what state they might be in. She tried not to think what she would do if they’d been tortured and couldn’t walk, or if they’d been drugged and resisted her attempts to help them escape.

  To her surprise, there were no guards near the tent and she wondered if they’d only been there on show for the visitors. She tracked a wide circle around the outside of the encampment, and approached the rear wall. She knelt on the ground and tugged at the thick canvas, hoping to peep under it and check if it was th
e right one, but it held firm. She felt along the edge to see if she could pull out one of the ground pegs to loosen the tension. The rain had softened the earth and she managed to wriggle one of the steel spikes clear, but when she went back to yank at the bottom of the canvas, it remained stubbornly in place.

  The only other option she had was to cut the canvas with her knife. Since they only had one knife between the three of them, and possession being nine tenths of the law, Amie had not handed it over. She poked the point of the knife into the tent wall and jiggled and rotated it to make a hole in the canvas.

  Shalima stood silently in the shadows and studied the two tents she thought housed the stores. She wasn’t interested in the food tent, although after a couple of days chewing on hard biltong and a few spoonfuls of canned meat, her stomach was feeling extremely sore. Amie had collected some leaves which she’d assured Shalima were good and wholesome to eat, but they’d tasted of nothing much and hadn’t given her that nice, full feeling you get after a good meal.

  When she’d signed up, she thought she was going to the Middle East, at least within a shout of civilization. She’d even dreamed about visiting interesting places there. She hadn’t expected to be dumped in a hellhole in the middle of the African nowhere. It was hot, the flies were pesky and there were all kinds of extra dangers, not so much from the wild animals but from the small stuff: mosquitoes, snakes and all kinds of ugly-looking creepy crawlies. Perhaps Birmingham wasn’t such a bad place to live after all? No, what was she thinking? She’d escaped once and she would never, ever go back. She wouldn’t tell her parents or any of her family where she was or even if she was alive. Let them worry about her; it would serve them right.

  She snapped out of her trance and went to investigate the nearest tent. Now, if she’d been in charge of the camp, would she have placed the weapons store on the outskirts in case there was an accident? Or further into the middle between two sleeping tents for security? There was a fifty-fifty chance she’d get it right and she might not have time to try it twice.

  Mrs Motswezi was shivering as she tiptoed to the front of the women’s tent. They’d cut a long slit in the back wall facing the river when everyone escaped before, but this tent looked new, so they’d replaced it. She checked to see if the coast was clear but there was no one in sight, no soldiers on guard duty that she could see. In the centre of the compound the last embers of the fire burned low inside the circle of stones, and the smell from the carcass of the dead lion wafted past her on the wind. She edged round to the front of the tent, keeping her back close to the canvas, and felt with her right hand for the fastening. The old tent flaps had been secured with rope, but this one was closed with a zip.

  Frantically she put her hand to the top of the tent and felt around for the slider to pull the zip open but there was nothing there. Then it dawned on her the zip might open from the bottom so she bent over and grasped the metal tag. She pulled it up, just enough for her to duck down and crawl into the tent.

  A whimper from inside greeted her but the occupants tried to scramble away. It was too dark to see how many people were huddled in there but Mrs Motswezi stretched her hand out and whispered, “Do not be afraid. It is me, Nomphsela. I have returned for you.”

  The nearest person threw herself forwards sobbing quietly.

  “Is it really you Nomsa? Have you come back for us?”

  “Yes, but you must be quiet. We must crawl away very, very quietly. Do you understand? How many of you are there? Who is here?”

  “Sister, it is only me and Angelina. We are the only two. The other woman was taken away and I think now she is late.”

  “Come now. We are going to creep out and cross the river.”

  As quickly as she could, Mrs Motswezi untied them and wrapped them in their burqas. Then she pushed them out of the tent and they wormed their way towards the river.

  Amie made a hole large enough in the canvas to rotate the knife before she could begin to slice it downwards, shredding the material. It was a lot thicker than the tent which housed the women, and she had to saw backwards and forwards, inch by inch until the split was large enough to see inside.

  The knife was, by now, very blunt and Amie sweated in the cool night air, she felt it run into her eyes which made them sting. Impatiently she paused to wipe her face on her burqa then continued until she had an opening wide enough to put both hands in to rip the material. But however hard she pulled, it refused to tear and she didn’t have the strength to make the opening any larger. She picked up the knife again and continued to saw her way through.

  She gritted her teeth and wished she had the courage to go around to the other side of the tent and untie the laces, but the opening faced the commander’s tent on opposite side of the compound. It would be faster, but she was afraid of being seen. This was slower, but safer.

  Shalima made a decision and crept to the tent she figured housed the ammunition. Since she didn’t have any means of cutting her way in, she had no option but to lie flat and wriggle along the ground until she could reach the front flaps. She pulled the zip up a couple of feet and wriggled inside.

  It was almost pitch black, and she was unable to see very much. There appeared to be rudely constructed shelves on either side, but at first glance it was impossible to see if they were holding saucepans or armaments. She raised her hand to explore the nearest shelf, but to her disgust all she could feel were small round tins which probably contained food. Further along, her fingers came into contact with a canvas bag followed by paper sacks. She rubbed her fingers over the paper and licked them. They tasted of flour. Shit! She’d broken into the food tent. What bloody bad luck was that? But as her fingers explored further along, she felt a sturdy handle. Excited she pulled it down. It was a large knife. Of course, they would also store the kitchen utensils in here along with the food, now why hadn’t she thought of that? Running her thumb along the side, she could feel it was razor sharp.

  As cautiously as she could, she crawled backwards and turned around. She would have to start all over again on the next tent, but at least she now had a combined weapon and tool. As she swung around, her hand passed over something made of canvas with buckles on it that was lying on the ground. On impulse, Shalima opened it, reached up and grabbed several tins off the shelf and pushed them into the bag. She was sick of trying to chew her way through all that hard, raw meat Amie called biltong. If they got away from here, she was going to get inside these tins and have a proper meal for a change.

  By now, Mrs Motswezi, her sister Phumelo and Angelina had reached the river bank, but they had a problem. While Angelina was quite prepared to walk across and even try to swim a little way, Phumelo absolutely refused to get into the water.

  “We must cross,” the headmistress hissed into her ear. “It is the only way we can escape. Come, it is not far,” and she attempted to half push, half pull her into the water. But Phumelo shrank back, curling up into a small ball on the bank of the river. She was terrified and had gone into a state of shock. She wrapped her arms round her legs, put her head down, rocked backwards and forwards, and refused to move.

  Angelina came around the other side of her and tried to shove her into the water, but the child was not strong enough and Phumelo wouldn’t budge.

  Mrs Motswezi turned to her. “Angelina, you go across now, as quickly as you can. You will be safe on the other side. Look, see those bushes up there, near the big tree?”

  Angelina nodded.

  “Make for those. Hide and stay very still and I will come. Good girl. Go! Go now!”

  Angelina hesitated for a second, turned away and waded into the river. She gave a gasp as the cold water wrapped round the bottom of her burqa, trapping her legs. Mrs Motswezi leaned forwards and tugged it as hard as she could and part of it came free. “Drag it behind you with one hand,” she instructed in as loud a whisper as she dared. “Don’t let go of it, don’t let go. You understand?”

  Angelina nodded and started to wade out tow
ards the middle of the river, while her old headmistress turned back to her sister. Looking over her shoulder, the child could see Mrs Motswezi giving Phumelo a good shake. She hoped and prayed they would follow her soon, she did not want to be hiding in the bushes all by herself with no one to help her. What would she do, where would she go? She was very scared.

  Shalima crammed as many tins into the bag as she could, and dragging it behind her, she scanned the area for somewhere to hide it. Just then, she saw something which gave her an idea; it might tip the balance in their favour. But first, she had to break into the other supply tent and see if she could relieve her previous captors of their weapons. It’s a pity I don’t have time to disable them, she thought, but most of the soldiers kept their guns with them at all times.

  Silently, she crept around the back of the sleeping tents, counting them to make sure she got the right one. For a moment she paused. One, two, three on this side of the compound, it must be the middle one. She poked a hole through the canvas with her new knife and peered in. It was difficult to see anything, but she’d have to take a chance. She slashed downwards making the gash large enough for her to squeeze through.

  By now, Amie had finally made a hole large enough for her to wriggle into the prison tent. There was only one person inside. He was staring at her, the whites of his eyes shining in the dark face. Amie’s first thought was she’d broken into a tent where the soldiers slept, and any moment the soldier was going to grab her and raise the alarm. She was expecting the worst. But this figure didn’t leap up and alert the whole camp, it just stared at her.

  Amie didn’t move a muscle, she didn’t know what to do. She felt for the gun and gripped it firmly in her left hand. Taking a deep breath, she hissed, “Who are you?”