She shook her head and whispered, ‘Oh, Tim, I’m sorry. I lost the bow.’
‘Never mind that,’ he said, and ripped the blouse from her shoulder, careful not to jerk her. He sighed in relief; the wound was not too bad, being through the flesh part of the shoulder and not having broken the bone so far as he could judge. But she had lost a lot of blood and that had weakened her, as had the physical shock.
She said in a stronger voice, ‘But I shouldn’t have lost it—I should have held on tight. It fell into the river, Tim; I’m so sorry.’
‘Damn the bow,’ he said. ‘You’re more important.’ He plugged the wound on both sides with pieces torn from his shirt, and made a rough bandage. ‘Can you walk?’
She tried to walk and could not, so he said cheerfully, ‘Then I’ll have to carry you—fireman’s lift. Up you come.’ He slung her over his shoulder and slowly made his way back to the bridge. By the time he got to the shelter and delivered her to Benedetta she was unconscious again.
‘All the more need for a parley,’ he said grimly to Armstrong. ‘We must get Jenny on her feet again and capable of making a run for it. Has anything happened across there?’
‘Nothing. But we’ve nearly finished the trebuchet.’
It was not much later that two men began to strip the canvas from the second truck and O’Hara said, ‘Now we give it a go.’ He filled his lungs and shouted in Spanish, ‘Señors—Señors! I wish to speak to your leader. Let him step forward—we will not shoot.’
The two men stopped dead and looked at each other. Then they stared across the gorge, undecided. O’Hara said, in a sardonic aside to Armstrong, ‘Not that we’ve got much to shoot with.’
The men appeared to make up their minds. One of them ran off and presently the big man with the beard appeared from among the rocks, climbed down and walked to the abutments of the bridge. He shouted, ‘Is that Señor Aguillar?’
‘No,’ shouted O’Hara, changing into English. ‘It is O’Hara.’
‘Ah, the pilot.’ The big man responded in English, rather startling O’Hara with his obvious knowledge of their identities. ‘What do you want, Señor O’Hara?’
Benedetta had returned to join them and now said quickly, ‘This man is not a Cordilleran; his accent is Cuban.’
O’Hara winked at her. ‘Señor Cuban, why do you shoot at us?’
The big man laughed jovially. ‘Have you not asked Señor Aguillar? Or does he still call himself Montes?’
‘Aguillar is nothing to do with me,’ called O’Hara. ‘His fight is not mine—and I’m tired of being shot at.’
The Cuban threw back his head and laughed again, slapping his thigh. ‘So?’
‘I want to get out of here.’
‘And Aguillar?’
‘You can have him. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?’
The Cuban paused as though thinking deeply, and O’Hara said to Benedetta, ‘When I pinch you, scream your head off.’ She looked at him in astonishment, then nodded.
‘Bring Aguillar to the bridge and you can go free, Señor O’Hara.’
‘What about the girl?’ asked O’Hara.
‘The girl we want too, of course.’
O’Hara pinched Benedetta in the arm and she uttered a blood-curdling scream, artistically chopping it off as though a hand had been clapped to her mouth. O’Hara grinned at her and waited a few moments before he raised his voice. ‘Sorry, Señor Cuban; we had some trouble.’ He let caution appear in his tone. ‘I’m not the only one here—there are others.’
‘You will all go free,’ said the big man with an air of largesse. ‘I myself will escort you to San Croce. Bring Aguillar to the bridge now; let us have him and you can all go.’
‘That is impossible,’ O’Hara protested. ‘Aguillar is at the upper camp. He went there when he saw what was happening here at the bridge. It will take time to bring him down.’
The Cuban lifted his head suspiciously. ‘Aguillar ran away?’ he asked incredulously.
O’Hara swore silently; he had not thought that Aguillar would be held in such respect by his enemies. He quickly improvised. ‘He was sent away by Rohde, his friend. But Rohde has been killed by your machine-gun.’
‘Ah, the man who shot at us on the road just now.’ The Cuban looked down at his tapping foot, apparently undecided. Then he lifted his head. ‘Wait, Señor O’Hara.’
‘How long?’
‘A few minutes, that is all.’ He walked up the road and disappeared among the rocks.
Armstrong said, ‘He’s gone to consult with his second-in-command.’
‘Do you think he’ll fall for it?’
‘He might,’ said Willis. ‘It’s an attractive proposition. You baited it well—he thinks that Rohde has been keeping us in line and that now he’s dead we’re about to collapse. It was very well done.’
The Cuban was away for ten minutes, then he came back to the bridge accompanied by another man, a slight swarthy Indian type. ‘Very well,’ he called. ‘As the norteamericanos say, you have made a deal. How long to bring Aguillar?’
‘It’s a long way,’ shouted O’Hara. ‘It will take some time—say, five hours.’
The two men conferred and then the Cuban shouted, ‘All right, five hours.’
‘And we have an armistice?’ shouted O’Hara. ‘No shooting from either side?’
‘No shooting,’ promised the Cuban.
O’Hara sighed. ‘That’s it. We must get the trebuchet finished. We’ve got five hours’ grace. How’s Jenny, Benedetta?’
‘She will be all right. I gave her some hot soup and wrapped her in a blanket. She must be kept warm.’
‘Five hours isn’t a long time,’ said Armstrong. ‘I know we were lucky to get it, but it still isn’t long. Maybe we can string it out a little longer.’
‘We can try,’ said O’Hara. ‘But not for much longer. They’ll get bloody suspicious when the five hours have gone and we haven’t produced Aguillar.’
Armstrong shrugged. ‘What can they do that they haven’t been trying to do for the last three days?’
VI
The day wore on.
The trebuchet was repaired and O’Hara made plans for the rage that was to come. He said, ‘We have one crossbow and a pistol with one bullet—that limits us if it comes to infighting. Benedetta, you take Jenny up to the camp as soon as she can walk. She won’t be able to move fast, so you’d better get a head start in case things blow up here. I still don’t know what they’ve got in the second truck, but it certainly isn’t intended to do us any good.’
So Benedetta and Miss Ponsky went off, taking a load of Molotov cocktails with them. Armstrong and O’Hara watched the bridge, while Willis tinkered with the trebuchet, doing unnecessary jobs. On the other side of the river men had popped out from among the rocks, and the hillside seemed alive with them as they unconcernedly smoked and chatted. It reminded O’Hara of the stories he had heard of the first Christmas of the First World War.
He counted the men carefully and compared notes with Armstrong. ‘I make it thirty-three,’ he said.
‘I get thirty-five,’ said Armstrong. ‘But I don’t suppose the difference matters.’ He looked at the bowl of his pipe. ‘I wish I had some tobacco,’ he said irritably.
‘Sorry, I’m out of cigarettes.’
‘You’re a modern soldier,’ said Armstrong. ‘What would you do in their position? I mean, how would you handle the next stage of the operation?’
O’Hara considered. ‘We’ve done the bridge a bit of no good with the trebuchet, but not enough. Once they’ve got that main gap repaired they can start rushing men across, but not vehicles. I’d make a rush and form a bridgehead at this end, spreading out along this side of the gorge where we are now. Once they’ve got us away from here it won’t be much trouble to repair the rest of the bridge to the point where they can bring a couple of jeeps over. Then I’d use the jeeps as tanks, ram them up to the mine as fast as possible—they’d be there bef
ore we could arrive on foot. Once they hold both ends of the road where can we retreat to? There’s not a lot we can do about it—that’s the hell of it.’
‘Um,’ said Armstrong glumly. ‘That’s the appreciation I made.’ He rolled over on his back. ‘Look, it’s clouding over.’
O’Hara turned and looked up at the mountains. A dirty grey cloud was forming and had already blotted out the higher peaks and now swirled in misty coils just above the mine. ‘That looks like snow,’ he said. ‘If there was ever a chance of a real air-search looking for and finding us, it’s completely shot now. And it must have caught Ray flatfooted.’ He shivered. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in their boots.’
They watched the cloud for some time and suddenly Armstrong said, ‘It may be all right for us, though; I believe it’s coming low. We could do with a good, thick mist.’
When the truce had but one hour to go the first grey tendrils of mist began to curl about the bridge and O’Hara sat up as he heard a motor engine. A new arrival pulled up behind the trucks, a big Mercedes saloon car out of which got a man in trim civilian clothes. O’Hara stared across the gorge as the man walked to the bridge and noted the short square build and the broad features. He nudged Armstrong. ‘The commissar has arrived,’ he said.
‘A Russian?’
‘I’d bet you a pound to a pinch of snuff,’ said O’Hara.
The Russian—if such he was—conferred with the Cuban and an argument seemed to develop, the Cuban waving his arms violently and the Russian stolidly stonewalling with his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets. He won the argument for the Cuban suddenly turned away and issued a string of rapid orders and the hillside on the other side of the gorge became a sudden ants’ nest of activity.
The idling men disappeared behind the rocks again and it was as though the mountain had swallowed them. With frantic speed four men finished stripping the canvas from the second truck and the Cuban shouted to the Russian and waved his arms. The Russian, after one long look over the gorge, nonchalantly turned his back and strolled towards his car.
‘By God, they’re going to break the truce,’ said O’Hara tightly. He grabbed the loaded crossbow as the machine-gun suddenly ripped out and stitched the air with bullets. ‘Get back to the trebuchet.’ He aimed the bow carefully at the Russian’s back, squeezed the trigger and was mortified to miss. He ducked to reload and heard the crash of the trebuchet behind him as Willis pulled the firing lever.
When he raised his head again he found that the trebuchet shot had missed and he paled as he saw what had been pulled out of the truck. It was a prefabricated length of bridging carried by six men who had already set foot on the bridge itself. Following them was a squad of men running at full speed. There was nothing that a single crossbow bolt could do to stop them and there was no time to reload the trebuchet—they would be across the bridge in a matter of seconds.
He yelled at Willis and Armstrong. ‘Retreat! Get back up the road—to the camp!’ and ran towards the bridgehead, bow at the ready.
The first man was already across, scuttling from side to side, a sub-machine-gun at the ready. O’Hara crouched behind a rock and took aim, waiting until the man came closer. The mist was thickening rapidly and it was difficult to judge distances, so he waited until he thought the man was twenty yards away before he pulled the trigger.
The bolt took the man full in the chest, driving home right to the fletching. He shouted in a bubbling voice and threw his hands up as he collapsed, and the tightening death grip on the gun pulled the trigger. O’Hara saw the rest of the squad coming up behind him and the last thing he saw before he turned and ran was the prone figure on the ground quivering as the sub-machine-gun fired its magazine at random.
SEVEN
Rohde hacked vigorously at the ice wall with the small axe. He had retrieved it—a grisly job—and now it was coming in very useful, returning to its designed function as an instrument for survival. Forester was lying, a huddled heap of old clothing, next to the ice wall, well away from the edge of the cliff. Rohde had stripped the outer clothing from Peabody’s corpse and used it to wrap up Forester as warmly as possible before he pushed the body into the oblivion of the gathering mists below.
They needed warmth because it was going to be a bad night. The ledge was now enveloped in mist and it had started to snow in brief flurries. A shelter was imperative. Rohde stopped for a moment to bend over Forester who was still conscious, and adjusted the hood which had fallen away from his face. Then he resumed his chopping at the ice wall.
Forester had never felt so cold in his life. His hands and feet were numb and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. He was so cold that he welcomed the waves of pain which rose from his chest; they seemed to warm him and they prevented him from slipping into unconsciousness. He knew he must not let that happen because Rohde had warned him about it, slapping his face to drive the point home.
It had been a damned near thing, he thought. Another couple of slashes from Peabody’s knife and the rope would have parted to send him plunging to his death on the snow slopes far below. Rohde had been quick enough to kill Peabody when the need for it arose, even though he had been squeamish earlier. Or perhaps it wasn’t that; perhaps he believed in expending just the necessary energy and effort that the job required. Forester, watching Rohde’s easy strokes and the flakes of ice falling one by one, suddenly chuckled—a time-and-motion-study killer; that was one for the books. His weak chuckle died away as another wave of pain hit him; he clenched his teeth and waited for it to leave.
When Rohde had killed Peabody he had waited rigidly for a long time, holding the rope taut for fear that Peabody’s body would slide over the edge, taking Forester with it. Then he began to dig the ice-axe deeper into the snow, hoping to use it to belay the rope; but he encountered ice beneath the thin layer of snow and, using only one hand, he could not force the axe down.
He changed his tactics. He pulled up the axe and, frightened of being pulled forward on the slippery ice, first chipped two deep steps into which he could put his feet. That gave him the leverage to haul himself upright by the rope and he felt Peabody’s body shift under the strain. He stopped because he did not know how far Peabody had succeeded in damaging the rope and he was afraid it might part and let Forester go.
He took the axe and began to chip at the ice, making a large circular groove about two feet in diameter. He found it a difficult task because the head of the axe, improvised by Willis, was set at an awkward angle on the shaft and it was not easy to use. After nearly an hour of chipping he deepened the groove enough to take the rope, and carefully unfastening it from round his waist he belayed it round the ice mushroom he had created.
That left him free to walk to the edge of the cliff. He did not go forward immediately but stood for a while, stamping his feet and flexing his muscles to get the blood going again. He had been lying in a very cramped position. When he looked over the edge he saw that Forester was unconscious, dangling limply on the end of the rope, his head lolling.
The rope was badly frayed where Peabody had attacked it, so Rohde took a short length from round his waist and carefully knotted it above and below the potential break. That done, he began to haul up the sagging and heavy body of Forester. It was hopeless to think of going farther that day. Forester was in no condition to move; the fall had tightened the rope cruelly about his chest and Rohde, probing carefully, thought that some ribs were cracked, if not broken. So he rolled Forester up in warm clothing and relaxed on the ledge between the rock cliff and the ice wall, wondering what to do next.
It was a bad place to spend a night—even a good night—and this was going to be a bad one. He was afraid that if the wind rose to the battering strength that it did during a blizzard, then the overhanging cornice on the ice wall would topple—and if it did they would be buried without benefit of gravediggers. Again, they must have shelter from the wind and the snow, so he took the small axe, wiped the blood and the viscous grey matter from the bla
de, and began to chip a shallow cave in the ice wall.
II
The wind rose just after nightfall and Rohde was still working. As the first fierce gusts came he stopped and looked around wearily; he had been working for nearly three hours, chipping away at the hard ice with a blunt and inadequate instrument more suited to chopping household firewood. The small cleft he had made in the ice would barely hold the two of them but it would have to do.
He dragged Forester into the ice cave and propped him up against the rear wall, then he went out and brought in the three packs, arranging them at the front of the cave to form a low and totally inadequate wall which, however, served as some sort of bulwark against the drifting snow. He fumbled in his pocket and turned to Forester. ‘Here,’ he said urgently. ‘Chew these.’
Forester mumbled and Rohde slapped him. ‘You must not sleep—not yet,’ he said. ‘You must chew coca.’ He forced open Forester’s mouth and thrust a coca quid into it.
It took him over half an hour to open a pack and assemble the Primus stove. His fingers were cold and he was suffering from the effects of high altitude—the loss of energy and the mental haziness which dragged the time of each task to many times its normal length. Finally, he got the stove working. It provided little heat and less light, but it was a definite improvement.
He improvised a windshield from some pitons and pieces of blanket. Fortunately the wind came from behind, from the top of the pass and over the ice wall, so that they were in a relatively sheltered position. But vicious side gusts occasionally swept into the cave, bringing a flurry of snowflakes and making the Primus flare and roar. Rohde was glum when he thought of the direction of the wind. It was good as far as their present shelter went, but the snow cornice on top of the wall would begin to build up and as it grew heavier it would be more likely to break off. And, in the morning when they set off again, they would be climbing in the teeth of a gale.
He prayed the wind would change direction before then.
High Citadel / Landslide Page 20