by Wilbur Smith
money," Gareth greeted the Captain. "My name is Swales. Major
Swales." The Captain had trained his oiled black hair into a queue
that hung down his back. He seemed to cultivate the buccaneer image.
"My name is Papadopoulos." He grinned for the first time.
"And the talk of money is sweet like music." He held out his hand.
Gareth and Vicky Camberwell came to Jake's camp in the mahogany forest,
bearing gifts.
"This is a surprise," Jake greeted them sardonically as he straightened
up from the welding set with the torch still flaring in his hand. "I
thought you two had eloped."
"Business first, pleasure later." Gareth handed Vicky down from the
ricksha. "No, my dear Jake, we have been working hard." J can see
that. You look really worn out with your labours." Jake doused the
welding torch and accepted the bucket of Tusker beer. He broached two
bottles -immediately, handing one to Greg and lifting the other to his
own lips. He wore only a pair of greasy khaki shorts.
When he lowered it, he grinned. "But, what the hell, I was dying of
thirst and so I forgive you."
"You have saved our lives, Major
Swales and Miss Camberwell," agreed Greg, and saluted them with the de
wed bottle.
"What on earth is this?" Gareth turned to inspect the massive
construction on which Jake and Greg had been working, and Jake patted
it proudly.
"It's a raft." He circled the complicated platform of empty oil drums
with its decking of timber slats, indicating its finer features with
the half-empty beer bottle.
"Armoured cars don't swim, and we have to land them on a shelving
beach. It's unlikely we will be able to get within a hundred yards of
the shore. We'll float them off." Vicky was looking at the fine
muscling of Jake's shoulders and arms, at the flat belly and the dark
pelt of hair that covered his chest, but Gareth was fascinated by the
crudely constructed raft.
"I was going to talk to you about landing the cars, and suggest
something like this," Gareth said, and Jake lifted an eyebrow at him in
disbelief.
"All we must make sure of is that the vessel that lands us has a
derrick strong enough to swing the cars outboard."
"What do they weigh?"
"Five tons each."
"Fine, the HirondeUe can handle that."
"The Hirondelle?"
"The vessel that's transporting us."
"So you have been working."
Jake laughed. "I would never have believed it of you. When do we
sail?"
"Dawn, the day after tomorrow. We will load during the night not
wanting to advertise our cargo and we will sail at first light."
"That doesn't give me much time to teach Miss Camberwell to drive one
of the cars." Jake turned to her now, and once again felt the thrill
of looking into those speckled eyes of green and gold. "I'm going to
need a deal of your time."
"That's one thing I've got plenty of at the moment." For Vicky the
interlude in Dares Salaam had served to rest her tired and strained
nerves. her previous assignment at Geneva had been irksome and
wearying. She had spent the last few days exploring the ancient port
and writing a two-thousand-word filler on its origins and history. She
had enjoyed Gareth Swales's attentions and the by-play of avoiding his
more serious advances. Now she was becoming aware of Jake
Barton's smouldering admiration. Nothing like being pursued by two
tough, dangerous and forceful males to relax a girl, she thought, and
smiled at Jake, enjoying his reaction, and watching Gareth Swales
bridle and move in to intervene.
"I can give Vicky a bit of instruction on the jolly old machines, don't
want to take you off important work." Vicky did not turn her head, but
went on smiling at Jake.
"I think that's rather Mr. Barton's department," she said.
"Jake," said Jake.
"Vicky," said Vicky.
This whole business was turning out very well indeed. A good story to
chase, a worthy cause to support, another daring escapade to add to the
blooming lustre of her reputation. She knew none of her colleagues had
dared the League's sanctions and violated international frontiers with
a gang of gun-runners to file a story.
As a bonus, there were two attractive males for company, It all looked
very good indeed, just as long as she kept it all on a manageable
basis, and did not let her emotions get into an uproar once more.
They followed the path down through the mahogany forest, and she smiled
secretly to herself as she watched Gareth and Jake jockeying for
position beside her. However, when they reached the clearing, Gareth
stopped abruptly.
"What now? "he demanded.
"The paint job is Greg's idea," explained Jake. "Make people think
twice before they start shooting at us." The four vehicles were now
painted a glistening snowy white, and the turrets were emblazoned with
a flaming scarlet cross.
"if the French or the Italians try to stop us, we are a unit of
armoured ambulances of the International Red Cross.
You, Greg and I are doctors, and Vicky is a nursing sister."
"My
God, you have been busy." Vicky was impressed.
"Also the white paint will be cooler in the desert," Greg explained
seriously. "They call it the "Great Burn" with good reason."
"The carrying racks I designed," said Jake. "Each vehicle will be able
to carry two forty-gallon drums of gasoline and one of water at the
rear of the turret. The crates of arms and ammunition we will
distribute between the four of them and rope them down here across the
sponsons, - I have welded cleats here to take the ropes."
"The crates will be a dead giveaway," objected Gareth.
"They are all marked-"
"We'll plane off the marking and re-label them as medical supplies,
"Jake told him, then took Vicky's arm. "I've chosen this one for you.
She's the most docile and friendly of the four."
"Do they have characters of their own?" Vicky teased him, and laughed
at the seriousness of his reply.
"They are just like women. My iron ladies," he slapped the nearest
machine. "This one is an absolute darling except that her rear
suspension is slightly out of alignment, so she waggles her bottom a
bit at speed. It's nothing serious, however, but it's why her name
is
Miss Wobbly. She's yours.
You'll grow to love her. "Jake walked on and kicked the tyre of the
next car. "This one is the bitch of the party. She tried to break my
wrist the very first time I ever cranked her. She is known as
Priscilla the Pig. I'm the only one who can handle her. She doesn't
love me, but she respects me." He moved on. "Greg has chosen this one
and called her Tenastelin which means "God is with us" - I hope he is
right, but I doubt it. Greg is a bit funny about that sort of thing.
He tells me he was going to be a priest once." He winked at the
youngster. "Gareth, this one is yours she has a brand new carburettor.
I think it is only fair you should
enjoy her, since you are the one who
risked all to obtain it."
"Oh?" Vicky's eyes lit with interest, the news-hound in her aroused.
"What happened?"
"It's a long story," Jake grinned, "but it involved a long and
dangerous ride on a camel. "Gareth choked on a lungful of cheroot
smoke and coughed, but
Jake went on remorselessly, "She shall therefore be known in future
as
Henrietta the Hump the Hump for short."
"How very cute," said Vicky.
After midnight the four vehicles moved in column through the dark and
sleeping streets of the old town. The steel shutters were closed down
over the headlights so that only a narrow strip of light was thrown
forwards and downwards. The engines were idling as they moved at
walking speed under the trees whose spread branches hung over the road
and hid the stars.
The cars were heavily loaded. the burden that each of them carried
were drums and crate st coils of rope and netting,
trenching tools and camping equipment.
Gareth Swales led the column, freshly shaven and dressed in grey
flannel Oxford bags and a white jersey with the I Zingari cricket
colours adorning the neck and cuffs. He was mildly concerned that the
proprietor of the Royal Hotel might become aware of his imminent
departure, for there was a bill for three weeks" board outstanding and
a formidable pile of unpaid chit ties signed with the Swales flourish
for champagne supplied. Gareth would definitely feel happier out at
sea.
Gregorius Maryam followed him closely. His hereditary title was
Gerazinach, "Commander of the Left Wing', and his warrior blood coursed
through his veins mingling with the deeply religious Old Testament
teachings of the Coptic Christian Church, so that his eyes shone with
an almost mystic fanaticism and his heart soared with a young man's
fierce patriotism, for he was still young enough and inexperienced
enough to look on the dirty bloody business of war as something
glamorous and manly.
Behind him came Vicky Camberwell, driving Miss Wobbly with competence
and precision. Jake was delighted with her ability to judge the engine
beat, and to mesh the ancient gears with a light touch on clutch and
stick. She too was excited by the prospect of adventure,
and new experience. That afternoon she had filed her preliminary
report
, despatching five thousand words by the new airmail service that would
deposit them on her editor's desk in New York within ten days.
She had explained the background, the clear intent of Benito Mussolini
to annex the sovereign territories of Ethiopia, the world's
indifference, the arms embargo. "Do not delude yourselves" she had
written, "into the belief that I am crying wolf. The wolf of Rome is
already hunting.
What is about to happen in the mountains of northern Africa will shame
the civilized world." And then she had gone on to expose the intention
of the great nations to prevent her reaching the embattled empire and
reporting its plight. She had ended the despatch, "Your correspondent
has rejected this restriction placed upon her movements and her
integrity. Tonight
I have joined a group of intrepid men who are risking their lives to
defy the embargo, and to carry through the closed territories a
quantity of arms and supplies desperately needed by the beleaguered
nation. By the time you read this, we shall have failed and have died
upon the desert coast of Africa, which the natives fearfully call the
"Great Burn" or we shall have succeeded. We shall have landed by night
from a small coasting vessel and trekked through hundreds of miles of
savage and hostile territory to a meeting with an Ethiopian prince. I
hope that in my next despatch, I shall be able to describe our journey
to you, but if the gods of chance decree otherwise at least we shall
have tried." Vicky was very pleased with the first article. In her
usual flamboyant style, she particularly liked the
"trekking" bit which gave a touch of local colour. It had
everything:
drama, mystery, the little guy taking on the big.
She knew that the completed series would be a giant and she was excited
and aglow with anticipation.
Behind her Jake Barton followed. He listened with half his attention
to the engine beat of the Pig. For no apparent reason,
except perhaps a premonition of what awaited her, the car had that
night refused to start. Jake had cranked her until his arm was cramped
and aching. He had blown through the fuel system, checked the plugs,
magneto and every other moving part that could possibly be at fault.
Then, after another hour of tinkering, she had started and run sweetly,
without giving the slightest hint of what had prevented her doing so
earlier.
With the other half of his attention, he was mentally in the mountains
checking out his preparations knowing that this was his last chance to
fill any gaps in his list. It was one hell of a long trail from Month
to the Wells of Chaldi and not many service stations on the road. The
pontoon raft of drums had been stowed aboard the HirondeUe that
afternoon, and each car carried its own means of sustenance and
survival a load which taxed their ancient suspensions and body work
Thus Jake's conscious mind was fully occupied, but below that level was
a gut memory that tightened his nerves and charged his blood with
adrenaline There had been another night like this, moving in column in
the darkness, with the throttled-back engine beat drumming softly in
his ears but then there had been the glow of star shell in the sky
ahead, the distant juddering of a Maxim firing at a gap in the wire and
the smell of death and mud in his nostrils. Unlike Gregorius
Maryam in the car ahead, Jake Barton knew about war and all its
glories.
apadopoulos was waiting for them on the wharf, carrying a hurricane
lamp and dressed in an ankle, length greatcoat that gave him the air of
a down-at, heel gnome. He signalled the column forward,
waving the lamp, and his ragged crew swarmed off the deck of the
Hirondelle on to the stone wharf.
It was clear that they were accustomed to loading unusual cargo in the
middle of the night. As each car was driven forward, it was stripped
of its burden of drums and crates.
These were stowed separately in cargo nets. Then they thrust sturdy
wooden pallets under the chassis of the car and fixed the heavy hemp
lines. At a signal from Papadopoulos, the men at the winches started
the donkey engines and the lines ran through the blocks on the booms of
the derricks.
The bulky cars rose slowly and then swung inboard.
The whole operation was carried out swiftly, with no raised voices or
unnecessary noise. Only a muttered command, the grunt of straining
men, the muted clatter of the donkey engines and then the thump of the
cars settling on the deck.
"These fellows know their business." Gareth watched approvingly,
then turned to
Jake. "I'll go down to the.
harbour master and clear the bills of lading. We'll be ready to sail
in an hour or so." He sauntered away and disappeared into the
shadows.
"Let's inspect the accommodation," Jake suggested, and took
Vicky's arm. "It looks like a regular Cunarder." They climbed the
gangplank to the deck and only then did they get the first whiff of the
slave stench. By the time Gareth returned from his nefarious
negotiations with bills of lading showing a consignment of four
ambulances and medical supplies to the International Red Cross
Association at Alexandria, the others had made a brief examination of
the single tiny odoriferous cabin which Papadopoulos had put at their
disposal and decided to leave it to the cockroaches and bed bugs which
were already in residence.
"It's only a few days" sailing. I think I prefer the open deck.
If it rains, we can take shelter in the cars." Jake spoke for all of
them as they stood in a group at the rail, watching the lights of Dares
Salaam glide away into the night, while the diesel engine of the
schooner thumped under their feet and the sweet cool sea breeze washed
over the deck, cleansing their nostrils and mouths of the slave
stench.
Vicky was awakened by the brilliance of the starlight shining into her
face and she opened her eyes and stared up at a sky that blazed with
the splendours Of the universe, as fields and seas of pearly light
swirled across the heavens.
Quietly she slipped out of her blankets and went to the ship's rail.
The sea was lustrous glittering sable; each wave seemed to be carved
from some solid and precious metal, bejewelled by the reflections of
the starlight and through it the ship's wake glowed with
phosphorescence like a trail of green fire.
The sea wind was the touch of lovers" hands against her skin and in her
hair, the great mainsail whispered above her head, and there was an
almost physical ache in her chest at the beauty of this night.
When Gareth came up silently behind her and slipped his arms about her
waist, she did not even turn her head, but lay back against him.
She did not want to argue and tease. As she herself had written, she
might soon be dead and the night was too beautiful to let it pass.
Neither of them spoke, but Vicky sighed and shuddered voluptuously as
she felt his hands, smooth and skilful, slide up under the light cotton