by Wilbur Smith
Jake.
"Tanks," said Gareth. "Bloody tanks."
"They won't get here before dark," Jake guessed. And they won't risk a
night attack."
No Gareth agreed. "They'll come at dawn."
"Tanks and Capronis instead of ham and eggs?" Gareth shrugged wearily.
"That's about the size of it, old son." Colonel Count Aldo Belli was
not at all certain of the wisdom of his actions, and he thought that
Gino was justified in looking up at him with those reproachful
spaniel's eyes. They should have been still comfortably ensconced
behind the formidable de fences of Chaldi Wells.
However, a number of powerful influences had combined to drive him
forward once again.
Not the least powerful of these were the daily radio messages from
General Badogho's headquarters, urging him to intersect the Dessie
road, "before the fish slips through our net'. These messages were
daily more harsh and threatening in character, and were immediately
passed on with the Count's own embellishments to Major Luigi Castelani
who had command of the column struggling up the gorge.
Now at last Castelani had radioed back to the Count the welcome news
that he stood at the very head of the gorge, and the next push would
carry him into the town of Sardi itself. The Count had decided,
after long and deep meditation, that to ride into the enemy stronghold
at the moment of its capture would so enhance his reputation as to be
worth the small danger involved. Major Castelani had assured him that
the enemy was broken and whipped, had suffered enormous casualties and
was no longer a coherent fighting force. Those odds were acceptable to
the Count.
The final circumstance that persuaded him to leave the camp,
abandon the new military philosophy, and move cautiously up the Sardi
Gorge was the arrival of the armoured column from Asmara. These
machines were to replace those that the savage enemy had so
perfidiously trapped and burned. Despite all the Count's pleading and
blustering, it had taken a week for them to be diverted from Massawa,
brought up to Asmara by train, and then for them to complete the long
slow crossing of the Danakil.
Now, however, they had arrived and the Count had immediately
requisitioned one of the six tanks as his personal command vehicle.
Once he was within the thick armoured hull, he had experienced a new
flood of confidence and courage.
"Onwards to Sardi, to write in blood upon the glorious pages of
history!" were the words that occurred to him, and Gino's face had
creased up into that spaniel's expression.
Now in the lowering shades of evening, grinding up the rocky pathway
while walls of sheer rock rose on either hand, seeming to meet the
sullen purple strip of sky high above, the Count was having serious
doubts about the whole wild venture.
He peered out from the turret of his command tank, his eyes huge and
dark and melting with apprehension, a black polished steel helmet
pulled down firmly over his ears, and one hand gripping the ivory butt
of the Beretta so fiercely that his knuckles shone white as bone
china.
At his feet, Gino crouched miserably, keeping well down within the
steel hull.
At that moment a machine gun opened fire ahead of them, and the sound
echoed and re-echoed against the sheer walls of the gorge.
"Stop! Stop this instant! shouted the Count at his driver.
The gunfire sounded very close ahead. "We will make this battalion
headquarters. Right here," announced the Count, and Gino perked up a
little and nodded his total agreement.
"Send for Major Castelani and Major Vita. They are to report to me
here immediately." Jake awoke to the pressure of somebody's hand on
his shoulder, and the light of a storm lantern in his eyes.
The effort of sitting up required all his determination and he let the
damp blanket fall and screwed up his eyes against the light. The cold
had stiffened every muscle in his body, and his head felt light and
woolly with fatigue. He could not believe it was morning already.
"Who is it?"
"It's me, Jake," and then he saw Gregorius's dark intense face beyond
the lamp.
"Take that bloody thing out of my eyes." Beside him, Gareth Swales sat
up suddenly. Both of them had been sleeping fully dressed upon the
same ragged strip of canvas in the muddy bottom of the dugout.
"What's going on?" mumbled Gareth, also stupid with fatigue.
Gregorius swung the lantern aside and the light fell on the slim figure
beside him. Sara was shivering with cold and her light clothing was
&-soddden and muddy. Thorn and branches had scored bloody lines across
her legs and arms, and ripped the fabric of her breeches.
She dropped on her knees beside Jake, and he saw that her eyes were
haunted with terror and horror, her lips trembled uncontrollably,
and the slim hand she laid on Jake's arm was cold as a dead man's, but
it fluttered urgently.
"Miss Camberwell. They have taken her!" she blurted wildly, and her
voice choked up.
"You should stay on here," Jake muttered, as they hurried up the slope
to where Priscilla the Pig was parked half a mile back from the line of
trenches.
"There will be a dawn attack, they'll need you."
"I'm coming on the ride, Jake," Gareth answered quietly, but firmly.
"You can't expect me to sit here while Vicky-" he broke off. "Got to
keep a fatherly eye on you, old son," he went on in the old bantering
tone.
"The Ras and his lads will have to take their own chances for a
while."
As he spoke, they reached the hulking shape of the armoured car, parked
in the broken ground below the head of the gorge. Jake began to drag
the canvas cover off the vehicle, and Gareth drew Gregorius aside.
"One way or another, we should be back before dawn. If we aren't,
you know what to do. God knows, you've had enough practice these last
few days." Gregorius nodded silently.
"Hold as long as you can. Then back to the head of the gorge for the
last act. Right? It's only until noon tomorrow.
We can hold them that long, tanks or no bloody tanks, can't we?"
"Yes, Gareth, we can hold them."
"Just one other thing, Greg. I love your grandfather like a brother
but keep that old bastard under control, will you.
Even if you have to tie him down. "Gareth slapped the boy's shoulder,
changed the captured Italian rifle into his good hand and hurried back
to the car, just as Jake boosted Sara up the side of the hull and then
ran to the crank handle.
Priscilla the Pig ground up the last few hundred yards of steep ground
to the head of the gorge, and they passed gangs of Harari working by
torchlight. They had been at it in shifts since the previous evening
when Jake and Gareth had heard the Italian tanks coming up the gorge.
Although all his concern was with Vicky, yet Gareth noted almost
mechanically that the work gang had performed their task well. The
anti-tank walls were higher than a man's head and
built from the
heaviest, most massive boulders that could be carried down from the
cliffs. There was only a gap narrow enough to allow the car to pass in
the centre of the walls.
"Tell them to close the gap now, Sara. We won't take the car into the
gorge again," Gareth instructed quietly as they went through and she
called out to a Harari officer who stood on top of the highest point of
the wall; he waved an acknowledgement, and turned away to supervise the
work.
Jake took the car through the natural granite gates, and beyond them
lay the saucer-shaped valley and the town of Sardi.
It was burning, and at the sight Jake halted the car and they stood on
the hull and looked across at the ruddy glow of the flames that lit the
underbelly of the clouds, and dimly defined the mountain masses that
enclosed the valley.
"is she still alive?" Jake voiced all their fears, but it was Sara who
answered.
"If Ras Kullah was there when they caught her, then she is dead."
Then silence again, both men staring Out into the night, with anger and
dread holding them captive.
"But if he was skulking up in the hills, as he usually does,
waiting for the attack to succeed before he shows himself," she spat
expressively over the side of the hull, "then his men would not dare
begin the execution, until he was there to watch and enjoy the work of
his milch cows. I have heard they can take the skin off a living body
working carefully with their little knives, every inch of skin from
head to toes, and the body still lives for many hours." And Jake
shuddered with horror.
fire "If you're ready, old boy. I think we could move on now!"
said Gareth, and with an effort Jake roused himself and dropped back
into the driver's hatch.
There seemed to be a suggestion of the false dawn lightening the narrow
strip of sky high above the mountains when Gregorius Maryam scrambled
back into the front line treches.
There was activity already amongst the shadowy figures that crowded the
narrow dugouts, and one of the Ras's bodyguard carrying a smoky
paraffin lantern greeted him with, "The Ras asks for you. "Gregorius
followed him down the trench, stepping carefully amongst the hundreds
of figures that slept uncaring on the muddy floor.
The Ras sat huddled in a grey blanket, in one of the larger dugouts off
the main trench. The open pit had been roofed in with the remnants of
one of the leather tents, and a small fire burned smokily in the
centre. The Ras was surrounded by a dozen of the officers of his
bodyguard, and he looked up as Gregorius knelt quietly before him.
"The white men have gone?" the Ras asked concluding with a a hacking
old man's cough that shook his whole frail body.
"They will return in the dawn, before the enemy attack." Gregorius
defended them quickly, and went on to explain the reasons and the
change of plans.
The Ras nodded, staring into the flickering fire, and when
Gregorius paused, he spoke again in that rasping, querulous tone.
"It is a sign and I would have it no other way. Too long I have
listened to the council of the Englishman, too long I have quenched the
fire in my belly, too long I have slunk like a dog from the enemy." He
coughed again, painfully.
"We have run far enough. The time has come to fight," and his officers
growled angrily in the gloom around him, and swayed closer to listen to
his words. "Go you to your men, rouse them, fill their bellies with
fire and their hands with steel. Tell them that the signal will be as
it was a hundred years ago, a thousand years ago.
Tell them to listen for my war drums," a suppressed roar of exultation
came from their throats, "the drums will beat up the dawn, and when
they cease, that will be the moment. "The Ras had struggled to his
feet,
and he stood naked above them; the blanket 2 fallen away, and his
skinny old chest heaved with the passion of his anger. "In that
moment, I, Ras Golam, will go down to drive the enemy back across the
desert and into the sea from which they came.
Every man who calls himself a warrior and an Harari will go down with
me-" and his voice was lost in the shrill loolooing of his officers,
and the Ras laughed, with the high ringing laugh close to madness.
One of his officers handed him a mug of the fiery tei and the Ras
poured it down his throat in a single draught, then hurled the mug upon
the fire.
Gregorius leapt to his feet and laid a restraining hand upon the skinny
old arm.
"Grandfather." The Ras swung to him, the bloodshot rheumy eyes burning
with a fierce new light.
"If you have woman's words to say to me, then swallow them and let them
choke the breath in your lungs, and turn to poison in your belly. "The
Ras glared at his grandson, and suddenly Gregorius understood.
He understood what the Ras was about to do. He was a man old and wise
enough to know that his world was passing, that the enemy was too
strong, that God had turned his back upon Ethiopia, that no matter how
brave the heart and how fierce the battle in the end there was defeat
and dishonour and slavery.
The Ras was choosing the other way the only other way.
The flash of understanding passed between the youth and the ancient,
and the Ras's eyes softened and he leaned towards Gregorius.
"But if the fire is in your belly also, if you will charge beside me
when the drums fall silent then kneel for my blessing." Suddenly
Gregorius felt all care and restraint fall away, and his heart soared
up like an eagle, borne aloft by the ancient atavistic joy of the
warrior.
He fell on one knee before the Ras.
"Give me your blessing, grandfather," he cried, and the Ras placed both
hands upon his bowed head and mumbled the biblical words.
A warm soft drop fell upon Gregorius's neck, and he looked up
startled.
The tears were running down the dark wrinkled cheeks, and dripping
unashamedly from the Ras's chin. Vicky Camberwell lay face down upon
the filthy earthen floor of one of the deserted tukuk on the outskirts
of the burning town. The floor swarmed with legions of lice, and they
crawled softly over her skin, and their bites set up a burning
irritation.
Her hands were bound behind her back with strips of rawhide rope,
and her ankles were bound the same way.
Outside, she could hear the rustle and crackle of the burning town,
with an occasional louder crash as a roof collapsed. There were also
the shouts and wild laughter of the Gallas, drunk on blood and te,
and the chilling sound of the few Harari captives who had been saved
from the initial massacre to provide entertainment during the long wait
before Ras Kullah arrived in the captured town.
Vicky did not know how long she had lain. Her hands and feet were
without feeling, for the rawhide ropes were tightly knotted. Her ribs
ached from the blow that had felled her, and the icy cold of the
mountain night had per
meated her whole body so that the marrow in her
bones ached with it, and fits of shivering racked her as though she
were in fever. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably and her lips were
blue and tight, but she could not move. Any attempt to alter her
position or relieve her cramped limbs was immediately greeted with a
blow or a kick from the guards who stood over her.
At last her mind blacked out, not into sleep, for she could still dimly
hear the din from around the hut, but into a kind of coma in which
sense of time was lost, and the acute discomfort of the cold and her
bonds receded.
Hours must have passed in this stupor of exhaustion and cold, when she
was roused by another kick in her stomach and she gasped and sobbed
with the fresh pain of it.
She was aware immediately of a change in the volume of sound outside
the hut. There were many hundreds of voices raised in an excited roar,
like that of a crowd at a circus.
Her guards dragged her roughly to her feet, and one of them stooped to
cut the rawhide that bound her ankles, and then straightened to do the
same to those at her wrists. Vicky sobbed at the bright agony of blood
flowing back into her feet and hands.
Her legs collapsed under her and she would have fallen, but rough hands
held her and dragged her forward on her knees towards the low entrance
of the hut. Outside, there was a dense pack of bodies that filled the
narrow street.
Dark menacing figures that pressed forward eagerly as she appeared in
the entrance of the hut, and a blood-crazed roar went up from the
crowd.
Her guards dragged her forward along the street, and the crowd swarmed
forward, keeping pace with her, and the roar of their voices was like
the sound of a winter storm.
Hands clutched at her, and her guards beat them away laughingly,
and hustled her onwards with her paralysed legs flopping weakly under
her. They carried her forward into the goods yards of the railways,
through the steel gate, past the mountainous pile of naked mutilated
corpses, all that remained of men whom she had helped to nurse.
The yard was lit by the smoky fluttering light of hundreds of torches,
and it was only when she was almost up to the warehouse veranda that
she recognized the figure that lolled indolently upon his cushions,
using the raised concrete ramp as a grandstand from which to direct and