Cry Wolf

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