Bagley, Desmond - High Citadel

by High Citadel

  "Sometimes," O'Hara said. He thought of the stonewalled cell in which he had been imprisoned. Water ran down the walls and froze into ice at night -- and then the weather got worse and the walls were iced day and night. It was then that Lieutenant Feng had taken away all his clothing. "Sometimes," he repeated bleakly.

  "I suppose you had warmer clothing than we have," said Benedetta. "I am worried about Forester and Miguel. It will be very cold up in the pass."

  O'Hara felt suddenly ashamed of himself and his self-pity. He looked away quickly from Benedetta and stared at the snows above. "We must see if we can improvise a tent for them. They'll spend at least one night in the open up there." He stood up. "We'd better get on."

  The camp was busy with the noise of hammering and the trebuchet was taking shape in the central clearing between the huts. O'Hara stood unnoticed for a moment and looked at it. It reminded him very much of something he had once seen in an avant-garde art magazine; a modern sculptor had assembled a lot of junk into a crazy structure and had given it some high-falutin' name, and the trebuchet had the same appearance of wild improbability.

  Forester paused and leaned on the length of steel he was using as a crude hammer. As he wiped the sweat from his eyes he caught sight of the newcomers and hailed them. "What the hell are you doing here? Is anything wrong?"

  "All's quiet," said O'Hara reassuringly. "I've come for one of the drums of paraffin -- and some grub." He walked round the trebuchet. "Will this contraption work?"

  "Willis is confident," said Forester. "That's good enough for me."

  "You won't be here," O'Hara said stonily. "But I suppose I'll have to trust the boffins. By the way -- it's going to be bloody cold up there -- have you made any preparations?"

  "Not yet. We've been too busy on this thing."

  "That's not good enough," said O'Hara sternly. "We're depending on you to bring the good old U.S. cavalry to the rescue. You've got to get across that pass -- if you don't, then this piece of silly artillery will be wasted. Is there anything out of which you can improvise a tent?"

  "I suppose you're right," said Forester. "I'll have a look around."

  "Do that. Where's the paraffin?"

  "Paraffin? Oh, you mean the kerosene. It's in that hut there. Willis locked it up; he put all the booze in there -- we had to keep Peabody sober somehow."

  "Um" said O'Hara. "How's he doing?"

  "He's not much good. He's out of condition and his disposition doesn't help. We've got to drive him."

  "Doesn't the bloody fool realise that if the bridge is forced he'll get his throat cut?"

  Forester sighed. "It doesn't seem to make any difference -- logic isn't his strong-point. He goofs off at the slightest opportunity."

  O'Hara saw Benedetta going into one of the huts. "I'd better get that paraffin. We must have it at the bridge before it gets dark."

  He got the key of the hut from Willis and opened the door. Just inside was a crate, half-filled with bottles. There was a stir of longing in his guts as he looked at them, but he suppressed it firmly and switched his attention to the two drums of paraffin. He tested the weight of one of them, and thought, this is going to be a bastard to get down the mountain.

  He heaved the drum on to its side and rolled it out of the hut. Across the clearing he saw Forester helping Benedetta to make a travois, and crossed over to them. "Is there any rope up here?"

  "Rope we've got," replied Forester. "But Rohde was worried about that -- he said we'll need it in the mountains, rotten though it is; and Willis needs it for the trebuchet, too. But there's plenty of electric wire that Willis ripped out to make crossbow-strings with."

  "I'll need some to help me get that drum down the mountain -- I suppose the electric wire will have to do."

  Peabody wandered over. His face had a flabby, unhealthy look about it and he exuded the scent of fear. "Say, what is this?" he demanded. "Willis tells me that you and the spic are making a getaway over the mountains."

  Forester's eyes were cold. "If you want to put it that way -- yes."

  "Well, I wanna come," said Peabody. "I'm not staying here to be shot by a bunch of commies."

  "Are you crazy?" said Forester.

  "What's so crazy about it? Willis says it's only fifteen miles to this place Altemiros."

  Forester looked at O'Hara speechlessly. O'Hara said quietly, "Do you think it's going to be like a stroll in Central Park, Peabody?"

  "Hell, I'd rather take my chance in the mountains than with the commies," said Peabody. "I think you're crazy if think you can hold them off. What have you got? You've got an old man, a silly bitch of a school-marm, two nutty scientists and a girl. And you're fighting with bows and arrows, for God's sake." He tapped Forester on the chest. "If you're making a getaway, I'm coming along."

  Forester slapped his hand away. "Now get this, Peabody; do as you're damn well told."

  "Who the hell are you to give orders?" said Peabody with venom. "To begin with I take no orders from a limey -- and I don't see why you should be so high and mighty, either. I'll do as I damn well please."

  O'Hara caught Forester's eye. "Let's see Rohde," he said hastily. He had seen Forester balling his fist and wanted to prevent trouble, for an idea was crystallising in his mind.

  Rohde was positively against it. "This man is in no condition to cross the mountains," he said. "He will hold us back, and if he holds us back none of us will get across. We cannot spend more than one night in the open."

  "What do you think?" Forester asked O'Hara.

  "I don't like the man," said O'Hara. "He's weak and he'll break under pressure. If he breaks it might be the end of the lot of us. I can't trust him."

  "That's fair enough," Forester agreed. "He's a weak sister, all right. I'm going to overrule you, Miguel; he comes with us. We can't afford to leave him with O'Hara."

  Rohde opened his mouth to protest but stopped when he saw the expression on Forester's face. Forester grinned wolfishly and there was a hard edge to his voice when he said. "If he holds us up, we'll drop the bastard into the nearest crevasse. Peabody will have to put up or shut up."

  He called Peabody over. "All right, you come with us. But let's get this straight right from the start. You take orders."

  Peabody nodded. "All right," he mumbled. "I'll take orders from you."

  Forester was merciless. "You'll take orders from anyone who damn well gives them from now on. Miguel is the expert round here and when he gives an order -- you jump fast."

  Peabody's eyes flickered, but he gave in. He had no option if he wanted to go with them. He shot a look of dislike at Rohde and said. "Okay, but when I get back Stateside the State Department is going to get an earful from me. What kind of place is this where good Americans can be pushed around by spies and commies?"

  O'Hara looked at Rohde quickly. His face was as placid as though he had not heard. O'Hara admired his self-control -- but he pitied Peabody when he got into the mountains.

  Half an hour later he and Benedetta left. She was pulling the travois and he was clumsily steering the drum of paraffin.

  There were two loops of wire round the drum in a sling so that he could have a measure of control. They had wasted little time in saying good-bye to Rohde and Forester, and still less on Peabody. Willis had said, "We'll- need you up here tommorow; the trebuchet will be ready then."

  "I'll be here," promised O'Hara. "If I haven't any other engagements."

  It was difficult going down the mountain, even though they were on the road. Benedetta hauled on the travois and had to stop frequently to rest, and more often to help O'Hara with the drum. It weighed nearly four hundred pounds and seemed to have a malevolent mind of its own. His idea of being able to steer it by pulling on the wires did not work well. The drum would take charge and go careering at an angle to wedge itself in the ditch at the side of the road. Then it would be a matter of sweat and strain to get it out, whereupon it would charge into the opposite ditch, By the time they got down to the bottom O'H
ara felt as though he had been wrestling with a malign and evil adversary. His muscles ached and it seemed as though someone had pounded him with a hammer all over his body. Worse, in order to get the drum down the mountain at all he had been obliged to lighten the load by jettisoning a quarter of the contents and had helplessly watched ten gallons of invaluable paraffin drain away into the thirsty dust.

  When they reached the valley Benedetta abandoned the travois and went for help. O'Hara had looked at the sky and said. "I want this drum at the bridge before nightfall."

  Night swoops early on the eastern slopes of the Andes. The mountain wall catches the setting sun, casting long shadows across the hot jungles of the interior. At five in the afternoon the sun was just touching the topmost peaks and O'Hara knew that in an hour it would be dark.

  Armstrong came up to help and O'Hara immediately asked. "Who's on watch?"

  "Jenny. She's all right. Besides, there's nothing doing at all."

  With two men to control the erratic drum it went more easily and they manoeuvred it to the bridgehead within half an hour. Miss Ponsky came running up. "They switched on their lights just now and I think I heard an auto engine from way back along there." She pointed downstream.

  "I would have liked to try and put out the headlamps on this jeep," she said. "But I didn't want to waste an arrow -- a quarrel -- and in any case there's something in front of the glass."

  "They have stone guards in front of the lights," said Armstrong. "Heavy mesh wire."

  "Go easy on the bolts, anyway," said O'Hara. "Peabody was supposed to be making some but he's been loafing on the Job." He carefully crept up and surveyed the bridgehead. The jeep's headlights illuminated the whole bridge and its approaches and he knew that at least a dozen sharp pairs of eyes were watching. It would be suicidal to go out there.

  He dropped back and looked at the drum in the fading light. It was much dented by its careering trip down the mountain road but he thought it would roll a little farther. He said, "This is the plan. We're going to burn the bridge. We're going to play the same trick that we played this morning but we'll apply it on this side of the bridge."

  He put his foot on top of the drum and rocked it gently. "If Armstrong gives this one good heave it should roll right down to the bridge -- if we're lucky. Jenny will be standing up there with her crossbow and when it gets into the right position she'll puncture it. I'll be in ..position too, with Benedetta to hand me the other crossbow with a fire-bolt. If the drum is placed right then we'll burn through the ropes on this side and the whole bloody bridge will drop into the water."

  "That sounds all right," said Armstrong.

  "Get the bows, Jenny," said O'Hara and took Armstrong to one side, out of hearing of the others. "It's a bit more tricky than that," he said. "In order to get the drum in the right place you'll have to come into the open." He held his head on one side; the noise of the vehicle had stopped. "So I want to do it before they get any more lights on the job."

  Armstrong smiled gently. "I think your little bit is more dangerous than mine. Shooting those fire-bolts in the dark will make you a perfect target -- it won't be as easy as this morning, and then you nearly got shot."

  "Maybe," said O'Hara. "But this has got to be done. This is how we do it. When that other jeep -- or whatever it is -- comes up, maybe the chaps on the other side won't be so vigilant. My guess is that they'll tend to watch the vehicle manoeuvre into position; I don't think they're a very disciplined crowd. Now, while that's happening is the time to do your stuff. I'll give you the signal."

  "All right, my boy," said Armstrong. "You can rely on me."

  O'Hara helped him to push the drum into the position easiest for him, and then Miss Ponsky and Benedetta came up with the crossbows. He said to Benedetta. "When I give Armstrong the signal to push off the drum, you light the first fire-bolt. This has g ot to be done quickly if it's going to be done at all."

  "All right, Tim," she said.

  Miss Ponsky went to her post without a word.

  He heard the engine again, this time louder. He saw nothing on the road downstream and guessed that the vehicle was coming slowly and without lights. He thought they'd be scared of being fired on during that half-mile journey.

  By God, he thought, if I had a dozen men with a dozen bows I'd make life difficult for them. He smiled sourly. Might as well wish for a machine-gun section -- it was just as unlikely a possibility.--% Suddenly the vehicle switched its lights on. It was quite near the bridge and O'Hara got ready to give Armstrong the signal. He held his hand until the vehicle -- a jeep -- drew level with the burnt-out truck, then he said in a whispered shout, "Now!"

  He heard the rattle as the drum rolled over the rocks and out of the corner of his eye saw the flame as Benedetta ignited die fire-bolt. The drum came into sight on his left, bumping down title slight incline which led towards the bridge. It hit a larger stone which threw it off course. Christ, he whispered, we've bungled it.

  Then he saw Armstrong run into the open, chasing after the drum. A few faint shouts came from across the river and there was a shot. "You damned fool," yelled O'Hara. "Get back." But Armstrong kept running forward until he had caught up with the drum and, straightening it on course again, he gave it another boost.

  There was a ruffle of rifle-fire and spurts of dust flew about Armstrong's feet as he ran back at full speed, then a metallic thunk as a bullet hit the drum and, as it turned, O'Hara saw a silver spurt of liquid rise in the air. The enemy were divided in their intentions -- they did not know which was more dangerous, Armstrong or the drum. And so Armstrong got safely into cover.

  Miss Ponsky raised the bow. "Forget it, Jenny," roared O'Hara. "They've done it for us."

  Again and again the drum was hit as it rolled towards the bridge and the paraffin spurted out of more holes, rising in gleaming jets into the air until the drum looked -like some strange kind of liquid Catherine wheel. But the repeated impact of bullets was slowing it down and there must have been a slight and unnoticed rise in the ground before the bridge because the drum rolled to a halt just short of the abutments.

  O'Hara swore and turned to grasp the crossbow which Benedetta was holding. Firing in the dark with a fire-bolt was difficult; the flame obscured his vision and he had to will himself consciously to take aim slowly. There was another babble of shouts from over the river and a bullet ricocheted from a rock nearby and screamed over his head.

  He pressed the trigger gently and the scorching heat was abruptly released from his face as the bolt shot away into the opposing glare of headlamps. He ducked as another bullet clipped the rock by the side of his head and thrust the bow at Benedetta for reloading.

  It was not necessary. There was a dull explosion and a violent flare of light as the paraffin around the drum caught fire. O'Hara, breathing heavily, moved to another place where he could see what was happening. It would have been very foolish to pop his head up in the same place from which he had fired his bolt.

  It was with dejection that he saw a raging fire arising from a great pool of paraffin just short of the bridge. The drum had stopped too soon and although the fire was spectacular it would do the bridge no damage at all. He watched for a long time, hoping the drum would explode and scatter burning paraffin on the bridge, but nothing happened and slowly the fire went out.

  He dropped back to join the others. "Well, we messed that one up," he said bitterly.

  "I should have pushed it harder," Armstrong said.

  O'Hara- flared up in anger. "You damned fool, if you hadn't run out and given it another shove it wouldn't have gone as far as it did. Don't do an idiotic thing like that again -- you nearly got killed!"

  Armstrong said quietly, "We're all of us on the verge of getting killed. Someone has to risk something besides you."

  "I should have surveyed the ground more carefully," said O'Hara self-accusingly.

  Benedetta put a hand on his arm. "Don't worry, Tim; you did the best you could."

  "Sure you d
id," said Miss Ponsky militantly. "And we've shown them we're still here and fighting. I bet they're scared to come across now for fear of being burned alive."

  "Come," said Benedetta. "Come and eat." There was a flash of humour in her voice. "I didn't bring the travois all the way down, so it will be stew again."

  Wearily O'Hara turned his back on the bridge. It was the third night since the plane crash -- and six more to go!

  Chapter V

  Forester attacked his baked beans with gusto. The dawn light was breaking, dimming the bright glare of the Coleman lamp and smoothing out the harsh shadows on his face. He said. "One, day at the mine -- two days crossing the pass -- another two days getting help. We must cut that down somehow. When we get to the other side we'll have, to act quickly."

  Peabody looked at the table morosely, ignoring Forester. He was wondering if he had made the right decision, done the right thing by Joe Peabody. The way these guys talked, crossing the mountains wasn't going to be so easy. Aw, to hell with it -- he could do anything any other guy could do -- especially any spic.

  Rohde said. "I thought I heard rifle-fire last night -- just at sunset." His face was haunted by the knowledge of his helplessness.

  "They should be all right. I don't see how the commies could have repaired the bridge and got across so quickly," said Forester reasonably. "That O'Hara's a smart cookie. He must have been doing something with that drum of kerosene he took down the hill yesterday. He's probably cooked the bridge to a turn."

  Rohde's face cracked into a faint smile. "I hope so."

  Forester finished his beans. "Okay, let's get the show on the road." He turned round in his chair and looked at the huddle of blankets on the bunk. "What about Willis?"

  "Let him sleep," said Rohde. "He worked harder and longer than any of us."

  Forester got up and examined the packs they had made up the previous night. Their equipment was pitifully inadequate for the job they had to do. He remembered the books he had read about mountaineering expeditions -- the special rations they had, the lightweight nylon ropes and tents, the windproof clothing and the specialised gear -- climbing-boots, ice-axes, pitons. He smiled grimly -- yes, and porters to help hump it.