Cry Wolf Part 12

started as he discerned a horde of moving figures coming headlong on wings of fine pale dust.

"My G.o.d," he muttered aloud. "there must be hundreds of them," and he felt a stab of uneasiness. They looked anything but friendly.

At that moment, he was distracted by the sound of galloping hooves close by, and Sara came das.h.i.+ng past him.

She was mounted bareback on the white stallion, her robes streaming and fluttering in the sun-bright wind. She was shouting with almost hysterical excitement as she galloped to meet the oncoming riders and her behaviour rea.s.sured Jake a little. He signalled the column forward once again.

The first ranks came swiftly in dust clouds, on running camels and galloping s.h.a.ggy horses. Fierce, dark-faced men in billowing robes of dirty white, and a motley of other colours. Urging forward their mounts with wild cries, brandis.h.i.+ng the small round bronze and iron studded and bossed war s.h.i.+elds, they came racing towards the column.

As they approached, they split into two wings and tore headlong past the startled drivers in a solid wall of moving men and animals.

Most of the men were bearded, and here and there some warrior wore proudly a great fluffy headdress of lion mane proclaiming his valour to the world. The manes rippled and waved on the wind as the riders drove by, urging on their mounts with the high "Looloo" ululations so characteristic of the Ethiopians.

The weapons they carried amazed Gareth, who as a professional dealer recognized twenty different types and makes, each one of them a collector's piece from the long muzzle-loading Tower muskets with the fancy hammers over percuss ion caps, through a range of Martini Henry carbines, which fired a heavy lead bullet in a cloud of black powder smoke, to a wide selection of Mousers; and Schneiders, Lee-Metfords, and obsolete models from half the arms-manufacturers of the world.

As the riders swept by, they fired these weapons into the air, long spurts of black powder against the evening sky, and the crackle of musketry blended with the fierce ululations of welcome.

After the first wave of riders came another of those on mules and donkeys moving more slowly but making as much noise and immediately after them came a swarming mob of running, howling foot soldiers, mingled with whom were women and shrieking children, and dozens of yelping dogs, scrawny yellow curs with long whippy tails and ridges of standing hair running down their skeletal backbones.

As the first rank of riders turned, still loolooing and firing into the air, to complete the encirclement of the armoured column, they ran headlong into the following rabble and the entire congregation became a struggling mob of men and animals.

Jake saw a mother with a child under her arm go down under the hooves of a running camel, the child flying from her grip and rolling in the sandy earth. Then he was past, forging ahead through a narrow path in the sea of humanity.

Sara was keeping the path open, leading them in, riding just ahead of Jake's car, laying about her viciously with a long quirt of hippo hide to hold back the mob, while around her wheeled the wildly excited riders still firing their pieces into the air, and dozens of runners pressed in closely, trying to climb aboard the moving cars.

Gradually the press of bodies and animals built up, until at last, following Sara, they moved slowly through the open forest that surrounded the wells into one of the shallow but steeply sided wadis in the broken ground beyond.

Here any further forward movement became impossible.

The wadi was choked solidly with humanity, even the steep earthen sides and the ledges above were crowded so closely that unfortunates, pushed by those behind, could no longer keep their Position and came tumbling down the sheer sides on to the heads of those in the wadi below. The cries of protest were lost in the general hubbub.

From each of the turrets, the heads of the four drivers appeared timidly, like gophers peering out of their holes.

They made helpless signs and expressions at each other, unable to communicate in the uproar.

Sara leaped from the back of the stallion on to the sponson of Jake's car and began raining blows and kicks on those who were still attempting to climb aboard the vehicle. She was enjoying herself immensely, Jake realized, as he noticed the battle l.u.s.t in her eyes and heard the crack of her whip and the yelps of her victims. He thought of trying to restrain her and then discarded the idea as being highly dangerous. Instead, he looked about distractedly for some other means to subdue the boisterous welcome and noticed for the first time the entrances to numerous caves in the sides of the wadi.

From a number of these dark openings now poured a body of men, wearing a semblance of uniform jodhpurs and baggy khaki tunics, their chests crossed with bandoliers of ammunition, put teed calves and bare feet, high turbans bound around their heads and Mauser rifles swinging heartily, the b.u.t.ts used as clubs. They were every bit as enthusiastic as Sara, but considerably more successful in their attempts to quieten the crowd.

"My grandfather's guards," Sara explained to Jake, still panting and grinning happily from her recent exertions. "I am sorry, Jake, but sometimes my people get excited."

"Yeah," said Jake. "So I noticed."

With gun b.u.t.ts rising and falling the guards cleared a s.p.a.ce around the four laden vehicles, and the noise dropped in volume until it was equivalent to a medium-sized avalanche. The four drivers climbed warily down and came together in a defensive group in the small stretch of open ground before the caves. Vicky Camberwell placed herself strategically between Jake and Gareth and behind the lanky robed figure of Gregorius and she felt even more secure when Sara slipped up beside her and took her hand.

"Please do not worry," she whispered. "We are all your friends."

"You could have fooled me, honey." Vicky smiled back at her, and squeezed the slim brown hand. At that moment a procession emerged from the caves, headed by four coal-black priests of the Coptic Christian Church in their gaudy robes, chanting in Amharic, swinging incense and carrying ornate, if crudely wrought bronze crosses.

Immediately after the priests followed a figure so tall and thin as to appear a caricature of the human shape. A long flowing sham ma of yellow and red stripes hung loosely on the gaunt frame. There was the suggestion of legs as long and as thin as those of an ostrich beneath the skirts of the robe as he strode forward, and the man's dark head was completely bald of hair no beard or eyebrows just a round glistening pate.

His eyes were completely enclosed in a web of deep wrinkles and fleshy folds of old dried-out skin. The mouth was utterly toothless, so that the jaw seemed to be collapsible, folding the face in half like the bellows of a concertina.

He gave an impression of vast age that was offset immediately by the youthful spring in his step and the twinkle in the black birdlike eyes, and yet Gareth realized that he could not be less than eighty years old.

Gregorius hurried forward and knelt briefly for the old man's blessing, while Sara whispered to the group.

"This is my grandfather, Ras Golam" she explained. "He speaks no English, but he is a great n.o.bleman and a mighty warrior the bravest in all Ethiopia." The Ras ran a lively eye over the group and selected Gareth Swales, resplendent in Thorn-proof tweeds. He leapt forward and, before Gareth could avoid it, enfolded him in an embrace that was redolent of powerful native tobacco, woodsmoke, and other heady odours.

"How do you do?" shouted the Ras, his only words of English.

"My grandfather is a great lover of the English," explained Gregorius, as Gareth struggled in the Ras's embrace. "That is why all his sons and grandsons are sent to England."

"He has a decoration which even makes him an English milord," Sara told them proudly, and pointed to her grandfather's chest where nestled a star of gaudy enamel and s.h.i.+ny paste chips.

Noticing the gesture, the Ras released Gareth and invited them to admire the decoration, and, on his other breast, a rosette of tricolour silk in the centre of which was a framed miniature of the old Queen Victoria herself.

"Tremendous, old boy absolutely tremendous" Gareth agreed, as he re-adjusted the lapels of his jacket and smoothed back his hair.

"When he was a young man, my grandfather did a great service to the Queen and that is why he is now an English milord," Sara explained, and then she broke off to listen to her grandfather, and to translate. "My grandfather welcomes you to Ethiopia, and says that he is proud to embrace such a distinguished English gentleman. He has heard from my father of your fame s a warrior, that you bear the great Queen's medal for courage-"

"Actually, it was Georgie Five's gong,"

Gareth demurred modestly.

At that moment, the dignified figure of Lij Mikhael Sagud stepped from the entrance of the cave behind the Ras.

"My father recognizes only one English monarch, my dear Swales,"

he explained quietly. "It is useless to try and convince him that she has pa.s.sed away." He shook hands with all three of them, with a quick word of welcome for Jake and Vicky before turning back to listen to the Ras again.

"My father asks if you have brought your medal he wishes you to wear it when you and he ride into battle side by side against the enemy," and Gareth's expression changed.

"Now hold on there, old fellow," he protested. Gareth had no intention of riding into another battle in his life, but the moment had pa.s.sed and the Ras was shouting orders to his guard.

In response, they clambered aboard the armoured cars, and began unloading the wooden cases of weapons and ammunition which they stacked in the clearing before the caves, beating back the eager crowds that pressed forward.

Now the priests came forward to bless the cars and weapons of war, and Sara took the opportunity to pull Vicky away and lead her un.o.btrusively to one of the caves.

"My servants will bring you water to bathe," she whispered. "You must look beautiful for the feast. Perhaps we will decide which one it will be tonight." As night fell, so "the entire following of Ras Golarri gathered in the main wadi, those ranking highest or with most push managing to find seating in the large central cave while the others filled the valley with row upon row of seated and robed figures.

The whole scene was lit by leaping bonfires.

The fires reflected against the night sky with a faint orange glow which Major Luigi Castelani noticed at a distance of twenty kilometres from the Wells.

He halted the column and climbed up on the roof of the leading truck to study this phenomenon, uncertain at first if the light of the fires was some freak afterglow of the sunset, but soon realizing that this was not the case.

He jumped down and snapped at the driver, "Wait for me," before striding rapidly back along the long column of tall canvas-covered trucks to where the command car stood at the centre.

"My Colonel." Castelani saluted the sulking figure of the Count who slumped on the rear seat of the Rolls with one hand thrust into the front of his unb.u.t.toned tunic, much like the defeated Napoleon returning from Moscow. Aldo Belli had not yet recovered from the shock to his pride and self-esteem inflicted by the General. He had temporarily withdrawn from the vulgar world, and he did not even look up as Castelani made his report.

"Do what you think correct in the circ.u.mstances," he muttered without interest. "Only make certain we have control of the Wells before dawn," and the Count turned his head away, wondering if Mussolini had yet received his cable.

What Castelani thought correct in the circ.u.mstances was to darken the column immediately and put his entire battalion in a state of instant readiness. No lights were to be shown in any circ.u.mstances, and a rigorous silence was imposed. The column now advanced at little more than a walking speed, with each driver personally warned that engine noise was not to exceed idling volume. All the men had been alerted and rode now in silence with loaded weapons and tense nerves.

When at last the Eritrean guides pointed out to Castelani the shallow forested valley below them, there was sufficient light from the sliver of silver moon overhead for Castelani to survey the ground with the eye of an old professional.

Within ten minutes, he had planned his dispositions, decided where to hold his motor pool and main bivouac, where to site his machine guns, place his mortars and lay his rifle trenches. The Colonel grunted his agreement without even looking up, and quietly the Major gave the orders which would put into effect his plans and keep the battalion working all night.

"And the first man who drops a shovel or sneezes I will strangle with his own guts," he warned, as he glanced apprehensively at the faint glow that emanated from amongst the low dark hills beyond the Wells.

In the main cave, the air was so thick and warm and moist that it lay upon the company like a wet woollen blanket. In the uneven light of the fires it was impossible to see from one end to the other of the cavernous room, with its rough earthen wall and columns. The restless body of guests and servants flitted through the smoky gloom like wraiths. Every once in a while there would be the terrified bellows of an ox from the wadi outside. the main entrance of the cave. The bellows would cease abruptly as the blackman swung his long two-handled sword and the carca.s.s fell with a thud that seemed to reverberate through the cavern. A vast shout of approval greeted the fall of the beast, and a dozen eager a.s.sistants flayed the hide, hacked the flesh into b.l.o.o.d.y strips and piled them on to huge platters of baked clay.

The servants staggered into the cave, bearing the laden platters of steaming, quivering meat. The guests fell upon it, men and women alike, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the bleeding flesh, taking an end between their teeth, pulling it tight with one hand and hacking free a bite-sized piece with a knife grasped in the other. The flas.h.i.+ng blade pa.s.sed a mere fraction from the end of the diner's nose and warm blood trickled unheeded down the chin, as the lump was swallowed with a single convulsive heave of the throat.

Each mouthful was washed down into the belly with a swig of the fiery Ethiopian tej - a brew made from wild honey, a liquid the colour of golden amber, with the impact of a charging buffalo bull.

Gareth Swales sat between the old Ras and Lij Mikhael in the place of honour, while Jake and Vicky were a dozen places farther away amongst the lesser notables. In deference to the appet.i.te and tastes of foreigners, they were offered, in place of raw beef, an endless succession of bubbling pots containing the fiery ca.s.seroles of beef, lamb, chicken and game that are known under the inclusive t.i.tle of wat.

These highly spiced, peppery but delicious concoctions were spooned out on to thin sheets of unleavened bread and rolled into a cigar shape before eating.

Lij Mikhael warned his guests against the tea and instead offered Bollinger champagne, wrapped in wet sacking to lower its temperature. There was also pinch bottle Haig, London Dry Gin, and a vast array of liqueurs Grand Marnier, yellow and green Chartreuse, Dam Benedictine, and the rest. These incongruous beverages in the desert reminded the guests that their host was wealthy beyond the normal concept of wealth, the lord of vast estates and, under the Emperor, the master of many thousands of human beings.

The Ras sat at the head of the feast, with a war bonnet of lion's mane covering his bald pate. It made a startling, but rather moth-eaten wig for it was forty years since the Ras had slain the lion, and the ravages of time were apparent.

Now the Ras cackled with laughter as he rolled a sheet of the unleavened bread, filled with steaming wat, into the shape and size of a Havana cigar and thrust it, dripping juice, into Gareth Swales's unprepared mouth.

You must swallow it without using your hands," Lij Mikhael explained hastily. "It is a game my father enjoys." Gareth's eyes bulged, his face turned crimson with lack of air and the bite of chilli sauce. Gulping and gasping and chewing manfully, he struggled to ingest the huge offering.

The Ras hooted merrily, drooling a little saliva from the toothless mouth, his entire face a network of moving wrinkles as he encouraged Gareth with cries of "How do you do? How do you do?" At last with his dignity in shreds, red-faced, sweating and panting laboriously, the roll of bread disappeared down Gareth's straining throat. The Ras folded him once more in that brotherly embrace, and Lij Mikhael poured another goblet full of Bollinger for him.

However, Gareth, who did not enjoy being the b.u.t.t of anyone's joke, freed himself from the Ras, pushed the gla.s.s" aside and waved one of the servants to him. From the reeking b.l.o.o.d.y platter he selected a strip of raw beef almost as thick as his wrist and as long as his forearm. Without warning, he thrust one end of it into the Ras's gaping toothless mouth.

"Suck on that, you old b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he shouted, and the Ras stared at him with startled rheumy bloodshot eyes. Then, although he was unable to smile because of the long red strip that hung from his lips like some huge swollen tongue, the Ras's eyes turned to slits in a mask of happy wrinkles.

His jaw seemed to unhinge like a python swallowing a goat.

He gulped and an inch of the meat shot into his M(Uthl he gulped again and another inch disappeared. Gareth stared at him as gulp succeeded gulp and swiftly the morsel dwindled in size. Within seconds the Ras's mouth was empty, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed up a bowl of tej and drank half a pint of the heady liquor, wiped blood and tej from his chin with the skirt of his sham ma belched like an air-locked geyser, then with a falsetto cackle-of merriment hit Gareth a resounding crack between the shoulder blades. In the Ras's view, they were now comrades of the soul both English aristocrats, renowned warriors, and each had eaten from the other's hand.

Gregorius Maryam had antic.i.p.ated exactly what his grandfather's reaction to his white guests would be. He knew that Gareth's nationality and undoubted aristocratic background would overshadow all else in the Ras's estimation.

However, the young prince's feelings for Jake Barton had become close to adulation and he did not intend that his hero should be ignored. He chose the one subject which he knew would engage his grandfather's full attention. He slipped unnoticed from the din of the overcrowded cave, and when he returned, he carried Jake's stiff crackling lion skin that had by now completely dried out in the hot, dry desert wind.

Although he held it high above his head, the tail brushed the ground on one side and the nose on the other. The Ras, one arm still around Gareth's shoulder, looked up with interest and fired a string of questions at his grandson, as the boy spread the huge tawny skin before him.

The replies made the old man so excited that he leaped to his feet and grabbed his grandson by one arm, shaking him agitatedly as he demanded details and Gregorius replied with as much animation, his eyes s.h.i.+ning as he mimed the charge of the lion, and the act of hurling the bottle and the crus.h.i.+ng of its skull.

Comparative silence had fallen over the smoky, dimlit cavern, and hundreds of guests craned forward to hear the details of the hunt. In that silence, the Ras walked down to where Jake sat. Stepping, without looking, into various bowls of food and kicking over a jug of tea, he reached the big curly-headed American and lifted him to his feet.

"How do you do?" he asked, with great emotion, tears of admiration in his eyes for the man who could kill a lion with his bare hands.

Forty years before, the Ras had broken four broad-bladed spears before he had put a blade in the heart of his own lion.

"Never better, friend," Jake grunted, clumsy with embarra.s.sment, and the Ras embraced him fiercely before leading him back to the head of the board.

Irritably the Ras kicked one of his younger sons in the ribs, forcing him to vacate the seat on his right hand where he now placed Jake.

Jake looked across at Vicky and rolled his eyes helplessly as the Ras began to ladle steaming wat on to a huge white round of bread and roll it into a torpedo that would have daunted a battle cruiser. Jake took a deep breath and opened his mouth wide, as the Ras lifted the dainty morsel the way an executioner lifts his sword.

"How do you do?" he said, and with another hoot of glee thrust it in to the her.

The Colonel and all the officers of the Third Battalion were exhausted from long hours of forced march and, by the time they reached the Wells of Chaldi, were anxious only to see their tents erected and their cots made up after that they were quite content that the Major be left to use his own initiative.

Castelani sited his twelve machine guns in the sides of the valley where they commanded a full arc of fire, and below them he placed his rifle trenches. The men sank the earthworks swiftly and with little noise in the loose sandy soil, and they b.u.t.tressed their trenches and machine-gun nests with sandbags.

The mortar company he held well back, protected by both rifle trenches and machine-gun nests, from where they could drop their mortar bombs across the whole area of the wells with complete impunity.

While his men worked, Castelani personally paced out distances in front of his de fences and supervised the placing of the painted metal markers, so that his gunners would be able to fire over accurately ranged sights. Then he hurried back to chivvy along the ammunition parties who staggered up in the darkness, slipping in the sandy soil and cursing softly, but with feeling, under the burden of the heavy wooden cases.

All that night he was tireless, and any man who laid down his shovel for a few minutes of rest took the risk of being pounced upon by that looming figure, the stentorian voice restrained to a husky but ferocious whisper, and the rolling swagger tense with suppressed outrage.

At last, the squat machine guns with their thick water jacketed barrels were lowered down into the new excavaWm and set up on their tripods. Only after Castelani had checked the traverse of each and sighted down through the high sliding rear-sight into the moonlit valley was he satisfied. The men flung themselves down to rest and the Major allowed the kitchen parties to come up with canteens of hot soup and bags of hard black bread.

Gareth Swales felt bloated with food and slightly bleary with the large quant.i.ties of lukewarm champagne which Lij Mikhael had pressed upon him.

On one side, the Ras and Jake had established a rapport that overcame the language barrier. The Ras had convinced himself that as Americans spoke English they were English, and that Jake as a lion-killer was clearly a member of the upper stratum of society in short a kind of honorary aristocrat. Every time the Ras drained another pint of tej, Jake became more socially acceptable and the Ras had drained many pints of tej by this stage.

The atmosphere was indeed so jovial and aflame with bonhomie and camaraderie that Gareth felt emboldened to ask, on behalf of the partners.h.i.+p, the question that had been burning his tongue for the last many hours.

"Toffee, (old lad, have you got the money ready for us?" The Prince seemed not to have heard, but refilled Gareth's gla.s.s with champagne, and leaned across to translate one of Jake's remarks for his father, and Gareth had to take his arm firmly.

"If it's all right by you, we'll take our wages and trouble you no more. Ride off into the sunset with violins playing, and all that rot."

"I'm glad you raised the point." Toffee nodded thoughtfully, looking anything but glad. "There are some things we have to discuss."

"Listen, Toffee old son, there is absolutely nothing to discuss. All the discussing was done long ago."

"Now, don't upset yourself, my dear fellow." It was, however, in Gareth's nature to become very agitated when someone who owed him money wanted to discuss things.

The usual subject of discussion was how to avoid making payment, and Gareth was about to protest volubly and loudly when the Ras chose that moment to rise to his feet and make a speech.

This caused a certain amount of consternation, for the Ras's legs had been turned by large quant.i.ties of tej to the consistency of rubber, and it required the efforts of two of his guardsmen to get him to his feet and keep him there.

However, once up, he spoke with clarity and force while Lij Mikhael translated for the benefit of the white guests.

At first, the Ras seemed to wander. He spoke of the first rays of the sun touching the peaks of the mountains, and the feel of the desert wind in a man's face at noon, he reminded them of the sound of the birth cry of a man's firstborn child and the smell of the earth turning under the plough. Gradually an attentive silence fell upon his unruly audience, for the old man had still a power and force that demanded complete respect.

As he went on, so a greater dignity invested him; he shrugged off the supporting hands of his guard and seemed to grow in stature. His voice lost the querulous tremor of age and took on a more compelling ring. Jake did not need the Prince's translation to know that he was speaking of mans pride, and the rights of a free man. The duty of a man to defend that freedom with life itself, to preserve it for his sons and their children.