Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 38

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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 nobleman 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 shiny 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 passed 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 passed

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

unobtrusively 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 unbuttoned 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 circumstances," 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 circumstances 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 circumstances,

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

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