The Burning Shore - Smith Wilbur - Страница 19

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When the final convulsion gripped him, she watched his face, and saw how the colour of his eyes changed to indigo in the lamplight. Yet although she loved him then with a strength that was physically painful, still there was a tiny suspicion in the depths of her consciousness that she had missed something. She had not felt the need to scream as Elsa had screamed beneath Jacques in the straw, and immediately after that thought she was afraid.

Michel, she whispered urgently, do you still love me?

Tell me you love me. I love you more than my own life. His voice was broken and gusty, she could not for an instant doubt his sincerity.

She smiled in the darkness with relief and held him close, and when she felt him going small and soft within her, she was overcome with a wave of melting compassion.

My darling, she whispered, there, my darling, there, and she stroked his thick springing curls at the back of his head.

It was a little time before her emotions had calmed enough for her to realize that something had changed irrevocably within her during the few brief minutes of that simple act they had performed together. The man in her arms was physically stronger than she was but he felt like a child, a sleepy child, as he cuddled against her.

While she felt wiser and vital, as though her life up until that moment had been becalmed, drifting without direction, but now she had found her trade winds and like a tall ship she was at last bearing away purposefully before them.

Wake up, Michel. She shook him gently and he mumbled and stirred.

You cannot sleep now, talk to me.

What about? Anything. Tell me about Africa. Tell me how we will go to Africa together. I've told you that already. Tell me again. I want to hear it all again And she lay against him and listened avidly, asking questions whenever he faltered.

Tell me about your father. You haven't told me what he looks like. So they talked the night away cuddled in their cocoon of grey blankets.

Then, too soon for both of them, the guns began their murderous chorus along the ridges, and Centaine held him to her with desperate longing. Oh, Michel, I don't want to go! then she drew away from him, sat up and began to pull on her clothes and refasten the buttons.

That was the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me, Michael whispered as he watched her, and in the light of the lantern and the flickering glow of the guns, her eyes were huge and soft, as she turned to him again. We will go to Africa, won't we, Michel? I promise you we will.

And I will have your son in the sunshine, and we will live happily ever after just like in the fairy stories, won't we, Michel? They went up the lane clinging together under Centaine's shawl, and at the corner of the stables they kissed with quiet intensity until Centaine broke out of his grip and fled across the paved yard.

She did not look back when she reached the kitchen door, but disappeared into the huge dark house, leaving Michael alone and unaccountably sad when he should have been joyous.. . .

Biggs stood over the cot and looked down fondly at Michael as he slept. Biggs's eldest son who had died in the trenches at Ypres a year ago, would have been the same age. Michael looked so worn and pale and exhausted that Biggs had to force himself to touch his shoulder and wake him.

What time is it, Biggs? Michael sat up groggily.

It's late, sir, and the sun's shining, but we aren't flyin& we are still grounded, sir. Then a strange thing happened.

Michael grinned at him, a sort of inane idiotic grin, that Biggs had never seen before. It alarmed him. God, Biggs, I feel good. I'm glad, sir. Biggs wondered with a pang if it might be fever. How's our arm, sir? Our arm is marvelous, bloody marvelous, thank you, Biggs. I would have let you sleep, but the major is asking for you, sir. There is something important that he wants to show you. what is it? I'm not allowed to say, Mr Michael, Lord Killigerran's strict instructions Good man, Biggs! Michael cried without apparent reason, and bounded from his cot. Never do to keep Lord Killigerran waiting Michael burst into the mess and was disapointed to find it empty. He wanted to share his good spirits with somebody. Andrew for preference, but even the mess corporal had deserted his post. The breakfast dishes still cluttered the dining-table, and magazines and newspapers lay on the floor where they had obviously been dropped in haste. The adjutant's pipe, with malodorous wisps of smoke still rising from it, lay in one of the ashtrays, proof of how precipitously the mess had been abandoned.

Then Michael heard the sound of voices, distant but excited, coming through the open window that overlooked the orchard.

He hurried out and into the trees.

Their full squadron strength was twenty-four pilots, but after the recent attrition they were down to sixteen including Andrew and Michael. All of them were assembled at the edge of the orchard, and with them were the mechanics and ground staff, the crews from the antiaircraft batteries that guarded the field, the mess servants and batmen, every living soul was on the field, and it seemed that all of them were talking at once.

They were gathered round an aircraft parked in the No.

1 position at the head of the orchard. Michael could see only the upper wings of the machine and the cowling of the motor over the heads of the crowd, but he felt a sudden thrill in his blood. He had never seen anything like it before.

The nose of the machine was long, giving the impression of great power, and the wings were beautifully raked yet with the deep dihedral which promised speed, and the control surfaces were full, which implied stability and easy handling.

Andrew pushed his way out of the excited throng around the aircraft and hurried to meet Michael with the amber cigarette-holder sticking out of the corner of his mouth at a jaunty angle.

Hail, the sleeping beauty arises like Venus from the waves. Andrew, it's the SE 5 a at last, isn't it? Michael shouted above the uproar, and Andrew seized his arm and dragged him towards it.

The crowd opened before them and Michael came up short and stared at it with awe. At a glance he could see it was heavier and more robust than even the German Albatros, and that engine! It was enormous! Gargantuan!

Two hundred gee-gees! Andrew patted the engine cowling lovingly.

Two hundred horsepower, Michael repeated. Bigger than the German Mercedes. He went forward and stroked the beautifully laminated wood of the propeller as he looked up over the nose at the guns.

There was a .303 Lewis gun on a Foster mount set on the top wing, a light, reliable and effective weapon firing over the arc of the propeller, and below it mounted on the fuselage ahead of the cockpit was the heavier Vickers with interrupter gear to fire through the propeller. Two guns, at last they had two guns and an engine powerful enough to carry them into battle.

Michael let out the highland yell that Andrew had taught him, and Andrew unscrewed the cairngorm and sprinkled a few drops of whisky on the engine housing.

Bless this kite and all who fly in her, he intoned, and then took a swig from the flask before handing it to Michael.

Have you flown her? Michael demanded, his voice hoarse from the burn of whisky, and he tossed the flask to the nearest of his brother officers.

Who the devil do you think brought her up from Arras? Andrew demanded. How does she handle? Just like a young lady I know in Aberdeen, quick up, quick down and soft and loving in between. There was a chorus of cat-calls and whistles from the assembled pilots, and somebody yelled, When do we get the chance to fly her, sir? Order of seniority, Andrew told them, and gave Michael a wicked grin. If only Captain Courtney were fit to fly! He shook his head in mock sympathy.

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