Gregorius Maryam followed him closely. His hereditary title was Gerazinach, "Commander of the Left Wing', and his warrior blood coursed through his veins mingling with the deeply religious Old Testament teachings of the Coptic Christian Church, so that his eyes shone with an almost mystic fanaticism and his heart soared with a young man's fierce patriotism, for he was still young enough and inexperienced enough to look on the dirty bloody business of war as something glamorous and manly.
Behind him came Vicky Camberwell, driving Miss Wobbly with competence and precision. Jake was delighted with her ability to judge the engine beat, and to mesh the ancient gears with a light touch on clutch and stick. She too was excited by the prospect of adventure, and new experience. That afternoon she had filed her preliminary report
, despatching five thousand words by the new airmail service that would deposit them on her editor's desk in New York within ten days.
She had explained the background, the clear intent of Benito Mussolini to annex the sovereign territories of Ethiopia, the world's indifference, the arms embargo. "Do not delude yourselves" she had written, "into the belief that I am crying wolf. The wolf of Rome is already hunting.
What is about to happen in the mountains of northern Africa will shame the civilized world." And then she had gone on to expose the intention of the great nations to prevent her reaching the embattled empire and reporting its plight. She had ended the despatch, "Your correspondent has rejected this restriction placed upon her movements and her integrity. Tonight I have joined a group of intrepid men who are risking their lives to defy the embargo, and to carry through the closed territories a quantity of arms and supplies desperately needed by the beleaguered nation. By the time you read this, we shall have failed and have died upon the desert coast of Africa, which the natives fearfully call the "Great Burn" or we shall have succeeded. We shall have landed by night from a small coasting vessel and trekked through hundreds of miles of savage and hostile territory to a meeting with an Ethiopian prince. I hope that in my next despatch, I shall be able to describe our journey to you, but if the gods of chance decree otherwise at least we shall have tried." Vicky was very pleased with the first article. In her usual flamboyant style, she particularly liked the "trekking" bit which gave a touch of local colour. It had everything: drama, mystery, the little guy taking on the big.
She knew that the completed series would be a giant and she was excited and aglow with anticipation.
Behind her Jake Barton followed. He listened with half his attention to the engine beat of the Pig. For no apparent reason, except perhaps a premonition of what awaited her, the car had that night refused to start. Jake had cranked her until his arm was cramped and aching. He had blown through the fuel system, checked the plugs, magneto and every other moving part that could possibly be at fault.
Then, after another hour of tinkering, she had started and run sweetly, without giving the slightest hint of what had prevented her doing so earlier.
With the other half of his attention, he was mentally in the mountains checking out his preparations knowing that this was his last chance to fill any gaps in his list. It was one hell of a long trail from Month to the Wells of Chaldi and not many service stations on the road. The pontoon raft of drums had been stowed aboard the HirondeUe that afternoon, and each car carried its own means of sustenance and survival a load which taxed their ancient suspensions and body work Thus Jake's conscious mind was fully occupied, but below that level was a gut memory that tightened his nerves and charged his blood with adrenaline There had been another night like this, moving in column in the darkness, with the throttled-back engine beat drumming softly in his ears but then there had been the glow of star shell in the sky ahead, the distant juddering of a Maxim firing at a gap in the wire and the smell of death and mud in his nostrils. Unlike Gregorius Maryam in the car ahead, Jake Barton knew about war and all its glories.
apadopoulos was waiting for them on the wharf, carrying a hurricane lamp and dressed in an ankle, length greatcoat that gave him the air of a down-at, heel gnome. He signalled the column forward, waving the lamp, and his ragged crew swarmed off the deck of the Hirondelle on to the stone wharf.
It was clear that they were accustomed to loading unusual cargo in the middle of the night. As each car was driven forward, it was stripped of its burden of drums and crates.
These were stowed separately in cargo nets. Then they thrust sturdy wooden pallets under the chassis of the car and fixed the heavy hemp lines. At a signal from Papadopoulos, the men at the winches started the donkey engines and the lines ran through the blocks on the booms of the derricks.
The bulky cars rose slowly and then swung inboard.
The whole operation was carried out swiftly, with no raised voices or unnecessary noise. Only a muttered command, the grunt of straining men, the muted clatter of the donkey engines and then the thump of the cars settling on the deck.
"These fellows know their business." Gareth watched approvingly, then turned to Jake. "I'll go down to the. harbour master and clear the bills of lading. We'll be ready to sail in an hour or so." He sauntered away and disappeared into the shadows.
"Let's inspect the accommodation," Jake suggested, and took Vicky's arm. "It looks like a regular Cunarder." They climbed the gangplank to the deck and only then did they get the first whiff of the slave stench. By the time Gareth returned from his nefarious negotiations with bills of lading showing a consignment of four ambulances and medical supplies to the International Red Cross Association at Alexandria, the others had made a brief examination of the single tiny odoriferous cabin which Papadopoulos had put at their disposal and decided to leave it to the cockroaches and bed bugs which were already in residence.
"It's only a few days" sailing. I think I prefer the open deck.
If it rains, we can take shelter in the cars." Jake spoke for all of them as they stood in a group at the rail, watching the lights of Dares Salaam glide away into the night, while the diesel engine of the schooner thumped under their feet and the sweet cool sea breeze washed over the deck, cleansing their nostrils and mouths of the slave stench.
Vicky was awakened by the brilliance of the starlight shining into her face and she opened her eyes and stared up at a sky that blazed with the splendours Of the universe, as fields and seas of pearly light swirled across the heavens.
Quietly she slipped out of her blankets and went to the ship's rail.
The sea was lustrous glittering sable; each wave seemed to be carved from some solid and precious metal, bejewelled by the reflections of the starlight and through it the ship's wake glowed with phosphorescence like a trail of green fire.
The sea wind was the touch of lovers" hands against her skin and in her hair, the great mainsail whispered above her head, and there was an almost physical ache in her chest at the beauty of this night.
When Gareth came up silently behind her and slipped his arms about her waist, she did not even turn her head, but lay back against him.
She did not want to argue and tease. As she herself had written, she might soon be dead and the night was too beautiful to let it pass.
Neither of them spoke, but Vicky sighed and shuddered voluptuously as she felt his hands, smooth and skilful, slide up under the light cotton blouse. His touch, like the wind, was softly caressing.
Through their thin clothing she could feel the warmth and resilience of his flesh pressed against her, feel his chest surge and subside to the urgency of his breathing.