After a full minute at the handle, spinning it like a demented organ-grinder with no effect at all, Gareth fell back panting again.
"I say, old chap, I'm a bit bushed," and they changed places quickly.
Jake stooped over the crank handle, ignoring the tempest of bursting shells and swirling dust clouds, and the thick muscles in his arm writhed as he spun the crank.
"She's dead, Gareth shouted after another minute. Jake persevered, his face turning darkly red and the veins in his throat swelling into thick blue cords but at last even he released the handle with disgust and stepped back gasping.
"The tool kit is under the seat, "he said.
"You aren't going to do your handyman act here and now?"
Incredulously Gareth made a wide gesture that took in the bloody battlefield, the Italian guns and the bursting shells.
"You've got a better idea?" Jake asked brusquely, and Gareth looked about him forlornly, suddenly straightening his slumping shoulders, the droop of his mouth lifting into that eternally jaunty grin.
"Funny you should risk, old son. It just so happens-" and like a conjurer he indicated the apparition that appeared suddenly out of the curtains of leaping dust and fuming cordite.
Miss Wobbly slammed to a dead stop beside them and both hatches flew open. Sara's dark head appeared in one and Vicky's golden one in the other.
Vicky leaned across towards Jake, cupping her hands to her mouth as she shouted in the storm of shellfire, "What's wrong with Priscilla?" And Jake gasped, still red-faced and sweating. "She's thrown one of her fits."
"Grab the tow rope," Vicky instructed. "We'll pull you out." The Ethiopian camp swarmed with victorious swaggering warriors; their laughter was loud and their voices boastful. Admiring womenfolk, who watched them from the cooking fires, were preparing the night's feast.
The big, black iron pots bubbled with a dozen varieties of wat, and the smell of spices and meat lay heavily on the evening cool.
Vicky Camberwell bent over her typewriter, seated under the flap of her tent, and her long supple fingers flew at the keys as the words tumbled from her describing the courage and fighting qualities of a people who, armed only with sword and horse, had routed a modern army equipped with all the most fearsome weapons of war. When she was in literary flight, Vicky sometimes overlooked small details that might detract from the dramatic impact of her story the fact that the biblical warriors of Ethiopia had been supported by armoured cars and Vickers machine guns were details of this type, and she ignored them as she ended, "But how much longer can these proud, simple and gallant people continue to fight off the greedy lusting hordes of a modern Caesar intent on Empire? A miracle happened here today on the plains of Danakil, but the age of miracles is passing and it is clear even to those who have thrown in their lot with this fair land of Ethiopia that she is doomed unless the sleeping conscience of a civilized world is aroused, unless the voice of justice rings out clearly, calling to the tyrant Hands off, Benito Mussolini!"
"That's wonderful, Miss Camberwell," said Sara, leaning over to read the last words as they tapped out on the roller of the machine. "It makes me want to cry, it's so sad and "I'm glad you like it, Sara. I wish you were my editor." Vicky stripped the page from the machine and checked it swiftly, crossing out a word and inking in another before she was satisfied, and she folded the despatch into a thick brown envelope and licked the flap.
"Are you sure he is reliable?" she asked Sara.
"Oh, yes, Miss Camberwell, he is one of my father's best men."
Sara took the envelope and handed it to the warrior who had been waiting an hour outside the tent, squatting at the head of his saddled horse.
Sara spoke to him with great fire and passion, and the man nodded vehemently as she exhorted him and then flung himself into the saddle and dashed away towards the darkening mouth of the gorge, where the smoky blue shadows of evening were enfolding the harsh cliffs and jagged peaks of the mountains.
"He will be at Sardi before midnight. I have told him not to pause along the way. Your message will go on to the telegraph at dawn tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Sara dear." Vicky rose from the camp table and as she covered her typewriter, Sara eyed her speculatively.
Vicky had bathed and changed into the one good dress she had brought with her, a light Irish linen in a pale blue, cut with a fashionably low waist and skirt that covered her knees but displayed rounded calves and the narrow delicately shaped ankles which gleamed in their sheaths of fine silk stockings.
"Your dress is pretty," said Sara softly, "and your hair is so soft and yellow." She sighed. "I wish I were beautiful like you are.
I wish I had a lovely white skin like you."
"And I wish I had a beautiful golden skin like yours," Vicky countered swiftly, and they laughed together.
"Are you dressed like that for Gareth? He will love you very much when he sees you. Let us go and find him."
"I've got a better idea, Sara. why don't you go and find Gregorius. I am sure he is looking for you." Sara thought about that for a moment, torn between duty and pleasure.
"Are you certain you'll be all right on your own, Miss Camberwell?"
"Oh, I think so thank you, Sara. If I get into trouble I'll call you."
"I'll come right away," Sara assured her.
Vicky knew exactly where she would find Jake Barton, and she came up silently beside the tall steel hull and watched for a while as he worked, completely absorbed and totally oblivious of her presence.
She wondered how she had been so blind as not to have seen him properly before, not to have seen beneath the boyish freshness the strength and quiet assurance of a full mature man. It was an ageless face, and she knew that even when he was an old man the illusion of youth and freshness would remain with him. Yet there was an intensity in the eyes, a steely purpose in the heavy line of the jaw that she had never noticed before. She remembered the dream of his that he had told her the factory building his own engine and in a clairvoyant flash she knew that he had the determination and the strength to make it become reality. Suddenly she longed to share it with him, and knew that their two dreams could be placed together, his engine and her book, they could be created together, each gathering strength from the other, pooling their determination and their creative reserves. it would be worth while to share both dreams with a man like Jake Barton.
"Perhaps being in love allows one to see more clearly," she thought, as she watched him with secret pleasure. "Or perhaps it simply makes it easy to kid yourself," and she felt annoyance that her natural cynicism should overtake her now.
"No," she decided. "It's not make believe. He is strong and good and he'll stay that way," and immediately she thought that perhaps she was trying too hard to convince herself.
Unbidden, the memory of the night she had spent so recently with another man flooded back to her, and for a moment she found herself confused and uncertain. She tried to thrust the memory firmly aside, but it nagged at her, and she found herself comparing two men, remembering the wanton and wicked delights she had known,-and doubting wistfully that she might ever recapture them.
Then she looked closer at the man she thought she loved, and saw that although his arms were thick and dark with hair, and his hands were large and heavy-knuckled, yet the thick spatulate fiLigers worked with an almost sensuous skill and lightness, and she tried to imagine them moving on her skin and the image was so clear and voluptuous that she shuddered and drew in her breath sharply.
Immediately Jake looked up at her, the surprise in his eyes changing instantly to pleasure, and that slow warm smile spreading over his face as he ran his eyes swiftly from the top of her silken head down to the silken ankles.