"Vicky!" Jake shouted again.
"If you help it won't take so long, "she called obstinately, and Jake shrugged helplessly before climbing down out of the hatch.
Both cars were crammed with dreadfully wounded and dying Harari, and the hulls were thick with those who still had strength to hold on, before Vicky was satisfied.
"We've lost fifteen minutes. "Gareth glanced at his pocket watch in the rain that still poured down with unabated fury.
"And that could be enough to get us all killed, and lose us the gorge."
"It was worth it," Vicky told him stubbornly, and ran to her car. Again the heavily burdened machines ground on towards the mountain pass, and now they had to ignore the pitiful appeals of the wounded they passed.
They lay in huddles of rags soaked with rain and diluted pink blood, or they crawled painfully and doggedly on towards the mountain, lifting brown, agonized faces and pleading, clawlike hands, hands as the two machines roared past in the mist.
Once a freak gap in the rain opened visibility to a mile around them, and a pale shaft of watery sunlight slanted down to strike the cars like a stage light, glistening on the wet steel hulls.
Immediately the Italian machine guns opened on them from a range of a mere two hundred yards, and the bullets cut into the clinging mass of humanity, knocking a dozen of them shrieking from their perch before the rain closed in again, hiding them in its soft white protective bosom.
They ran into the main camp below the gorge, and found that it was plunged into terrible confusion. It had been heavily shelled and machine-gunned, and then the rain had turned it all into a deep muddy soup of broken flattened tents, and scattered equipment.
Dead horses and human corpses were half buried in the mud, here and there a terrified dog or a lost child scurried through the rain.
Spasmodic fighting was still taking place in the rocky ground around the camp, and they caught glimpses of Italian uniforms on the slopes and muzzle-flashes in the gloom.
Every few seconds a shell would howl in through the rain and cloud and burst with sullen fury somewhere out of sight.
"Head for the gorge," shouted Gareth. "Don't stop here," and Jake took the path that skirted the grove of camel thorns the direct path that passed below and out of sight of the fighting on the slopes, crossed the Sardi River and plunged into the gaping maw of the gorge.
"My men are holding them," Gregorius shouted proudly.
"They are holding the gorge. We must go to their aid."
"Our place is at the first waterfall. "Gareth raised his voice for the first time.
"They can't hold here not when the Eyetie brings up his guns. We've got to get set at the first waterfall to have a chance." He looked back to where the other car should have been following them, and he groaned.
"No! Oh, please God, no."
"What is it? "jake head popped out of the driver's hatch with alarm.
"They've done it again."
"Who ?" But Jake need not have asked.
The following car had swung off the direct track, and was now storming up through the rain-blurred camel-Thorn trees, heading for the old tented camp in the grove, and only incidentally running directly into the area where the heavy fighting was still rattling and crackling in the rain.
"Catch her," Gareth said. "Head her off." Jake swung off the track and went zigzagging up through the grove with the rear wheels spinning and spraying red mud and slush. But Miss Wobbly had a clear start and a straight run up the secondary track directly into the enemy advance; she disappeared amongst the trees and curtains of rain.
Jake brought the car bellowing out into the camp to find Miss Wobbly parked in the open clearing. The tents had been flattened and the whole area trodden and looted, cases of rations and clothing burst open and soaked with rain; the muddy red canvas of the tents hung flapping in the trees or lay half buried.
From the turret, Sara was firing the Vickers into the trees of the grove, and answering fire whined and crackled around the car. Jake glimpsed running Italian figures, and turned the car so that his own gun would bear.
"Get into them, Greg," he yelled, and the boy crouched down behind the gun and fired a long thunderous burst that tore shreds of bark off the trees and dropped at least one of the running Italians. Jake lifted himself out of the driver's hatch, and then froze and stared in disbelief.
Victoria Camberwell was out of the armoured car, plodding around in the soup of red mud, oblivious to the gunfire that whickered and crackled about her.
"Vicky!" he cried in despair, and she stooped and snatched something out of the mud with a cry of triumph. Now at last she turned and scampered back to Miss Wobbly, crossing a few feet in front of Jake.
"What the hell-" he protested.
"My typewriter and my toilet bag," she explained reasonably, holding her muddy trophies aloft. "One has got my make-up in it, and I can't do my job without the other," and then she smiled like a wet bedraggled puppy.
"We can go now, "she said.
The track up the gorge was crowded with men and "animals, toiling wearily upwards in the icy rain.
The pack animals slipped and slithered in the loose footing.
Gareth's relief was intense when he saw the bulky shapes of the Vickers strapped to the humpy backs of a dozen camels, and the cases of ammunition riding high in the panniers. His men had done their work and saved the guns.
"Go with them, Greg," he ordered. "See them safely up to the first waterfall," and the boy jumped down to take command, while the two cars ploughed on slowly through the sea of humanity.
"There's no fight left in them," said Jake, looking down into the dispirited brown faces, running with rainwater and shivering in the cold.
"They'll fight," answered Gareth, and he nudged the Ras.
"What do you say, Grandpa?" The Ras grinned a weary toothless grin, but his wet clothing clung to the gaunt old frame like the rags of a scarecrow, as Jake brought the car round the slippery, glassy hairpin bend below the first waterfall.
"Pull in here," Gareth told him, and then scrambled down beside the hull, drawing the Ras down with him.
"Thanks, old son." He looked up at Jake. "Take the cars up to Sardi, and get rid of these-" He indicated the sorry cargo of wounded.
"Try and find a suitable building for a hospital. Leave that to Vicky it'll keep her out of mischief.
Either that or we'll have to tie her up--2 he grinned, and then was serious. "Try and contact Lij Mikhael. Tell him the position here.
Tell him the Gallas have deserted and I'll be hard pressed to hold the gorge another week. Tell him we need ammunition, guns, medicine, blankets, food anything he can spare. Ask him to send a train down to Sardi with supplies, and to take out the wounded." He paused, and thought for a moment. "That's it, I think.
Do that and then come back, with all the food you can carry. I think we left most of our supplies down there" he glanced down into the misty depths of the gorge "and these fellows won't fight on an empty stomach." Jake reversed the car and pulled back on to the track.
"Oh, and Jake, try and find a few cheroots. I lost my entire stock down there. Can't fight without a whiff or two." He grinned and waved. "Keep it warm, old son," he called, and turned away to begin stopping the trudging column of refugees, pushing them off the track towards the prepared trenches that had been dug into the rocky sides of the gorge, overlooking the double sweep of the track below them.
"Come along, chaps," Gareth shouted cheerfully. "Who's for a touch of old glory!" ROM GENERAL BADOGLIO, COMMANDER IN CHIEF OF THE AFRICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE BEFORE AMBA ARA DAM TO COLONEL COUNT ALDO BELLI, OFFICER COMMANDING THE DANAKIL COLUMN AT THE WELLS OF CHALDI.
THE MOMENT FOR WHICH WE HAVE PLANNED IS NOW AT HAND STOP I CONFRONT THE MAIN BODY OF THE ENEMY, AND HAVE HAD THEM UNDER CONTINUOUS BOMBARDMENT FOR FIVE DAYS. AT DAWN TOMORROW I SHALL ATTACK IN FORCE AND DRIVE THEM FROM THE HIGH GROUND BACK ALONG THE DE SSI ROAD. DO YOU NOW ADVANCE WITH ALL DESPATCH TO TAKE UP A POSITION ASTRIDE THE DESSIE ROAD AND STEM THE TIDE OF THE ENEMY's RETREAT, SO THAT WE MAY TAKE THEM ON BOTH TINES OF THE PITCHFORK.