The final circumstance that persuaded him to leave the camp, abandon the new military philosophy, and move cautiously up the Sardi Gorge was the arrival of the armoured column from Asmara. These machines were to replace those that the savage enemy had so perfidiously trapped and burned. Despite all the Count's pleading and blustering, it had taken a week for them to be diverted from Massawa, brought up to Asmara by train, and then for them to complete the long slow crossing of the Danakil.
Now, however, they had arrived and the Count had immediately requisitioned one of the six tanks as his personal command vehicle.
Once he was within the thick armoured hull, he had experienced a new flood of confidence and courage.
"Onwards to Sardi, to write in blood upon the glorious pages of history!" were the words that occurred to him, and Gino's face had creased up into that spaniel's expression.
Now in the lowering shades of evening, grinding up the rocky pathway while walls of sheer rock rose on either hand, seeming to meet the sullen purple strip of sky high above, the Count was having serious doubts about the whole wild venture.
He peered out from the turret of his command tank, his eyes huge and dark and melting with apprehension, a black polished steel helmet pulled down firmly over his ears, and one hand gripping the ivory butt of the Beretta so fiercely that his knuckles shone white as bone china.
At his feet, Gino crouched miserably, keeping well down within the steel hull.
At that moment a machine gun opened fire ahead of them, and the sound echoed and re-echoed against the sheer walls of the gorge.
"Stop! Stop this instant! shouted the Count at his driver.
The gunfire sounded very close ahead. "We will make this battalion headquarters. Right here," announced the Count, and Gino perked up a little and nodded his total agreement.
"Send for Major Castelani and Major Vita. They are to report to me here immediately." Jake awoke to the pressure of somebody's hand on his shoulder, and the light of a storm lantern in his eyes.
The effort of sitting up required all his determination and he let the damp blanket fall and screwed up his eyes against the light. The cold had stiffened every muscle in his body, and his head felt light and woolly with fatigue. He could not believe it was morning already.
"Who is it?"
"It's me, Jake," and then he saw Gregorius's dark intense face beyond the lamp.
"Take that bloody thing out of my eyes." Beside him, Gareth Swales sat up suddenly. Both of them had been sleeping fully dressed upon the same ragged strip of canvas in the muddy bottom of the dugout.
"What's going on?" mumbled Gareth, also stupid with fatigue.
Gregorius swung the lantern aside and the light fell on the slim figure beside him. Sara was shivering with cold and her light clothing was
&-soddden and muddy. Thorn and branches had scored bloody lines across her legs and arms, and ripped the fabric of her breeches.
She dropped on her knees beside Jake, and he saw that her eyes were haunted with terror and horror, her lips trembled uncontrollably, and the slim hand she laid on Jake's arm was cold as a dead man's, but it fluttered urgently.
"Miss Camberwell. They have taken her!" she blurted wildly, and her voice choked up.
"You should stay on here," Jake muttered, as they hurried up the slope to where Priscilla the Pig was parked half a mile back from the line of trenches.
"There will be a dawn attack, they'll need you."
"I'm coming on the ride, Jake," Gareth answered quietly, but firmly.
"You can't expect me to sit here while Vicky-" he broke off. "Got to keep a fatherly eye on you, old son," he went on in the old bantering tone.
"The Ras and his lads will have to take their own chances for a while."
As he spoke, they reached the hulking shape of the armoured car, parked in the broken ground below the head of the gorge. Jake began to drag the canvas cover off the vehicle, and Gareth drew Gregorius aside.
"One way or another, we should be back before dawn. If we aren't, you know what to do. God knows, you've had enough practice these last few days." Gregorius nodded silently.
"Hold as long as you can. Then back to the head of the gorge for the last act. Right? It's only until noon tomorrow.
We can hold them that long, tanks or no bloody tanks, can't we?"
"Yes, Gareth, we can hold them."
"Just one other thing, Greg. I love your grandfather like a brother but keep that old bastard under control, will you.
Even if you have to tie him down. "Gareth slapped the boy's shoulder, changed the captured Italian rifle into his good hand and hurried back to the car, just as Jake boosted Sara up the side of the hull and then ran to the crank handle.
Priscilla the Pig ground up the last few hundred yards of steep ground to the head of the gorge, and they passed gangs of Harari working by torchlight. They had been at it in shifts since the previous evening when Jake and Gareth had heard the Italian tanks coming up the gorge.
Although all his concern was with Vicky, yet Gareth noted almost mechanically that the work gang had performed their task well. The anti-tank walls were higher than a man's head and built from the heaviest, most massive boulders that could be carried down from the cliffs. There was only a gap narrow enough to allow the car to pass in the centre of the walls.
"Tell them to close the gap now, Sara. We won't take the car into the gorge again," Gareth instructed quietly as they went through and she called out to a Harari officer who stood on top of the highest point of the wall; he waved an acknowledgement, and turned away to supervise the work.
Jake took the car through the natural granite gates, and beyond them lay the saucer-shaped valley and the town of Sardi.
It was burning, and at the sight Jake halted the car and they stood on the hull and looked across at the ruddy glow of the flames that lit the underbelly of the clouds, and dimly defined the mountain masses that enclosed the valley.
"is she still alive?" Jake voiced all their fears, but it was Sara who answered.
"If Ras Kullah was there when they caught her, then she is dead."
Then silence again, both men staring Out into the night, with anger and dread holding them captive.
"But if he was skulking up in the hills, as he usually does, waiting for the attack to succeed before he shows himself," she spat expressively over the side of the hull, "then his men would not dare begin the execution, until he was there to watch and enjoy the work of his milch cows. I have heard they can take the skin off a living body working carefully with their little knives, every inch of skin from head to toes, and the body still lives for many hours." And Jake shuddered with horror.
fire "If you're ready, old boy. I think we could move on now!"
said Gareth, and with an effort Jake roused himself and dropped back into the driver's hatch.
There seemed to be a suggestion of the false dawn lightening the narrow strip of sky high above the mountains when Gregorius Maryam scrambled back into the front line treches.
There was activity already amongst the shadowy figures that crowded the narrow dugouts, and one of the Ras's bodyguard carrying a smoky paraffin lantern greeted him with, "The Ras asks for you. "Gregorius followed him down the trench, stepping carefully amongst the hundreds of figures that slept uncaring on the muddy floor.
The Ras sat huddled in a grey blanket, in one of the larger dugouts off the main trench. The open pit had been roofed in with the remnants of one of the leather tents, and a small fire burned smokily in the centre. The Ras was surrounded by a dozen of the officers of his bodyguard, and he looked up as Gregorius knelt quietly before him.