It was almost two o “clock when they reached the causeway. Bruce left his men crouched in the papyrus while he made a stealthy reconnaissance along the side of the concrete bridge, keeping in its shadow, moving doubled up until he came to dry land on the edge of the village. There were no sentries posted and except for the crackle of
the flames the town was quiet, sunk into a drunken stupor, satiated.
Bruce went back to call his men up.
He spread them in pairs along the outskirts of the village.
He had learned very early in this campaign not to let his men act singly; nothing drains an African of courage more than to be on his own, especially in the night when the ghosts are on the walk-about.
To each couple he gave minute instructions.
“When you hear the grenades you shoot at anybody in the streets or at the windows. When the street is empty move in close beside that building there. Use your own grenades on every house and watch out for Lieutenant Hendry’s men coming through from the other side. Do you understand?”
“It is understood.”
“Shoot carefully. Aim each shot - not like you did at the road bridge, and in the name of God do not hit the gasoline tanker. We need that to get us home.” Now it was three o’clock, Bruce saw by the luminous figures on his wristwatch.
Eight hours since they had left the train, and twenty-two hours since
Bruce had last slept.
But he was not tired, although his body ached and there was that gritty feeling under his eyelids, yet his mind was clear and bright as a flame.
He lay beside Ruffy under a low bush on the outskirts of Port
Reprieve and the night wind drifted the smoke from the burning town down upon them, and Bruce was not tired. For I am going to another rendezvous with fear.
Fear is a woman, he thought, with all the myriad faces and voices of a woman. Because she is a woman and because I am a man I must keep going back to her. Only this time the appointment is one that I cannot avoid, this time I am not deliberately seeking her out.
I know she is evil, I know that after I have possessed her I will feel sick and shaken. I will say, “That was the last time, never again.” But just as certainly I know I will go back to her again, hating her, dreading her, but also needing her.
I have gone to find her on a mountain - on Dutoits Kloof Frontal, on Turret Towers, on the Wailing Wall, and the Devil’s Tooth.
And she was there, dressed in a flowing robe of rock, a robe that fell sheer two thousand feet to the scree slope below. And she shrieked with the voice of the wind along the exposed face. Then her voice was soft, tinkling like Aft
*ad cooling glass in the Berg ice underfoot, whispering like nylon rope running free, grating as the rotten rock moved in my hand.
I have followed her into the Jessie bush on the banks of the Sabi and the Luangwa, and she was there, waiting, wounded, in a robe of buffalo hide with the blood dripping from her mouth. And her smell was the sour-acid smell of my own sweat, and her taste was like rotten tomatoes in the back of my throat.
I have looked for her beyond the reef in the deep water with the demand valve of a scuba repeating my breathing with metallic hoarseness. And she was there with rows of white teeth in the semicircle of her mouth, a tall fin on her back, dressed this time in shagreen, and her touch was cold as the ocean, and her taste was salt and the taint of dying things.
I have looked for her on the highway with my foot pressed to the floorboards and she was there with her cold arm draped round my shoulders, her voice the whine of rubber on tarmac and the throaty hum of the motor.
With Colin Butler at the helm (a man who treated fear not as a lover, but with tolerant contempt as though she were his little sister)
I went to find her in a small boat. She was dressed in green with plumes of spray and she wore a necklace of sharp black rock. And her voice was the roar of water breaking on water.
We met in darkness at the road bridge and her eyes glinted like bayonets. But that was an enforced meeting not of my choosing, as tonight will be.
I hate her, he thought, but she is a woman and I am a man.
Bruce lifted his arm and turned his wrist to catch the light of the fires.
“Fifteen minutes to four, Ruffy. Let’s go and take a look.”
“That’s a good idea, boss.” Ruffy grinned with a show of white teeth in the darkness.
Are you afraid, Ruffy?” he asked suddenly, wanting to know, for his own heart beat like a war drum and there was no saliva in his mouth.
“Boss, some questions you don’t ask a man.” Ruffy rose slowly into a crouch. “Let’s go take a look around.” So they moved quickly together into the town, along the street, hugging the hedges and the buildings, trying to keep in shadow, their eyes moving everywhere, breathing quick and shallow, nerves screwed up tight until they reached the hotel.
There were no lights in the windows and it seemed deserted until
Bruce made out the untidy mass of humanity strewn in sleep upon the front verandah.
“How many there, Ruffy?”
“Dunno - perhaps ten, fifteen.” Ruffy breathed an answer.
“Rest of them will be inside.”
“Where are the women - be careful of them.”
“They’re dead long ago, you can believe me.”
“All right then, let’s get round the back.” Bruce took a deep breath and then moved quickly across the twenty yards of open firelit street to the corner of the hotel. He stopped in the shadow and felt Ruffy close beside him.
“I want to take a look into the main lounge, my guess is that most of them will be in there,” he whispered.
“There’s only four bedrooms,” agreed Ruffy. “Say the officers upstairs and the rest in the lounge.” Now Bruce moved quickly round the corner and stumbled over something soft. He felt it move against his foot.
“Ruffy!” he whispered urgently as he teetered off balance.
He had trodden on a man, a man sleeping in the dust beside the wall. He could see the firelight on his bare torso and the glint of the bottle clutched in one outflung hand. The man sat up, muttering, and then began to cough, hacking painfully, swearing as he wiped his mouth with his free hand. Bruce regained his balance and swung his rifle up to use the bayonet, but Ruffy was quicker. He put one foot on the man’s chest and trod him flat on to his back once more, then standing over him he used his bayoneted rifle the way a gardener uses a spade to lift potatoes, leaning his weight on it suddenly and the blade
vanished into the man’s throat.
The body stiffened convulsively, legs thrust out straight and arms rigid, there was a puffing of breath from the severed windpipe and then the slow melting relaxation of death. Still with his foot on the chest, Ruffy withdrew the” bayonet and stepped over the corpse.
That was very close, thought Bruce, stifling the qualm of horror
he felt at the execution. The man’s eyes were fixed open in almost comic surprise, the bottle still in his hand, his chest bare, the front of his trousers unbuttoned and stiff with dried blood - not his blood, guessed Bruce angrily.
They moved on past the kitchens. Bruce looked in and saw that they were empty with the white enamel tiles reflecting the vague light
and piles of used plates and pots cluttering the tables and the sink.
Then they reached the bar-room and there was a hurricane lamp on the counter diffusing a yellow glow; the stench of liquor poured out through the half-open window, the shelves were bare of bottles and men were asleep upon the counter, men lay curled together upon the floor like a pack of dogs, broken glass and rifles and shattered furniture littered about them.
Someone had vomited out of the window leaving a yellow streak down the whitewashed wall.
“Stand here,” breathed Bruce into Ruffy’s ear. “I will go round to the front where I can throw on to the verandah and also into the lounge. Wait until you hear my first grenade blow.” Ruffy nodded and leaned his rifle against the wall; he took a grenade in each fist and