"Jump," screamed Bruce, cupping his hands round his mouth. "Jump before
you gather speed." Perhaps they did not hear him, perhaps they were too
stunned to obey, but no one moved. The truck rolled back, faster and
faster as gravity took it, down the hill towards the village and the
waiting army of General Moses.
"What can we do, boss?" "Nothing," said Bruce.
The firing round Bruce had petered out into silence as every man, even
Wally Hendry, stared down the slope at the receding truck. With a
constriction of his throat Bruce saw old Boussier stoop and lift his
wife to her feet, hold her close to his side and the two of them looking
back at Bruce on the roof of the departing train. Boussier raised his
right hand in a gesture of farewell and then he dropped it again and
stood very still. Behind him, Andre de Surrier had left the
Bren gun and removed his helmet. He also was looking back at Bruce, but
he did not wave.
At intervals the field gun in the village punctuated the stillness with
its deep boom and gush of smoke, but Bruce hardly heard it. He was
watching the shufta running down towards the station yard to welcome the
truck. Losing speed it ran into the platform and halted abruptly as it
hit the buffers at the end of the line. The shufta swarmed over it like
little black ants over the body of a beetle and faintly Bruce heard the
pop, pop, pop of their rifles, saw the low sun glint on their bayonets.
He turned away.
They had almost reached the crest of the hills; he could feel the
train increasing speed under him. But he felt no relief, only the
prickling at the corners of his eyes and the ache of it trapped in his
throat.
"The poor bastards," growled Ruffy beside him. "The poor bastards." And
then there was another crashing jolt against the train, another hit from
the field gun. This time up forward, on the locomotive. Shriek of
escaping steam, the train checking its pace, losing power. But they were
over the crest of the hills, the village was out of sight and gradually
the train speeded up again as they started down the back slope. But
steam spouted out of it, hissing white jets of it, and Bruce knew they
had received a mortal wound. He switched on the radio.
"Driver, can you hear me? How bad is it?"
Aw
"I cannot see, Captain. There is too much steam. But the pressure on the
gauge is dropping swiftly."
"Use all you can to take us down the hill. It is imperative that we pass
the level crossing before we halt. it is absolutely imperative - if we
stop this side of the level crossing they will be able to reach us with
their lorries.".
"I will try, Captain." They rocketed down the hills but as soon as they
reached the level ground their speed began to fall off. Peering through
the dwindling clouds of steam Bruce saw the pale brown ribbon
of road ahead of them, and they were still travelling at a healthy
thirty miles an hour as they passed it. When finally the train trickled
to a standstill Bruce estimated that they were three or four miles
beyond the level crossing, safely walled in by the forest and hidden
from the road by three bends.
"I doubt they'll find us here, but if they do they'll have to come down
the line from the level crossing to get at us.
We'll go back a mile and lay an ambush in the forest on each side
of the line," said Bruce.
"Those Arabs won't be following us, boss. They've got themselves women
and a whole barful of liquor. Be two or three days before old
General Moses can sober them up enough to move them on."
"You're probably right, Ruffy. But we'll take no chances.
Get that ambush laid and then we'll try and think up some idea for
getting home." Suddenly a thought occurred to him: Martin Boussier had
the diamonds with him. They would not be too pleased about that in
Elisabethville.
Almost immediately Bruce was disgusted with himself.
The diamonds were by far the least important thing that they had left
behind in Port Reprieve.
Andre de Surrier held his steel helmet against his chest the way a man
holds his hat at a funeral, the wind blew cool and caressing through his
dark sweat-damp hair. His hearing was dulled by the strike
of the shell that had cut the truck loose from the rear of the train, he
could hear one of the children crying and the crooning, gentling voice
of its mother. He stared back up the railway line at the train, saw the
great bulk of Ruffy beside Bruce Curry on the roof of the second coach.
"They can't help us now." Boussier spoke softly. "There's nothing they
can do." He lifted his hand stiffly in almost a military salute and then
dropped it to his side. "Be brave, ma cheri," he said to his
wife. "Please be brave," and she clung to him.
Andre let the helmet drop from his hands. It clanged on to the metal
floor of the truck. He wiped the sweat from his face with nervous
fluttering hands and then turned slowly to look down at the
village.
"I don't want to die," he whispered. "Not like this, not now, please not
now." One of his gendarmes laughed, a sound without mirth, and stepped
across to the Bren. He pushed Andre away from it and started firing at
the tiny running figures of the men in the station yard.
"No," shrilled Andre. Don't do that, no, don't antagonize them.
They'll kill us if you do that-"
"They'll kill us anyway," laughed the gendarme and emptied the magazine
in one long despairing burst. Andre started towards him, perhaps to pull
him away from the gun, but
his resolve did not carry him that far. His hands dropped to his sides,
clenching and unclenching. His lips quivered and then opened to spill
out his terror.
"No!" he screamed. "Please, no! No! Oh, God have mercy.
Oh, save me, don't let this happen to me, please, God. Oh, my
God." He stumbled to the side of the truck and clambered on to it. The
truck was slowing as it ran into the platform. He could see men coming
with rifles in their hands, shouting as they ran, black men in dirty
tattered uniforms, their faces working with excitement, pink shouting
mouths, baying like hounds in a pack.
Andre jumped and the dusty concrete of the platform grazed his cheek and
knocked the wind out of him. He crawled to his knees, clutching his
stomach and trying to scream. A rifle butt hit him between the
shoulder-blades and he collapsed. Above him a voice shouted in French.
"He is white, keep him for the general. Don't kill him." And again the
rifle butt hit him, this time across the side of the head.
He lay in the dust, dazed, with the taste of blood in his mouth and
watched them drag the others from the truck.
They shot the black gendarmes on the platform, without ceremony,
laughing as they competed with each other to use their bayonets on the
corpses. The two children died quickly torn from their mothers, held by
the feet and swung head first against the steel side of the truck
Old Boussier tried to prevent them stripping his wife and was bayoneted
from behind in anger, and then shot twice with a pistol held to his head