as the eyes.
They stripped Andre with rough dispatch and General Moses looked at his
body.
"So white," he murmured. "Why so white?" Suddenly his jaws began chewing
nervously and there was a faint shine of sweat on his forehead.
He came round from behind the desk, a small man yet with an intensity
about him that doubled his size.
"White like the maggots that feed in the living body of the elephant."
He brought his face close to Andre's- "You should be fatter, my maggot,
having fed so long and so wellyou should be much fatter." He touched
Andre's body, running his hands down his flanks in a caress.
" he said, and
"But now it is too late, little white maggot. Andre cringed from his
touch and from his voice. "For the elephant has shaken you from the
wound, shaken you out on to the ground, shaken you out beneath his feet
- and will you pop when he crushes you?" His voice was still soft though
the sweat oozed in oily lines down his cheeks and the dreaminess of his
eyes had been replaced by a burning black brightness.
"We shall see," he said and drew back. "We shall see, My maggot," he
repeated, and brought his knee up into Andws crotch with a force that
jerked his whole frame and flung his shoulders back.
The agony flared through Andre's lower body, fierce as the touch of
heated steel. It clamped in on his stomach, contracting it in a spasm
like childbirth, it rippled up across the muscles of his chest into his
head and burst beneath the roof of his skull in a whiteness that blinded
him.
"Hold him," commanded General Moses, his voice suddenly shrill.
The two guards took Andre by the elbows and forced him to his knees, so
that his genitals and lower belly were easily accessible to the
general's boots. They had done this often.
"For the times you gaoled me!" And General Moses swung his booted foot
into Andre's body. The pain blended with the other pain, and it was too
strong for Andre to scream.
"This, for the insults," and Andre could feel his testicles crush
beneath it. Still it was too strong - he could not use his voice.
"This, for the times I have grovelled." The pain had passed its zenith,
this time he could scream with it. He opened his mouth and filled his
empty lungs.
"This, for the times I have hungered." Now he must scream. Now he must -
the pain, oh, sweet Christ, I must, please let me scream.
"This, for your white man's justice." Why can't I, please let me. Oh,
no! No - please. Oh, God, oh, please.
"This, for your prisons and your Kiboko!" The kicks so fast now, like
the beat of an insane drummer, like rain on a tin roof In his stomach he
felt something tear.
"And this, and this, and this." The face before him filled the whole
field of his vision.
The voice and the sound of the boot into him filled his ears.
"This, and this, and this." The voice high-pitched and in him the sudden
warm flood of internal bleeding.
The pain was fading now as his body closed it out in defence, and he had
not screamed. The leap of elation as he knew it. This last thing I can
do well, I can die now WITHOUT SCREAMING. He tried to stand up, but they
held him down and his legs were not his own, they were on the other side
of the great numb warmth of his belly. He lifted his head and looked at
the man who was killing him.
"This for the white filth that bore you, and this, and this-" The blows
were not a part of reality, he could feel the shock of them as though he
stood close to a man who was cutting down a tree with an axe.
And Andre smiled.
He was still smiling when they let him fall forward to the floor.
"I think he is dead," said one of the guards. General Moses turned away
and walked back to his seat at the desk.
He was shaking as though he had run a long way, and his breathing
was deep and fast. The jacket of his uniform was soaked with sweat.
He sank into the chair and his body seemed to crumple; slowly the
brightness faded from his eyes until once more they were filmed over,
opaque and dreamy. The two guards squatted down quickly on each side of
Andre's body; they knew it would be a long wait.
Through the open window there came an occasional shout of drunken
laughter, and the red flicker and leap of flames.
Bruce stood in the centre of the tracks and searched the floor of the
forest critically. At last he could make out the muzzle of the
Bren protruding a few inches from the patch of elephant grass. Despite
the fact that he knew exactly where to look for it, it had taken him a
full two minutes to find it.
"That'll do, Ruffy," he decided. "We can't get it much better than
that."
"I reckon not, boss." Bruce raised his voice. "Can you hear me?" There
were muffled affinnatives from the bush on each side, and Bruce
continued.
"If they come You must let them reach this spot before you open fire. I
will mark it for you." He went to a small shrub beside the line, broke
off a branch and dropped it on the tracks.
"Can you see that?" Again the affirmatives from the men in ambush.
"You will be relieved before darkness - until then stay where you
are." The train was hidden beyond a bend in the line, half a mile ahead,
and Bruce walked back with Ruffy.
The engine driver was waiting for them, talking with Wally Hendry beside
the rear truck.
"Any luck?" Bruce asked him.
regret, mon capitaine, that she is irreparably damaged.
The boiler is punctured in two places and there is considerable
disruption of the copper tubing."
"Thank you," Bruce nodded. He was neither surprised nor disappointed. It
was precisely what his own
judgement had told him after a brief examination of the locomotive.
"Where is Madame Cartier?" he asked Wally.
"Madame is preparing the luncheon, monsir," Wally told him with heavy
sarcasm. "Why do you ask, Bucko? Are you feeling randy again so
soon, hey? You feel like a slice of veal for lunch, is that it?" Bruce
snuffed out the quick flare of his temper and walked past him. He found
Shermaine with four gendarmes in the cab of the locomotive. They had
scraped the coals from the furnace into a glowing heap on the steel
floor and were chopping potatoes and onions into the five gallon pots.
The gendarmes were all laughing at something Shermaine had said.
Her usually pale cheeks were flushed with the heat; there was a sooty
smudge on her forehead. She wielded the big knife with professional
dexterity. She looked up and saw Bruce, her face lighting instantly and
her lips parting.
"We're having a Hungarian goulash for lunch - bully beef, potatoes and
onions."
"As of now I am rating you acting second cook without pay."
"You are too kind," and she put her tongue out at him. It was a pink
pointed little tongue like a cat's. Bruce felt the old familiar
tightening of his legs and the dryness in his throat as he looked at it.
"Shermaine, the locomotive is damaged beyond repair. It is of no further
use." He spoke in English.
"It makes a passable kitchen," she demurred.
"Be serious." Bruce's anxiety made him irritable. "We're stranded here