acid and warm. He swallowed it, turned away and scrambled up the bank to
where Ruffy waited. He stood there gasping, suppressing his nausea until
at last he could speak.
"All right, that's all I wanted to know," and he led the way back to the
circle of vehicles.
Bruce sat on the bonnet of the Ranchero and sucked hard on his
cigarette, trying to get the taste of death from his mouth.
"They probably swam downstream during the night and climbed the supports
of the bridge. Kanaki and his boys wouldn't have known anything about it
until they came over the sides." He drew on the cigarette again and
trickled the smoke out of his nostrils, fumigating
the back of his throat and his nasal passages. "I should have thought of
that. I should have warned Kanaki of that."
"You mean they ate all ten of them - Jesus!" even Wally Hendry was
impressed. "I'd like to have a look at that beach.
It must be quite something."
"Good!" Bruce's voice was suddenly
harsh. "I'll put you in charge of the burial squad. You can go down
there and clean it up before we start work on the bridge." And Wally did
not argue.
"You want me to do it now?" he asked.
"No," snapped Bruce. "You and Ruffy are going to take two of the trucks
back to Port Reprieve and fetch the materials we need to repair the
bridge." They both looked at Bruce with rising delight.
"I never thought of that," said Wally.
"There's plenty of roofing timber in the hotel and the office block,"
grinned Ruffy.
"Nails," said Wally as though he were making a major contribution.
"We'll need nails." Bruce cut through their comments. "It's two o'clock
now. You can get back to Port Reprieve by nightfall, collect the
material tomorrow morning and return here by the evening. Take those two
trucks there. - check to see they're full of gas and you'll
need about fifteen men.
Say, five gendarmes, in case of trouble, and ten of those civilians."
"That should be enough," agreed Ruffy.
"Bring a couple of dozen sheets of corrugated iron back with you.
We'll use them to make a shield to protect us from arrows while we're
working."
"Yeah, that's a good idea." They settled the details, picked men to go
back, loaded the trucks, worked them out of the laager, and
Bruce watched them disappear down the road towards Port Reprieve. An
ache started deep behind his eyes and suddenly he was very tired,
drained of energy by too little sleep, by the heat and by the emotional
pace of the last four days.
He made one last circuit of the laager, checking the defences, chatting
for a few minutes with his gendarmes and then he stumbled to the Ford,
slid on to the front seat, laid his helmet and rifle aside, lowered his
head on to his arms and was instantly asleep.
Shermaine woke him after dark with food unheated from the cans and a
bottle of Ruffy's beer.
"I'm sorry, Bruce, we have no fire to cook upon. It is very unappetizing
and the beer is warm." Bruce sat up and rubbed his eyes.
Six hours" sleep had helped; they were less swollen and inflamed. The
headache was still there.
"I'm not really hungry, thank you. It's this heat."
"You must eat, Bruce. Try just a little," and then she smiled. "At least
you are more gallant after having rested. It is
"Thank you" now, instead of
"Keep quiet and stay out of the way"." Ruefully Bruce grimaced.
"You are one of those women with a built-in recording unit; every word
remembered and used in evidence against a man later." Then he touched her
hand. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I like your apologies, mon capitaine. They
are like the rest of you, completely
masculine. There is nothing about you which is not male, sometimes
almost overpoweringly so." Impishly she watched his eyes; he knew she
was talking about the little scene on the train that Wally Hendry had
interrupted.
"Let's try this food," he said, and then a little later, "not bad - you
are an excellent cook."
"This time the credit must go to Mr. Heinz- and his fifty-seven
children. But one day I shall make for you one of my tournedos all
Prince. It is my special."
"Speciality," Bruce corrected her automatically.
The murmur of voices within the laager was punctuated occasionally by a
burst of laughter. There was a feeling of relaxation. The canvas roof
and the wall of vehicles gave security to them all. Men lay in
dark huddles of sleep or talked quietly in small groups.
Bruce scraped the metal plate and filled his mouth with the last
of the food.
"Now I must check the defences again."
"Oh, Bonaparte. It is always duty." Shermaine sighed with resignation.
"I will not be long."
"And I'll wait here for you." Bruce picked up his rifle and helmet, and
was half-way out of the Ford when out in the jungle the drum started.
"Bruce!" whispered Shermaine and clutched his arm. The voices round them
froze into a fearful silence, and the drum beat in the night. It had a
depth and resonance that you could feel, the warm
sluggish air quivered with it. Not fixed in space but filling it,
beating monotonously, insistently, like the pulse of all creation.
"Bruce!" whispered Shermaine again; she was trembling and the fingers on
his arm dug into his flesh with the strength of terror. It steadied his
own leap of fear.
"Baby, baby," he soothed her, taking her to his chest and holding her
there. "It's only the sound of two pieces of wood being knocked together
by a naked savage. They can't touch us here, you know that."
"Oh, Bruce, it's horrible - it's like bells, funeral bells."
"That's silly talk." Bruce held her at arm's length. "Come with me. Help
me calm down these others, they'll be terrified. You'll have to help
me."
And he pulled her gently across the seat out of the Ford, and with one
arm round her waist walked her into the centre of the laager.
What will counteract the stupefying influence of the drum, the hypnotic
beat of it, he asked himself. Noise, our own noise.
"Joseph, M'pophu-" he shouted cheerfully picking out the two best
singers " amongst his men. "I regret the drumming is of a low standard,
but the Baluba are monkeys with no understanding of music.
Let us show them how a Bambala can sing." They stirred; he could feel
the tension diminish.
"Come, Joseph-" He filled his lungs and shouted the opening chorus of
one of the planting songs, purposely offkey, singing so badly that it
must sting them.
Someone laughed, then Joseph's voice hesitantly starting the chorus,
gathering strength. M'pophu coming in with the bass to give a solid
foundation to the vibrant, sweet-ringing tenor. Half-beat to the drum,
hands clapped in the dark; around him Bruce could feel the rhythmic
swinging of bodies begin.
Shermaine was no longer trembling; he squeezed her waist and felt her
body cling to him.
Now we need light, thought Bruce. A night lamp for my children who fear
the darkness and the drum.
With Shermaine beside him he crossed the laager.
"Sergeant Jacque."
"Captain?"