Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

"But there is the Sardi Gorge. "Jake saw it cleave the wall of

mountains, a deep funnel driving into the rock perhaps fifteen miles

across at its widest point, but then narrowing swiftly and climbing

steeply towards the distant heights.

"The Sardi Gorge," the Prince repeated. "A lance pointed into the

exposed flank of the Lion of Judah." He shook his head and his

expression was troubled and once again that haunted, hunted look was in

his eyes. "The Emperor, Negusa Nagast, Baile Selassie, has gathered

his armies in the north.

One hundred and fifty thousand men to meet the main thrust of the

Italians which must come from the north, out of Eritrea and through

Adowa. The Emperor's flanks are secured by the mountains except here

at the gorge. This is the only place at which a modern mechanized army

might win its way to the high ground. The road up the gorge is steep

and rough, but the Italians are engineering masters.

Their road making wizardry dates back to the Caesars. If they force

the mouth of the gorge, they could have fifty thousand men on the

highlands inside of a week." He punched his fist upward towards the

far blue peaks. "They would be across the Emperor's rear, between him

and his capital at Addis Ababa, with the road to the city wide open to

them. It would be the end for us and the Italians know it. Their

presence here at the Wells of Chaldi proves it.

What we encountered there today was the advance guard of the enemy

attack which will come through the gorge."

Yes, "Jake agreed. "it seems that is so."

"The Emperor has charged me with the defence of the Sardi Gorge, said

the Prince quietly. "But at the same time he has ordained that the

great bulk of my fighting men must join his army which is now gathering

on the shores of Lake Tona, two hundred miles away in the west. We

will be short of men, so short that without your cars and the new

machine guns you have brought to me, the task would be impossible."

"It isn't going to be a push-over, even with these beaten-up old

ladies."

"I know that, Mr. Barton, and I am doing everything in my power to

improve the betting in our favour. I am even treating with a

traditional enemy of the Harari to form a common front against the

enemy. I am trying to put aside old feuds, and convince the Ras of the

Gallas to join us in the defence of the Gorge. The man is a robber and

a degenerate, and his men are all shifta, mountain bandits, but they

fight well and every lance now arms us against the common enemy." Jake

was conscious of the faith that the Prince was placing in him; he was

being treated like a trusted commander and his newly realized sense of

involvement was strengthened.

"An untrustworthy friend is the worst kind of enemy."

"I don't recognize that quotation?" the Prince enquired.

"Jake Barton, mechanic. "Jake grinned at him. "Looks like we've got

ourselves a job of work. What I want you to do is pick out some of

your really bright lads. Ones that I can teach to drive a car or men

that Gareth can use as gunners."

"Yes. I have already discussed that with Major Swales.

He made the same suggestion. I will hand-pick my best for you."

"Young ones, "said Jake. "Who will learn quickly." The Ras sat

crouched like an ancient vulture in the strip of shade thrown by

Gareth's car, the Hump; his eyes were narrowed like those of a sniper

and he mumbled to himself. drooling a little with excitement.

When Gregorius reached out and tried to view the fan of cards that the

Ras held secretively to his bosom, his hand was slapped away angrily,

and a storm of Amharic burst about him. Gregorius was justly put out

of countenance by this, for he was, after all, his grandfather's

interpreter. He complained to Gareth, who squatted opposite the Ras

holding his own cards carefully against the front of his tweed

jacket.

"He does not want me to help him any more," protested Gregorius. "He

says he understands the game now."

"Tell him he is a natural." Gareth squinted around the smoke that

spiralled upwards from the cheroot in the corner of his mouth. "Tell

him he could go straight into the salon priva at Monte Carlo." The Ras

grinned and nodded happily at the compliment, and then scowled with

concentration as he waited for Gareth to discard.

"Anyone for the ladies?" Gareth asked innocently as he laid the queen

of hearts face up on the inverted ammunition box that stood between

them, and the Ras squawked with delight and snatched it up. Then he

hammered on the box like an auctioneer and began laying out his hand.

"Skunked, by God!" Gareth's face crumpled in a convincing display of

utter dismay and the Ras nodded and twinkled and drooled.

"How do you do?" he asked triumphantly, and Gareth judged that the

Christmas turkey was now sufficiently fattened and ready for

plucking.

"Ask your venerable grandfather if he would like a little interest on

the next game. I suggest a Maria Theresa a point?" and Gareth held up

one of the big silver coins between thumb and forefinger to illustrate

the suggestion.

The Ras's response was positive and gratifying. He summoned one of his

bodyguard, who drew a huge purse of lion skin from out of his

voluminous sham ma and opened it.

"Hallelujah!" breathed Gareth, as he saw the sparkle of golden

sovereigns in the recesses of the purse. "Your deal, old sport!" The

controlled dignity of the Count's bearing was modelled aristocratically

on that of the Duce himself. It was that of the aristocrat, of the man

born to command. His dark eyes flashed with scorn, and his voice rang

with a deep beauty that sent shivers up his own spine.

"A peasant, reared in the gutters of the street. I am amazed that such

a person can have reached a rank such as Major. A person like

yourself-" and his right arm shot Out with the accusing finger straight

as a pistol barrel, you are a nobody, an upstart. I blame myself that

I was soft-hearted enough to place you in a position of trust. Yes, I

blame myself. That is the reason I have until this time overlooked

your impudence, your importunity. But this time you have over reached

yourself, Castelani. This time you have refused to obey a direct

command from your own Colonel in the face of the enemy. This I cannot

ignore!" The Count paused, and a shadow of regret passed fleetingly

behind his eyes. "I am a compassionate man, Castelani but I am also a

soldier.

I cannot, in deference to this honoured uniform that I wear, overlook

your conduct. You know the penalty for what you have done, for

disobeying your superior officer in the face of the enemy." He paused

again, the chin coming up and dark fires burning in his eyes. "The

penalty, Castelani, is death.

And so it must be. You will be an example to my men. This evening, as

the sun is about to set, you will be led before the assembled battalion

and stripped of your badges of rank, of the beloved insignia of this

proud command, and then you will meet your just deserts before the

rifles of the firing squad It was a longish speech, but the Count was

a trained baritone and he ended it dramatically with arms spread wide.

He held the pose after he had finished and watched himself with

gratification in the full-length mirror before which he stood. He was

alone in his tent, but he felt as though he faced a wildly applauding

audience. Abruptly he turned from the mirror, strode to the entrance

of the tent and threw back the flap.

The sentries sprang to attention and the Count barked, "Have Major

Castelani summoned here immediately."

"Immediately, my Colonel," snapped the sentry, and the Count let the

flap drop back into place.

Castelani came within ten minutes and saluted smartly from the entrance

of the tent.

"You sent for me, my Colonel?"

"My dear Castelani." The Count rose from his desk; the strong white

teeth contrasted against the dark olive-gold tan, as he smiled with all

his charm and went to take the Major's arm. "A glass of wine, my dear

fellow?" Aldo Belli was enough of a realist to see that without

Castelani's professional eye and arm guiding the battalion, it would

collapse like an unsuccessful souffle, or more probably like a

dynamited cliff upon his head. Passing sentence of death on the man

had relieved the COUnt's feelings, and now he could feel quite

favourably disposed towards him.

"Be seated," he said, indicating the camp chair opposite his desk.

"There are cigars in the humidor." He beamed fondly, like a father at

his eldest son. "I would like you to read through this report and to

place your signature in the space I have marked." Castelani took the

sheaf of papers and began to read, frowning like a bulldog and with his

lips forming the words silently. After a few minutes, he looked

startled and glanced up at Aldo Belli.

"my Colonel, I doubt if it was forty thousand savages that attacked

us."

"A matter of opinion, Castelani. It was dark. No one will ever know

for certain how many there were." The Count waved the objection aside

with a genial smile. "It is merely an informed estimate read on. You

will find I have good things to say of your conduct." And the Major

read on and blanched.

"Colonel, the enemy casualties were 126 dead, not 12,600."

"Ah, a slip of the pen, Major, I will correct that before sending it to

headquarters."

"Sir, you make no mention of the enemy possessing an armoured vehicle."

And the Count frowned for the first time since the beginning of the

meeting.

"Armoured vehicle, Castelani, surely you mean an ambulance?" The

encounter with the strange machine was best forgotten, he had decided.

It reflected no credit on anybody particularly none upon himself It

would merely add a jarring note to the splendours of his report.

"It would be quite in the normal course of things for the enemy to have

some sort of medical service not worth mentioning. Read on! Read on!

Caro mio, you will find that I have recommended you for a decoration."

eneral De Bono had summoned his staff to a lunchtime conference to

appraise the readiness of the expeditionary force to commence its

invasion of the Ethiopian highlands. These conferences were a weekly

affair, and the General's staff had not taken long to understand that

in exchange for a really superb luncheon, for the reputation of the

General's chef was international, they were expected to provide the

General with good reasons which he might relay to the Duce for delaying

the start of the offensive. The staff had fully entered into the

spirit of the game, and some of their offerings had been inspired.

However, even their fertile imaginations were now beginning to plough

barren land. The Inspector General of the Medical Corps had

tentatively diagnosed a straightforward case of gonorrhoca contracted

by an infantry man as "suspected smallpox" and had written a very good

scare story warning of a possible epidemic but the General was not

certain whether it could be used or not. They needed aj something

better than that. They were discussing this now over the cigars and

liqueurs, when the door of the dining room was thrown open and Captain

Crespi hurried to the head of the table. His face was flushed, and his

eyes wild, his manner so agitated that an electric silence fell over

the roomful of very senior and slightly inebriated officers.

Crespi handed a message to the General, and he was so disturbed that

what was intended as a whisper came out as a strangled cry of

outrage.

"The clown!" he panted. "The clown has done it!" The General,

alarmed by this enigmatic statement, snatched the message and his eyes

flew across the sheet before he handed it to the officer beside him and

covered his face with both hands.

"The idiot!" he wailed, while the message passed swiftly from hand to

hand, and a hubbub of raised voices followed it.

"At least, your Excellency, it is a great victory," called an infantry

commander, and suddenly the entire mood of the assembly changed.

"My planes are ready, General. We await the word to follow up this

masterly strategy of yours," cried the Commander of the Regia

Aeronautica, leaping to his feet and the General uncovered his eyes and

looked confused.

"Congratulations, my General," called an artilleryman, and struggled

unsteadily upright, spilling port down the front of his jacket. "A

mighty victory."

"Oh dear!" murmured De Bono. "Oh dear!" "An unprovoked attack by a

horde of savages" – Crespi had retrieved the message and read the

memorable words of Count Aldo Belli aloud "firmly resisted by the

courage of the flower of Italian manhood." "Oh dear!" said De Bono a

little louder, and covered his eyes again.

"Almost fifteen thousand of the enemy dead!" shouted a voice.

"An army of sixty thousand routed by a handful of Fascist sons. It is

a sign for the future."

"Forward to the ultimate victory."

"We march! We march!" And the General looked up again. "Yes," he

agreed miserably. "I suppose we shall have to now." The Third

Battalion of the black shirt "Africa" regiment was paraded in full

review order on the sandy plain above the Wells of Chaldi. The ground

was neatly demarcated by the meticulous rows of pale canvas tents and

neat lines of white stones. In twenty-four hours, under the goading of

Major Castelani, the camp had taken on an air of permanence. If they

gave him a day or two more, there would be roads and buildings also.

Count Aldo Belli stood in the back of the Rolls, which, despite the

loving attentions of Giuseppe the driver, was showing signs of wear and

attrition. However, Giuseppe had parked it with the damaged side away

from the parade and he had burnished the good side with a mixture of

beeswax and methylated spirits until it shone in the sunlight, and had

replaced the shattered windscreen and the broken lamp glass.

"I have here a message received an hour ago which I shall read to you,"

shouted the Count, and the parade stirred with interest. "The message

is personal to me from Benito Mussolini."

"II Duce. 11 Duce. "Duce,"roared the battalion in unison, like a

well-trained orchestra, and the Count lifted a hand to restrain them

and he began to read.

"My heart swells with pride when I contemplate the feat of arms

undertaken by the gallant sons of Italy, children of the Fascist

revolution, whom you command'-" the Count's voice choked a little.

When the speech ended, his men cheered him wildly, throwing their

helmets in the air. "The Count climbed down from the Rolls and went

amongst them, weeping, embracing a man here, kissing another there,

shaking hands left and right and then clasping his own hands above his

head like a successful prizefighter and crying "Ours is the victory,"

and "Death before dishonour," until his voice was hoarse and he was led

away to his tent by two of his officers.

However, a glass of grappa helped him recover his composure and he was

able to pour a warrior's scorn on the radio message from General De

Bono which accompanied the paean of praise from 11 Duce.

De Bono was alarmed and deeply chagrined to discover that the officer

he had judged to be an ineffectual blowhard had indeed turned out to be

a firebrand. In view of the Duce's personal message to the count, he

could not, without condemning himself to the political wilderness,

order the man back to headquarters and under his protective wing where

he could be restrained from any further flamboyant action.

The man had virtually established himself as an independent command.

Mussolini had chided De Bono with his failure to go on the offensive,

and had held up the good Count's action as an example of duty and

dedication. He had directly ordered De Bono to support the Count's

drive on the Sardi Gorge and to reinforce him as necessary.

De Bono's response had been to send the Count a long radiogram, urging

him to the utmost caution and pleading with him to advance only after

reconnaissance in depth and after having secured both flanks and

rear.

Had he delivered this advice forty-eight hours earlier, it would have

been most enthusiastically received by Aldo Belli. But now, since the

victory at the Wells of Chaldi and wou the Duce's congratulatory

message, the Count was a changed man. He had tasted the sweets of

battle honours and learned how easily they could be won. He knew now

that he was opposed by a tribe of primitive black men in long night,

dresses armed with museum weapons, who ran and fell with gratifying

expedition when his men opened fire.

"Gentlemen," he addressed his officers. "I have today received a code

green message from General De Bono. The armies of Italy are on the

march. At twelve hundred hours today," he glanced at his wrist-watch,

"in just twelve minutes" time, the forward elements of the army will

cross the Mareb River and begin the march on the savage capital of

Addis Ababa. We stand now at the leading edge of the sword of history.

The fields of glory are ripening on the mountains ahead of us and the

for one, intend that the Third Battalion shall be there when the

harvest is gathered in." His officers made polite, if uncommitted

sounds. They were beginning to be alarmed by this change in their

Colonel. It was to be hoped that this was rhetoric rather than real

intention.

"Our esteemed commander has urged me to exercise the utmost caution in

my advance on the Sardi Gorge," and they smiled and nodded vehemently,

but the Count scowled dramatically and his voice rang. "I will not sit

here quiescent, while glory passes me by." A shudder of unease ran

through the assembled officers, like the forest shaken by the first

winds of winter, and they joined in only halfheartedly when the Count

began to sing' La Giovinezza'.

Lij Mikhael had agreed that one of the cars might be used to carry Sara

up the gorge to the town of Sardi where a Catholic mission station was

run by an elderly German doctor. The bullet wound in the girl's leg

was not healing cleanly, and the heat and swelling of the flesh and the

watery yellow discharge from the wound were causing Vicky the greatest

concern.

Fuel for the cars had come down from Addis Ababa on the narrow gauge

railway as far as Sardi, and had then been packed down the steeper,

lower section of the gorge by mule and camel. It waited for them now

at the foot of the gorge where the Sardi River debauched through a

forest of acacia trees into a triangular valley, which in turn widened

to a mouth fifteen miles across before giving way to the open desert.

At the head of the valley, the river sank into the dry earth and began

its long subterranean journey to where it emerged at last in the

scattered water-holes at the Wells of Chaldi.

Lij Mikhael was going up to Sardi with Vicky's car for he had arranged

to meet the Ras of the Gallas there in an attempt to co-ordinate the

efforts of the two tribes against the Italian aggressors, and then an

aircraft was being sent down to Sardi from Addis to fly him to an

urgent war conference with the Emperor at Lake Tona.

Before he left, he spoke privately with Jake and Gareth, walking with

them a short way along the rugged road that climbed steeply up the

gorge following the rocky water course Of the Sardi River.

Now they stood together, staring up the track to where it turned into

the first sleep bend and the river came crashing down beside it in a

tall white-plumed waterfall that drifted mist across the surface of the

track and induced a growth of dark green moss upon the boulders.

"It's as rough as a crocodile's back here," said Jake. "Will Vicky get

the car up?"

"I have had a thousand men at work upon it ever since I knew you were

bringing these vehicles," the Lij told him.

"It is rough, yes, but I think it will be passable."

"I should jolly well hope so," Gareth murmured. "It's the only way out

of this lovely little trap into which we have backed ourselves. Once

the Eyeties close the entrance to the valley-" and he turned and swept

a hand across the vista of plain and mountain that lay spread below

them, and then he smiled at the Prince.

"Just the three of us here now, Toffee old boy. Let's hear from you.

What exactly do you want from us? What are the objectives you have set

for us? Are we expected to defeat the whole bloody army of Italy

before you pay us out?"

"No, Major Swales." The Prince shook his head. "I thought I had made

myself clear. We are here to cover the rear and flank of the Emperor's

army. We must expect that eventually the Italians will force their way

up this gorge and reach the plateau and the road to Dessie and Addis we

can't stop them, but we must delay them at least until the main

engagements in the north are decided. If the Emperor succeeds, the

Italians will withdraw here. If he fails, then our task is over."

"How long until the Emperor fights?"

"Who can tell?" And Jake shook his head, while Gareth took the stub of

his cigar from his mouth and inspected the tip ruefully.

"I'm beginning to think we are being underpaid," he said.

But the Prince seemed not to hear and he went on speaking quietly but

with a f( -)rce that commanded their attention.

"We will use the cars here on the open ground in front of the gorge to

the best possible effect, and my father's troops will support you." He

paused, and they all looked down at the sprawling encampment of the

Ras's army, amongst the acacia trees. Stragglers were still drifting

in across the plain from the rout at the wells, lines of camels and

knots of goo NEW 40it horsemen surrounded by amorphous formations of

foot soldiers. "If the Gallas join us, they can provide another five

thousand fighting men that will bring our strength to twelve thousand

or thereabouts. I have had my scouts study the Italian encampment, and

they report an effective strength of under a thousand. Even with their

armaments, we should hold them here for many days "Unless they are

reinforced, which they will be, or bring up armour, which they will do,

"said Gareth.

"Then we will withdraw into the gorge demolishing the road as we go,

and resisting at each strong place. We won't be able to use the cars

again until we reach Sardi but there in the bowl of the mountains there

is good open ground and room to manoeuvre. It is also the last point

at which we can effectively block the Italian advance." They were

silent again and the sound of an engine came up to them. They watched

the armoured car reach the foot of the gorge and begin growling and

nosing its way upwards, at the pace of a walking man, except where it

had to back and lock hard to make one of the sleep hairpin bends in the

road. The Lij roused himself and sighed with what seemed a deep

weariness of the spirit.

"One thing I must mention to you, gentlemen. My father is a warrior in

the old style. He does not know the meaning of fear, and he cannot

imagine the effect of modern weapons especially the machine gun on

massed foot soldiers. I trust you to restrain his exuberance." Jake

remembered the bodies hanging like dirty laundry on the barbed wire of

France, and felt the cold tickle run up his spine. Nobody spoke again

until the car, still blazoned with its crimson crosses, drew up level

with where they stood and they scrambled down the bank to meet it.

Vicky's head appeared in the hatch. She must have found an opportunity

to bathe, for her hair was newly washed and shiny and caught behind her

head in a silk ribbon. The sun had bleached her hair to a whiter gold,

but the peachy velvet of her complexion had been gilded by that same

sun to a darker honey colour. Immediately Jake and Gareth moved

forward, neither trusting the other to be alone with her for an

instant.

But she was brusque, and concerned only with the injured girl who was

laid out on the floor of the cab on a hastily improvised bed of

blankets and skins. Her leave-taking was off-hand and distracted while

the Lij climbed in through the rear doors, and she pulled away again up

the steep track followed by a squadron of the Prince's bodyguard

looking like a gang of cut-throats on their shaggy mountain ponies,

festooned with bandoliers of ammunition and hung with rifles and

swords. They clattered away after the car, and Jake watched them out

of sight. He felt a sense of deep unease that the girl should be up

there in the mountains beyond any help that he could give her. He was

staring after the car.

"Put your mind back in your pants," Gareth advised him cynically.

"You're gain" to need it for the Eyeties, now." from the foot of the

gorge to the lip of the bowl of land in which stood the town of Sardi

was a few dozen miles across the ground, but the track climbed five

thousand feet and it took six hours of hard driving for Vicky to reach

it.

The Prince's labour gangs were working upon the track still, groups of

dark men in mud-stained shairmias, hacking away at the steep banks and

piles of boulders that blocked the narrow places. Twice these men had

to rope up the car to drag and shove it over a particularly treacherous

stretch with the torrent roaring in its bed a hundred feet below and

the wheels of the car inches from the crumbling edge of the

precipice.

In the middle of the afternoon the sun passed behind the towering

ramparts of stone leaving the gut of the gorge in deep shadow, and a

clammy chill made Vicky shiver even as she wrestled with the controls

of the heavy vehicle. The engine was running very unevenly, and

back-firing explosively at the change of atmospheric pressure as they

toiled upwards. Also Sara's condition seemed to be worsening rapidly.

When Vicky stopped briefly to rest her aching arms and back muscles she

found that Sara was running a raging fever, her skin was dry and baking

hot and her dark eyes were glittering strangely. She cut short her

rest and took the wheel again.

The gorge narrowed dramatically, so the sky was a narrow ribbon of blue

high above and the cliffs seemed almost to close jaws of granite upon

the labouring car. Although it seemed impossible, the track turned

even more steeply upwards so that the big back wheels spun and skidded,

throwing out fist-sized stones like cannon balls and scattering the

escort who followed closely.

Then abruptly Vicky drove the car over the crest and came out through

rocky portals into a wide, gently inclined bowl of open ground hemmed

in completely by the mountain walls. Perhaps twenty miles across, the

bowl was cultivated in patches, and scattered with groups of the round

tukuL-, the thatch and daub huts of the peasant farmers.

Domestic animals, goats and a few milk cows grazed along the course of

the Sardi River where the grass was green and lush and thick forests of

cedar trees found a precarious purchase along the rocky banks.

The town itself was a gathering of brick-built and white, plastered

buildings, whose roofs of galvanized corrugated iron caught the last

probing rays of the sun as it came through the western pass.

Here in the west, the mountains fell back, allowing a broad gentle

incline to rise the last two thousand feet to the level of the plateau

of the highlands. Down this slope, the narrow-gauge railway looped in

a tight series of hairpins until it entered the town and ended in a

huddle of sheds and stock pens.

The Catholic mission station was situated beyond the town on the slopes

of the western rise. It was a sadly dilapidated cluster of tin-roofed

daub buildings, grouped around a church built of the same materials.

The church was the only building that was freshly whitewashed. As they

drove past the open doors, Vicky saw that the rows of rickety pews were

empty, but that lighted candles burned upon the altar and there were

fresh flowers in the vases.

The church's emptiness and the sorry state of the buildings were a

reflection of the massive power of the Coptic Church over this land and

its people. There was very little encouragement given to the

missionaries of any other faith, but this did not prevent the local

inhabitants from taking advantage of the medical facilities offered by

the mission.

Almost fifty patients squatted along the length of the veranda that ran

the full length of the clinic, and they looked up with minimal interest

as Vicky parked the armoured car below them.

The doctor was a heavily built man, with short bowed legs and a thick

neck. His hair was cropped close to the round skull and was silvery

white, and his eyes were a pale blue. He spoke no English, and he

acknowledged Vicky with a glance and a grunt, transferring all his

attention to Sara. When two of his assistants rolled her carefully on

to a stretcher and carried her up on to the veranda, Vicky would have

followed but the Lij restrained her.

"She is in the best hands and we have work to do." The telegraph

office at the railway station was closed and locked, but in answer to

the Prince's shouts the station master came hurrying anxiously down the

track. He recognized Mikhael immediately.

The process of tapping out Vicky's despatch on the telegraph was a

long, laborious business, almost beyond the ability of the station

master whose previous transmissions had seldom exceeded a dozen words

at a time. He frowned and muttered to himself as he worked, and Vicky

wondered in what mangled state her masterpiece of the journalistic art

would reach her editor's desk in New York. The Prince had left her and

gone off with his escort to the official government residence on the

outskirts of the village, and it was after nine o'clock before the

station master had sent the last of Vicky's despatch a total of almost

five thousand words and Vicky found that her legs were unsteady and her

brain woolly with fatigue when she went out into the utter darkness of

the mountain night. There were no stars, for the night mists had

filled the basin and swirled in the headlights as Vicky groped her way

through the village and at last found the government residence.

It was a large sprawling complex of buildings with wide verandas,

whitewashed and iron-roofed, standing in a grove of dark-foliaged cosa

flora trees from which the bats screeched and fluttered to dive upon

the insects that swarmed in the light from the windows of the main

building.

Vicky halted the car in front of the largest building and found herself