Текст книги "The Dark of the Sun"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Simultaneously Bruce felt the bullet pass him, disrupting the air, so

the wind of it flattened his shirt against his chest, cracking viciously

in his ears, leaving him dazedly looking down at Sergeant

Jacque's body.

It lay with arms thrown wide, the jaw and the side of the head below the

ear torn away; white bone and blood bubbling over it. The trunk twitched

convulsively and the hands fluttered like trapped birds.

Then flat-sounding through the rain he heard the report of the rifle.

The kopje, screamed Bruce's brain, he's lying in the kopie!

And Bruce moved, twisting sideways, starting to run.

Wally Hendry lay on his stomach on the flat top of the turret. His body

was stiff and chilled from the cold of the night and the rock was harsh

under him, but the discomfort hardly penetrated the fringe of his mind.

He had built a low parapet with loose flakes of granite, and he had

screened the front of it with the thick bushy stems of broom bush.

His rifle was propped on the parapet in front of him and at his elbow

were the spare ammunition clips.

He had lain in this ambush for a long time now – since early the

preceding afternoon. Now it was dawn and the darkness was drawing back;

in a few minutes he would be able to see the whole of the clearing below

him.

I coulda been across the river already, he thought, coulda been fifty

miles away. He did not attempt to analyse the impulse that had made him

lie here unmoving for almost twenty hours.

Man, I knew old Curry would have to come. I knew he would only bring one

nigger tracker with him. These educated Johnnies got their own rules -

man to man stuff, and he chuckled as he remembered the two minute

figures that he had seen come out of the forest in the fading light of

the previous evening.

The bastard spent the night down there in the clearing. Saw him light a

match and have hisself a smoke in the night – well, I hope he enjoyed

it, his last.

Wally peered anxiously out into the gradually gathering dawn.

They'll be moving now, coming up the clearing. Must get them before they

reach the trees again. Below him the clearing showed as a paleness, a

leprous blotch, on the dark forest.

The bastard! Without preliminaries Hendry's hatred returned to him. This

time he don't get to make no fancy speeches – This time he don't get no

chance to be hoity-toity.

The light was stronger now. He could see the clumps of ivory palms

against the pale brown grass of the clearing.

"Ha!" Hendry exclaimed.

There they were, like two little ants, dark specks moving up the middle

of the clearing. The tip of Hendry's tongue slipped out between his lips

and he flattened down behind his rifle.

Man, I've waited for this. Six months now I've thought about this, and

when it's finished I'll go down and take his ears. He slipped the safety

catch; it made a satisfying mechanical click.

Nigger's leading, that's Curry behind him. Have to wait they turn, don't

want the nigger to get it first. Curry first, then the nigger.

He picked them up in his sights, breathing quicker now, the thrill of it

so intense that he had to swallow and it caught in his throat like dry

bread.

A raindrop hit the back of his neck. It startled him. He looked up

quickly at the sky and saw it coming.

"Goddam it," he groaned, and looked back at the clearing.

Curry and nigger were standing together, a single dark blob in the

half-light. There was no chance of separating them.

The rain fell faster, and suddenly Hendry was overwhelmed by the old

familiar feeling of inferiority; of knowing that everything, even the

elements, conspired against him; the knowledge that he could never win,

not even this once.

They, God and the rest of the world.

The ones who had given him a drunk for a father.

A squalid cottage for a home and a mother with cancer of the throat.

The ones who had sent him to reform school, had fired him from two dozen

jobs, had pushed him, laughed at him, gaoled him twice – They, all of

them (and Bruce Curry who was their figurehead), they were going

to win again. Not even this once, not even ever.

"Goddarn it," he cursed in hopeless, wordless anger against them all.

"Goddam it, goddam it to hell," and he fired at the dark blob in his

sights.

As he ran Bruce looked across a hundred yards of open ground to the edge

of the forest.

He felt the wind of the next bullet as it cracked past him.

If he uses rapid fire he'll get me even at three hundred yards

And Bruce jinked his run like a jack-rabbit. The blood roaring in his

ears, fear driving his feet.

Then all around him the air burst asunder, buffeting him so he

staggered; the vicious whip-whip whip of bullets filled his head.

I can't make it Seventy yards to the shelter of the trees.

Seventy yards of open meadowlands and above him the commanding mass of

the kopje.

The next burst is for me – it must come, now!

And he flung himself to one side so violently that he nearly fell.

Again the air was ripping to tatters close beside him.

I can't last! He must get me!

In his path was an ant-heap, a low pile of clay, a pimple on the open

expanse of earth. Bruce dived for it, hitting the ground so hard that

the wind was forced from his lungs out through his open mouth.

The next burst of gunfire kicked lumps of clay from the top of the

ant-heap, showering Bruce's back.

He lay with his face pressed into the earth, wheezing with the agony of

empty lungs, flattening his body behind the tiny heap of clay.

Will it cover me? Is there enough of it?

And the next hail of bullets thumped into the ant-heap, throwing

fountains of earth, but leaving Bruce untouched.

I'm safe. The realization came with a surge that washed away his

fear.

But I'm helpless, answered his hatred. Pinned to the earth for as long

as Hendry wants to keep me here.

The rain fell on his back. Soaking through his jacket, coldly caressing

the nape of his neck and dribbling down over his jaws.

He rolled his head sideways, not daring to lift it an inch, and

the rain beat on to the side of his face.

The rain! Falling faster. Thickening. Hanging from the clouds like the

skirts of a woman's dress.

Curtains of rain. Greying out the edge of the forest, leaving no solid

shapes in the mist of falling liquid motherof-pearl.

Still gasping but with the pain slowly receding, Bruce lifted his head.

The kopje was a vague blue-green shape ahead of him, then it was gone,

swallowed by the eddying columns of rain.

Bruce pushed himself up on to his knees and the pain in his chest made

him dizzy.

Now! he thought. Now, before it thins, and he lumbered clumsily to his

feet.

For a moment he stood clutching his chest, sucking for breath in the

haze of water-filled air, and then he staggered towards the edge of the

forest.

His feet steadied under him, his breathing eased, and he was into the

trees.

They closed round him protectively. He leaned against the rough bark of

one of them and wiped the rain from his face with the palm of his hand.

The strength came back to him and with it his hatred and his excitement.

He unslung the rifle from his shoulder and stood away from the tree with

his feet planted wide apart.

"Now, my friend," he whispered, "we fight on equal terms." He pumped a

round into the chamber of the FN and moved towards the kopje, stepping

daintily, the weight of the rifle in his hands, his mind suddenly sharp

and clear, vision enhanced, feeling his strength and the absence of fear

like a song within him, a battle hymn.

He made out the loom of the kopje through the dripping rain-heavy trees

and he circled out to the right. There is plenty of time, he thought. I

can afford to case the joint thoroughly. He completed circuit of the

rock pile.

The kopje, he found, was the shape of a galleon sinking by the head. At

one end the high double castles of the poop, from which the main deck

canted steeply forward as though the prow were already under water. This

slope was scattered with boulders and densely covered with dwarf scrub,

an interwoven mass of shoulder-high branches and leaves.

Bruce squatted on his haunches with the rifle in his lap and looked up

the ramp at the twin turrets of the kopje.

The rain had slackened to a drizzle.

Hendry was on top. Bruce knew he would go to the highest point.

Strange how height makes a man feel invulnerable, makes him think he is

a god.

And since he had fired upon them he must be in the turret nearest the

vlei, which was slightly the higher of the two, its summit crowned by a

patch of stunted broom bush.

So now I know exactly where he is and i will wait half an hour.

He may become impatient and move; if he does I will get a shot at him

from here.

Bruce narrowed his eyes, judging the distance.

"About two hundred yards." He adjusted the rear-sight of the FN

and then checked the load, felt in the side pocket of his jacket to make

sure the two extra clips of ammunition were handy, and settled back

comfortably to wait.

"Curry, you sonofabitch, where are you?" Hendry's shout floated down

through the drizzling rain and Bruce stiffened.

I was right – he's on top of the left-hand turret.

"Come on, Bucko. I've been waiting for you since yesterday afternoon."

Bruce lifted the rifle and sighted experimentally at a dark patch on the

wall of the rock. It would be difficult shooting in the rain, the rifle

slippery with wet, the fine drizzle clinging to his eyebrows and dewing

the sights of the rifle with little beads of moisture.

"Hey, Curry, how's your little French piece of pussy?

Man, she's hot, that thing, isn't she?" Bruce's hands tightened on the

rifle.

"Did she tell you how I gave her the old business? Did she tell

you how she loved it? You should have heard her panting like a steam

engine. I'm telling you, Curry, she just couldn't get enough!" Bruce

felt himself start to tremble. He clenched his jaws, biting down until

his teeth ached.

Steady, Bruce my boy, that's what he wants you to do.

The trees dripped steadily in the silence and a gust of wind stirred the

scrub on the slope of the kopje. Bruce waited, straining his eyes for

the first hint of movement on the left-hand turret.

"You yellow or something, Curry ? You scared to come on up here?

Is that what it is? Bruce shifted his position slightly, ready for a

snap shot.

"Okay, Bucko. I can wait, I've got all day. I'll just sit here thinking

about how I mucked your little bit of French. I'm telling you it was

something to remember. Up and down, in and out, man it was something!"

Bruce came carefully up on to his feet behind the trunk of the tree and

once more studied the layout of the kopie.

If I can move up the slope, keeping well over to the side, until I

reach the right-hand turret, there's a ledge there that will take me to

the top. I'll be twenty or thirty feet from him, and at that range it

will all be over in a few seconds.

He drew a deep breath and left the shelter of the tree.

Wally Hendry spotted the movement in the forest below him; it was a

flash of brown quickly gone, too fast to get a bead on it.

He wiped the rain off his face and wriggled a foot closer to the edge.

"Come on, Curry. Let's stop buggering about," he shouted, and cuddled

the butt of his rifle into his shoulder. The tip of his tongue kept

darting out and touching his lips.

At the foot of the slope he saw a branch move slightly, stirring when

there was no wind. He grinned and snuggled his hips down on to the rock.

Here he comes, he gloated, he's crawling up, under the scrub

"I know you're sitting down there. Okay, Curry, I can wait also."

Half-way up the slope the top leaves of another bush swayed gently,

parting and closing.

"Yes!" whispered Wally, "Yes!" and he clicked off the safety catch of

the rifle. His tongue came out and moved slowly from one corner of his

mouth to the other.

I've got him, for sure, There – he'll have to cross that piece of open

ground. A couple a yards, that's all. But it'll be enough.

He moved again, wriggling a few inches to one side, to the gap between

two large grey boulders; settling his aim in he pushed the rate-of-fire

selector on to rapid and his fore-finger rested lightly on the trigger.

"Hey, Curry, I'm getting bored. If you are not going to come up, how

about singing to me or cracking a few jokes?" Bruce Curry crouched

behind a large grey boulder. In front of him were three yards of open

ground and then the shelter of another rock. He was almost at the top of

the slope and Hendry had not spotted him. Across the patch of open

ground was good cover to the foot of the right-hand turret.

It would take him two seconds to cross and the chances were that

Hendry would be watching the forest at the foot of the slope.

He gathered himself like a sprinter on the starting blocks.

"Go!" he whispered and dived into the opening, and into a hell storm of

bullets. One struck his rifle, tearing it out of his hand with such

force that his arm was paralysed to the shoulder, another stung his

chest, and then he was across.

He lay behind the far boulder, gasping with the shock, and listened to

Hendry's voice roaring triumphantly.

"Fooled you, you stupid bastard! Been watching you all the way up from

the bottom." Bruce held his left arm against his stomach; the use of it

was returning as the numbness subsided, but with it came the ache. The

top joint of his thumb had caught in the trigger guard and been torn

off; now the blood welled out of the stump thickly and slowly, dark

blood the colour of apple jelly. With his right hand he groped for his

handkerchief.

"Hey, Curry, your rifle's lying there in the open. You might need it in

a few minutes. Why don't you go out and fetch it?" Bruce bound the

handkerchief tightly round the stump of his thumb and the bleeding

slowed. Then he looked at the rifle where it lay ten feet away. The

foresight had been knocked off, and the same bullet that had amputated

his thumb had smashed into the breech, buckled the loading handle and

the slide. He knew that it was damaged beyond repair.

"Think I'll have me a little target practice, shouted Hendry from above,

and again there was a burst of automatic fire. Bruce's rifle disappeared

in a cloud of dust and flying rock fragments and when it cleared the

woodwork of the rifle was splintered and torn and there was further

damage to the action.

Well, that's that, thought Bruce, the rifle is wrecked, Shermaine has

the pistol, and I have only one good hand. This is going to be

interesting.

He unbuttoned the front of his jacket and examined the welt that the

bullet had raised across his chest. It looked like a rope burn, painful

and red, but not serious. He rebuttoned his jacket.

"Okay, Bruce Baby, the time for games is over. I'm coming down to get

you." Hendry's voice was harsh and loud, filled with confidence.

Bruce rallied under the goading of it. He looked round quickly which way

to go? Climb high so he must come up to get at you. Take the right-hand

turret, work round the side of it and wait for him on the top.

In haste now, spurred by the dread of being the hunted, he

scrambled to his feet and dodged away up the slope, keeping his head

down using the thick screen of rock and vegetation.

He reached the wall of the right-hand turret and followed it round,

found the spiral ledge that he had seen from below and went on to it, up

along it like a fly on a wall, completely exposed, keeping his back to

the cliff of granite, shuffling sideways up the eighteen-inch ledge with

the drop below him growing deeper with each step.

Now he was three hundred feet above the forest and could look out across

the dark green land to another row of kopjes on the horizon.

The rain had ceased but the cloud was unbroken, covering the sky.

The ledge widened, became a platform and Bruce hurried across it round

the far shoulder and came to a dead end.

The ledge had petered out and there was only the drop below. He had

trapped himself on the side of the turret the summit was unattainable.

If Hendry descended to the forest floor and circled the kopje he would

find Bruce completely at his mercy, for there was no cover on the narrow

ledge. Hendry could have a little more target practice.

Bruce leaned against the rock and struggled to control his breathing.

His throat was clogged with the thick saliva of exhaustion and fear. He

felt tired and helpless, his thumb throbbed painfully and he lifted it

to examine it once more.

Despite the tourniquet it was bleeding slowly, a wine-red drop at a

time.

Bleeding! Bruce swallowed the thick gluey stuff in his throat and looked

back along the way he had come. On the grey rock the bright red splashes

stood out clearly. He had laid a blood spoor for Hendry to follow.

All -right then, perhaps it is best this way. At least I'll be able to

come to grips with him. If I wait behind this shoulder until

he starts to cross the platform, there's a three hundred foot drop on

one side, I may be able to rush him and throw him off.

Bruce leaned against the shoulder of granite, hidden from the platform,

and tuned his ears to catch the first sound of Hendry's approach.

The clouds parted in the eastern sector of the sky and the sun shone

through, slanting across the side of the kopje.

It will be better to die in the sun, thought Bruce, a sacrifice to the

Sun god thrown from the roof of the temple, and he grinned without

mirth, waiting with patience and with pain.

The minutes fell like drops into the pool of time, slowly measuring out

the edition of life that had been allotted to him. The pulse in his ears

counted also, in-id his breath that he drew and held and gently exhaled

– how many more would there be?

I should pray, he thought, but after this morning when I prayed that it

shouldnot rain, and the rains came and saved me, i will not presume

again to tell the Old Man how to run things.

Perhaps he knows best after all.

Thy will be done, he thought instead, and. suddenly his nerves

jerked tight as a line hit by a marlin. The sound he had heard was that

of cloth brushing against rough rock.

He held his breath and listened, but all he could discern was the pulse

in his ears and the wind in the trees of the forest below. The

wind was a lonely sound.

Thy will be done, he repeated without breathing, and heard Hendry

breathe close behind the shoulder of rock.

He stood away from the wall and waited. Then he saw Hendry's shadow

thrown by the early morning sun along the ledge. A great distorted

shadow on the grey rock.

Thy will be done. And he went round the shoulder fast, his good hand

held like a blade and the weight of his body behind it.

Hendry was three feet away, the rifle at high port across his chest,

standing close in against the cliff, the cup-shaped steel helmet pulled

low over the slitty eyes and little beads of sweat clinging in the

red-gold stubble of his beard. He tried to drop the muzzle of the rifle

but Bruce was too close.

Bruce lunged with stiff fingers at his throat and he felt the crackle

and give of cartilage. Then his weight carried him on and

Hendry sprawled backwards on to the stone platform with Bruce on top of

him.

The rifle slithered across the rock and dropped over the edge, and they

lay chest to chest with legs locked together in a horrible parody of the

love act. But in this act we do not procreate, we destroy!

Hendry's face was purple and swollen above his damaged throat, his

Mouth open as he struggled for air, and his breath smelt old and sour in

Bruce's face.

With a twist towards the thumb Bruce freed his right wrist from

Hendry's grip and, lifting it like an axe, brought it down across the

bridge of Hendry's nose. Twin jets of blood spouted from the nostrils

and gushed into his open mouth.

With a wet strangling sound in his throat Hendry's body arched violently

upwards and Bruce was thrown back against the side of the cliff with

such force that for a second he lay there.

Wally was on his knees, facing Bruce, his eyes glazed and

sightless, and the strangling rattling sound spraying from his throat in

a pink cloud of blood. With both hands he was fumbling his pistol out of

its canvas holster.

Bruce drew his knees up on to his chest, then straightened his legs in a

mule kick. His feet landed together in the centre of

Hendry's stomach, throwing him backwards off the platform. Hendry made

that strangled bellow all the way to the bottom, but at the end it was

cut off abruptly, and afterwards there was only the sound of the wind in

the forest below.

For a long time, drained of strength and the power to think, Bruce sat

on the ledge with his back against the rock.

Above him the clouds had rolled aside and half the sky was blue.

He looked out across the land and the forest was lush and clean from the

rain. And I am still alive. The realization warmed Bruce's mind as

comfortably as the early sun was warming his body. He wanted to shout it

out across the forest. I am still alive!

At last he stood up, crossed to the edge of the cliff and looked down at

the tiny crumpled figure on the rocks below.

Then he turned away and dragged his beaten body down the side of the

turret.

It took him twenty minutes to find Wally Hendry in the chaos of broken

rock and scrub below the turret. He lay on his side with his legs drawn

up as though he slept. Bruce knelt beside him and drew his pistol from

the olive-green canvas holster; then he unbuttoned the flap of Hendry's

bulging breast pocket and took out the white canvas bag.

He stood up, opened the mouth of the bag and stirred the diamonds with

his forefinger. Satisfied, he jerked the drawstring closed and dropped

them into his own pocket.

In death he is even more repulsive than he was alive, thought

Bruce without regret as he looked down at the corpse.

The flies were crawling into the bloody nostrils and clustering round

the eyes.

Then he spoke aloud.

"So Mike Haig was right and I was wrong – you can destroy it."

Without looking back he walked away. The tiredness left him.

Carl Engelbrecht came through the doorway from the cockpit into the main

cabin of the Dakota.

"Are you two happy?" he asked above the deep drone of the engines, and

then grinning with his big brown face, "I can see you are!" Bruce

grinned back at him and tightened his arm around Shermaine's shoulders.

"Go away! Can't you see we're busy?"

"You've got lots of cheek for a hitch-hiker – bloody good mind to make

you get out and walk," he grumbled as he sat down beside them on the

bench that ran the full length of the fuselage. "I've brought you some

coffee and sandwiches."

"Good. Good. I'm starving." Shermaine sat up and reached for the thermos

flask and the greaseproof paper packet. The bruise on her cheek had

faded to a shadow with yellow edges – it was almost ten days old. With

his mouth full of chicken sandwich Bruce kicked one of the wooden cases

that were roped securely to the floor of the aircraft.

"What have you got in these, Carl?" "Dunno," said Carl and poured coffee

into the three plastic mugs. "In this game you don't ask questions. You

fly out, take your money, and let it go." He drained his mug and stood

up. "Well, I'll leave you two alone now. We'll be in Nairobi in a couple

of hours, so you can sleep or something!" He winked. "You'll have to

stay aboard while we refuel. But we'll be airborne again in an hour or

so, and the day after tomorrow, God and the weather permitting, we'll

set you down in Zurich."

"Thanks, old cock."

"Think nothing of it – all in the day's work." He went forward

and disappeared into the cockpit, closing the door behind him.

Shermaine turned back to Bruce, studied him for a moment and then

laughed.

"You look so different – now you look like a lawyer!"

Self-consciously Bruce tightened the knot of his Old Michaelhouse tie.

"I must admit it feels strange to wear a suit and tie again." He looked

down at the well-cut blue suit – the only one he had left – and then up

again at Shermaine.

"And in a dress I hardly recognize you either." She was wearing a

lime-green cotton frock, cool and crisp looking, white high-heel shoes

and just a little make-up to cover the bruise. A damn fine woman, Bruce

decided with pleasure.

"How does your thumb feel? she asked, and Bruce held up the stump with

its neat little turban of adhesive tape.

"I had almost forgotten about it." Suddenly Shermaine's expression

changed, and she pointed excitedly out of the perspex window behind

Bruce's shoulder.

"Look, there's the sea!" It lay far below them, shaded from blue to pale

green in the shallows, with a round of white beach and the wave

formation moving across it like ripples on a pond.

"That's Lake Tanganyika." Bruce laughed. "We've left the Congo behind."

"Forever?" she asked.

"Forever!" he assured her.

The aircraft banked slightly, throwing them closer together, as

Carl picked out his landmarks and altered cours towards the north-east.

Four thousand feet below them the dark insect that was their shadow

flitted and hopped across the surface of the water.