Текст книги "The Dark of the Sun"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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But at last she was quiet. I don't think I realized she was dead.

I was simply glad she was quiet and I could have peace." He dropped his

eyes from Bruce's face.

"I was too drunk to go to the funeral. Then I met a man in a bar-room, I

can't remember how long after it was, I can't even remember where. it

must have been on the Copperbelt. He was recruiting for

Tshombe's army and I signed up; there didn't seem anything else to do."

Neither of them spoke again until a gendarme brought food to them, hunks

of brown bread spread with tinned butter and filled with bully beet and

pickled onions. They ate in silence listening, to the singing, and Bruce

said at last: "You needn't have told me."

"I know."

"Mike-" Bruce paused.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, if that's any comfort."

"It is," Mike said.

"It helps to have – not to be completely alone. I like you, Bruce." He

blurted out the last sentence and Bruce recoiled as though Mike had spat

in his face.

You fool, he rebuked himself savagely, you were wide open then.

You nearly let one of them in again.

Remorselessly he crushed down his sympathy, shocked at the effort it

required, and when he picked up the radio the gentleness had gone from

his eyes.

"Hendry," he spoke into the set, "don't talk so much. I put you up front

to watch the tracks." From the leading truck Wally Hendry looked round

and forked two fingers at Bruce in a casual obscenity, but he turned

back and faced ahead.

"You'd better go and take over from Hendry," Bruce told Mike.

"Send him back here." Mike Haig stood up and looked down at Bruce.

"What are you afraid of?" his voice softly puzzled.

"I gave you an order, Haig."

"Yes, I'm on my way."

The aircraft found them in the late afternoon. It was a Vampire

jet of the Indian Air Force and it came from the north.

They heard the soft rumble of it across the sky and then saw it glint

like a speck of mica in the sunlight above the storm clouds ahead of

them.

"I bet you a thousand francs to a handful of dung that this Bucko don't

know about us," said Hendry with anticipation, watching the jet turn off

its course towards them.

"Well, he does now," said Bruce.

Swiftly he surveyed the rain clouds in front of them.

They were close; another ten minutes" run and they would be under them,

and once there they were safe from air attack for the belly of the

clouds pressed close against the earth and the rain was a thick

blue-grey mist that would reduce visibility to a few hundred feet. He

switched on the radio.

"Driver, give us all the speed you have – get us into that rain."

"Oui, monsieur, I came the acknowledgement and almost immediately the

puffing of the loco quickened and the clatter of the crossties changed

its rhythm.

"Look at him come," growled Hendry. The jet fell fast away against the

backdrop of cloud, still in sunlight, still a silver

point of light, but growing.

Bruce clicked over the band selector of the radio, searching the ether

for the pilot's voice. He tried four wavelengths and each time found

only the crackle and drone of static, but with the fifth came the gentle

sing-song of Hindustani. Bruce could not understand it, but he

could hear that the tone was puzzled. There was a short silence on the

radio while the pilot listened to an instruction from the Kamina base

which was beyond the power of their small set to receive, then a curt

affirmative, "He's coming in for a closer look," said Bruce, then raising

his voice, "Everybody under cover – and stay there." He was not prepared

to risk another demonstration of friendship.

The jet came cruising in towards them under half power, yet incredibly

fast, leaving the sound of its engine far behind it, sharklike above the

forest. Then Bruce could see the pilot's head through the canopy; now he

could make out his features. His face was very brown beneath the silver

crash helmet and he had a little mustache, the same as the jack of

spades. He was so close that Bruce saw the exact moment that he

recognized them as Katangese; his eyes

showed white and his mouth puckered as he swore. Beside Bruce the radio

relayed the oath with metallic harshness, and then the jet was banking

away steeply, its engine howling in full throttle, rising, showing its

swollen silver belly and the racks of rockets beneath its wings.

"That frightened seven years" growth out of him," laughed Hendry.

"You should have let me blast him. He was close enough for me to hit him

in the left eyeball."

"You'll get another chance in a moment," Bruce assured him grimly. The

radio was gabbling with consternation as the jet dwindled back into the

sky. Bruce switched quickly to their own channel.

"Driver, can't you get this thing moving?"

"Monsieur, never before has she moved as she does now." Once more he

switched back to the jet's frequency and listened to the pilot's excited

voice. The jet was turning in a wide circle, perhaps fifteen miles away.

Bruce glanced at the piled mass of cloud and rain ahead of them; it was

moving down to meet them, but with ponderous dignity.

"If he comes back," Bruce shouted down at his gendarmes, twe can be sure

that it's not just to look at us again. Open fire as soon as he's in

range. Give him everything you've got, we must try and spoil his aim."

Their faces were turned uptowards him, subdued by the awful inferiority

of the earthbound to the hunter in the sky.

Only Andre did not look at Bruce; he was staring at the aircraft with

his jaws clenching nervously and his eyes too large for his face.

Again there was silence on the radio, and every head turned back to

watch the jet.

"Come on, Bucko, come on!" grunted Hendry impatiently. He spat into the

palm of his right hand and then wiped it down the front of his jacket.

"Come on, we want you." With his thumb he flicked the safety catch of

his rifle on and off, on and off.

Suddenly the radio spoke again. Two words, obviously acknowledging an

order, and one of the words Bruce recognised. He had heard it before in

circumstances that has burned it into his memory.

The Hindustani word

"Attack!" "All right," he said and stood up. "He's coming!" The wind

fluttered his shirt against his chest. He settled his helmet firmly and

pumped a round into the chamber of his FN.

"Get down into the truck, Hendry," he ordered.

"I can see better from here." Hendry was standing beside him, legs

planted wide to brace himself against the violent motion of the train.

"As you like," said Bruce. "Ruffy, you get under cover."

"Too damn hot down there in that box," grinned the huge Negro.

"You're a mad Arab too," said Bruce.

"Sure, we're all mad Arabs." The jet wheeled sharply and stooped

towards the forest, levelling, still miles out on their flank.

"This Bucko is a real apprentice. He's going to take us from the side,

so we can all shoot at him. If he was half awake he'd give it to us up

the bum, hit the loco and make sure that we were all shooting over the

top of each other," gloated Hendry.

Silently, swiftly it closed with them, almost touching the tops of the

trees. Then suddenly the cannon fire sparkled lemon-pale on its nose and

all around them the air was filled with the sound of a thousand whips.

Immediately every gun on the train opened up in reply.

The tracers from the Brens chased each other out to meet the plane and

the rifles joined their voices in a clamour that drowned the cannon

fire.

Bruce aimed carefully, the jet unsteady in his sights from the lurching

of the coach; then he pressed the trigger and the rifle

juddered against his shoulder. From the corner of his eye he saw the

empty cartridge cases spray from the breech in a bright bronze stream,

and the stench of cordite stung his nostrils.

The aircraft slewed slightly, flinching from the torrent of fire.

"He's yellow!" howled Hendry. "The bastard's yellow!"

"Hit him!"

roared Ruffy. "Keep hitting him." The jet twisted, lifted its nose so

that the fire from its cannons passed harmlessly over their heads.

Then its nose dropped again and it fired its rockets, two from under

each wing. The gunfire from the train stopped abruptly as everybody

ducked for safety; only the three of them on the roof kept shooting.

Shrieking like four demons in harness, leaving parallel lines of white

smoke behind them, the rockets came from about four hundred yards out

and they covered the distance in the time it takes to draw a deep

breath, but the pilot had dropped his nose too sharply and fired too

late. The rockets exploded in the embankment of the tracks below them.

The blast threw Bruce over backwards. He fell and rolled, clutching

desperately at the smooth roof, but as he went over the edge his fingers

caught in the guttering and he hung there. He was dazed with the

concussion, the guttering cutting into his fingers, the shoulder strap

of his rifle round his neck strangling him, and the gravel of the

embankment rushing past beneath him.

Ruffy reached over, caught him by the front of his jacket and lifted him

back like a child.

"You going somewhere, boss?" The great round face was coated with dust

from the explosions, but he was grinning happily. Bruce had a confused

conviction that it would take at least a case of dynamite to make any

impression on that mountain of black flesh.

Kneeling on the roof Bruce tried to rally himself. He saw that the

wooden side of the coach nearest the explosions was splintered and torn

and the roof was covered with earth and pebbles. Hendry was sitting

beside him, shaking his head slowly from side to side; a small trickle

of blood ran down from a scratch on his cheek and dripped from his chin.

In the open trucks the men stood or sat with stunned

expressions on their faces, but the train still raced on towards the

rain storm and the dust of the explosions hung in a dense brown cloud

above the forest far behind them.

Bruce scrambled to his feet, searched frantically for the aircraft and

found its tiny shape far off above the mass of cloud.

The radio was undamaged, protected by the sandbags from the blast.

Bruce reached for it and pressed the transmit button.

"Driver, are you all right?"

"Monsieur, I am greatly perturbed.

"You're not alone," Bruce assured him. "Keep this train going."

"Oui, monsieur." Then he switched to the aircraft's frequency.

Although his ears were singing shrilly from the explosions, he could

hear that the voice of the pilot had changed its tone. There was a

slowness in it, a breathless catch on some of the words. He's frightened

or he's hurt, thought Bruce, but he still has time to make another pass

at us before we reach the storm front.

His mind was clearing fast now, and he became aware of the complete lack

of readiness in his men.

"Ruffy!" he shouted. "Get them on their feet. Get them ready.

That plane will be back any second now." Ruffy jumped down into the

truck and Bruce heard his palm slap against flesh as he began to bully

them into activity. Bruce followed him down, then climbed over into the

second truck and began the same process there.

"Haig, give me a hand, help me get the lead out of them." Further

removed from the shock of the explosion, the men in this truck reacted

readily and crowded to the side, starting to reload, checking their

weapons, swearing, faces losing the dull dazed expressions.

Bruce turned and shouted back, "Ruffy, are any of your lot hurt?"

"Couple of scratches, nothing bad." On the roof of the coach Hendry was

standing again, watching the aircraft, blood on his face and his rifle

in his hands.

"Where's Andre?" Bruce asked Haig as they met in the middle of the

truck.

"Up front. I think he's been hit." Bruce went forward and found

Andre doubled up, crouching in a corner of the truck, his rifle lying

beside him and both hands covering his face. His shoulders heaved as

though he were in pain.

Eyes, thought Bruce, he's been hit in the eyes. He reached him and

stooped over him, pulling his hands from his face, expecting to see

blood.

Andre was crying, his cheeks wet with tears and his eyelashes gummed

together. For a second Bruce stared at him and then he caught the front

of his jacket and pulled him to his feet. He picked up

Andre's rifle and the barrel was cold, not a single shot had been fired

out of it. He dragged the Belgian to the side and thrust the rifle

into his hands.

"I'm going to be standing here beside you." he snarled, If you do that

again I'll shoot you. Do you understand?"

"I'm sorry, Bruce." Andre's lips were swollen where he had bitten them;

his face was smeared with tears and slack with fear. "I'm sorry. I

couldn't help it." Bruce ignored him and turned his attention back to

the aircraft. It was turning in for its next run.

He's going to come from the side again, Bruce thought; this time he'll

get us. He can't miss twice in a row.

In silence once more they watched the jet slide down the valley between

two vast white mountains of cloud and level off above the forest. Small

and dainty and deadly it raced in towards them.

One of the Bren guns opened up, rattling raucously, sending out tracers

like bright beads on a string.

"Too soon," muttered Bruce. "Much too soon; he must be all of a mile out

of range." But the effect was instantaneous. The jet swerved, almost hit

the tree tops and then over-corrected, losing its line of approach.

A howl of derision went up from the train and was immediately lost in

the roar as every gun opened fire. The jet loosed its remaining rockets,

blindly, hopelessly, without a chance of a hit. Then it climbed steeply,

turning away into the cloud ahead of them. The sound of its engines

receded, was muted by the cloud and then was gone.

Ruffy was performing a dance of triumph, waving his rifle over his head.

Hendry on the roof was shouting abuse at the clouds into which the jet

had vanished, one of the Brens was still firing short ecstatic bursts,

someone else was chanting the Katangese war cry and others were taking

it up. And then the driver in the locomotive came in with his whistle,

spurting steam with each shriek.

Bruce stung his rifle over his shoulder, pushed his helmet on to the

back of his head, took out a cigarette and lit it, then stood watching

them sing and laugh and chatter with the relief from danger.

Next to him Andre leaned out and vomited over the side; a little of it

came out of his nose and dribbled down the front of his battle-jacket.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry, Bruce. I'm sorry, truly I'm sorry," he whispered.

And they were under the cloud, its coolness slumped over them like air

from an open refrigerator. The first heavy drops stung Bruce's cheek and

then rolled down heavily washing away the smell of cordite, melting the

dust from Ruffy's face until it shone again like washed coal.

Bruce felt his jacket cling wetly to his back.

"Ruffy, two men at each Bren. The rest of them can get back into the

covered coaches. We'll relieve every hour." He reversed his rifle so the

muzzle pointed downwards. "De Surrier, you can go, and you as well,

Hendry."

"I'll stay with you, Bruce."

"All right then." The gendarmes clambered back into the covered coaches

still laughing and chattering, and Ruffy came forward with a ground

sheet and handed it to

Bruce.

"The radios are all covered. If you don't need me, boss, I got some

business with one of those Arabs in the coach.

He's got near twenty thousand francs on him; so I'd better go and give

him a couple of tricks with the cards."

"One of these days I'm going to explain your Christian monarchs to the

boys. Show them that the odds are three to one against them," Bruce

threatened.

"I wouldn't do that, boss," Ruffy advised seriously. "All that money

isn't good for them, just gets them into trouble."

"Off you go then. I'll call you later," said Bruce. "Tell them I said

"well done

I'm proud of them." "Yeah. I'll tell them," promised Ruffy.

Bruce lifted the tarpaulin that covered the set.

"Driver, desist before you burst the boiler!" The abandoned flight of

the train steadied to a more sedate pace, and Bruce tilted his helmet

over his eyes and pulled the ground sheet up around his mouth before he

leaned out over the side of the truck to inspect the rocket damage.

"All the windows blown out on this side and the woodwork torn a

little, he muttered. "But a lucky escape all the same."

"What a miserable comic-opera war this is," grunted Mike Haig. "That

pilot had the right idea: why risk your life when it's none of your

business."

"He was wounded," Bruce guessed. "I think we hit him on his first run."

Then they were silent, with the rain driving into their faces, slitting

their eyes to peer ahead along the tracks. The men at the Brens huddled

into their brown and green camouflage groundsheets, all their jubilation

of ten minutes earlier completely gone. They are like cats, thought

Bruce as he noticed their dejection, they can't stand being wet.

"It's half past five already." Mike spoke at last. "Do you think we'll

make Msapa junction before nightfall?"

"With this weather it will be dark by six." Bruce looked up at the low

cloud that was prematurely bringing on the night. "I'm not going to risk

travelling in the dark.

This is the edge of Baluba country and we can't use the headlights

oftheloco."

"You going to stop then?" Bruce nodded. What a stupid bloody question,

he thought irritably. Then he recognized his irritation as reaction from

the danger they had just experienced, and he spoke to make amends.

"We can't be far now – if we start again at first light we'll reach

Msapa before sun-up."

"My God, it's cold," complained Mike and he shivered briefly.

"Either too hot or too cold," Bruce agreed; he knew that it was also

reaction that was making him garrulous. But he did not attempt to stop

himself. "That's one of the things about this happy little planet of

ours: nothing is in moderation. Too hot or too cold, either you are

hungry or you've overeaten, you are in love or you hate the world-"

"Like you?" asked Mike.

"Dammit, Mike, you're as bad as a woman. Can't you conduct an objective

discussion without introducing personalities?" Bruce demanded. He could

feel his temper rising to the surface, he was cold and edgy, and he

wanted a smoke.

"Objective theories must have subjective application to prove

their worth," Mike pointed out. There was just a trace of an amused

smile on his broad ravaged old face.

"Let's forget it then. I don't want to talk personalities," snapped

Bruce; then immediately went on to do so.

"Humanity sickens me if I think about it too much. De Surrier puking his

heart out with fear, that animal Hendry, you trying to keep off the

liquor, Joan-" He stopped himself abruptly.

"Who is Joan?"

"Do I ask you your business?" Bruce flashed the standard reply to all

personal questions in the mercenary army of

Katanga.

"No. But I'm asking you yours – who is Joan?" All right. I'll tell him.

If he wants to know, I'll tell him.

Anger had made Bruce reckless.

"Joan was the bitch I married."

"So, that's it then!"

"Yes -

that's it! Now you know. So you can leave me alone."

"Kids?"

"Two – a boy and a girl." The anger was gone from Bruce's voice, and the

raw naked pain was back for an instant. Then he rallied and his voice

was neutral once more.

"And none of it matters a damn. As far as I'm concerned the whole human

race – all of it – can go and lose itself. I don't want any part of it."

"How old are you, Bruce?"

"Leave me alone, damn you!"

"How old are you?"

"I'm thirty."

"You talk like a teenager."

"And I feel like an

old, old man." The amusement was no longer on Mike's face as he asked.

"What did you do before this?"

"I slept and breathed and ate – and got trodden on."

"What did you do for a living?"

"Lawyer."

"Were you successful?"

"How do you measure success? If you mean, did I make money, the answer

is yes." I made enough to pay off the house and the car, he thought

bitterly, and to contest custody of my children, and finally to meet the

divorce settlement. I had enough for that, but, of course, I had to sell

my partnership.

"Then you'll be all right," Mike told him. "If you've succeeded once

you'll be able to do it again when you've recovered from the shock; when

you've rearranged your life and taken other people into it

to make you strong again."

"I'm strong now, Haig. I'm strong because there is no one in my life.

That's the only way you can be secure, on your own. Completely free and

on your own."

"Strong!" Anger flared in

Mike's voice for the first time.

"On your own you're nothing, Curry. On your own you're so weak I

could piss on you and wash you away!" Then the anger evaporated and

Mike went on softly, "But you'll find out – you're one of the lucky

ones. You attract people to you. You don't have to be alone."

"Well, that's the way I'm going to be from now on."

"We'll see," murmured Mike.

"Yes, we'll see," Bruce agreed, and lifted the tarpaulin over the radio.

Driver, we are going to halt for the night. It's too dark to proceed

with safety." Brazzaville Radio came through weakly on the set and the

static was bad, for outside the rain still fell and thunder rolled

around the sky like an unsecured cargo at sea.

Our Elisabethville correspondent reports that elements of the

Kantangese Army in the South Kasai province today violated the ceasefire

agreement by firing upon a low-flying aircraft of the United

Nations command. The aircraft, a Vampire jet fighter of the Indian Air

Force, returned safely to its base at Kamina airfield. The pilot,

however, was wounded by small arms fire. His condition is satisfactory.

"The United Nations Commander in Katanga, General Rhee, has lodged a

strong protest with the Kantange se government-" The announcer's voice

was overlaid by the electric crackle of static.

we winged him!" rejoiced Wally Hendry. The scab on his cheek had dried

black, with angry red edges.

"Shut up," snapped Bruce, "we're trying to hear what's happening."

"You can't hear a bloody thing now. Andre, there's a bottle in my pack.

Get it! I'm going to drink to that coolie with a bullet up his-" Then

the radio cleared and the announcer's voice came through loudly.

at Senwati Mission fifty miles from the river harbour of Port

Reprieve. A spokesman for the Central Congolese Government denied that

the Congolese troops were operating in this area, and it is feared that

a large body of armed bandits is taking advantage of the unsettled

conditions to-" Again the static drowned it out.

"Damn this set muttered Bruce as he tried to tune it.

stated today that the removal of missile equipment from the

Russian bases in Cuba had been confirmed by aerial reconnaissance-"

"That's all that we are interested in." Bruce switched off the radio.

"What a shambles! Ruffy, where is Senwati Mission?"

"Top end of the swamp, near the Rhodesian border."

"Fifty miles from Port Reprieve," muttered Bruce, not attempting to

conceal his anxiety.

"It's more than that by road, boss, more like a hundred."

"That should take them three or four days in this weather, with time off

for looting along the way," Bruce calculated.

"It will be cutting it fairly fine. We must get through to Port

Reprieve by tomorrow evening and pull out again at dawn the next day."

"Why not keep going tonight?" Hendry removed the bottle from his lips to

ask. "Better than sitting here being eaten by mosquitoes."

"We'll stay," Bruce answered. "It won't do anybody much good to derail

this lot in the dark." He turned back to

Ruffy.

"Three-hour watches tonight, Sergeant Major. Lieutenant Haig will

take the first, then Lieutenant Hendry, then Lieutenant de Surrier, and

I'll do the dawn spell."

"Okay, boss. I'd better make sure my boys aren't sleeping." He left the

compartment and the broken glass from the corridor windows crunched

under his boots.

"I'll be on my way also." Mike stood up and pulled the ground sheet over

his shoulders.

"Don't waste the batteries of the searchlights, Mike.

Sweep every ten minutes or so."

"Okay, Bruce." Mike looked across at Hendry. "I'll call you at nine

o'clock."

"Jolly good show, old fruit." Wally exaggerated Mike's accent. "Good

hunting, what!" and then as Mike left the compartment, "Silly old

bugger, why does he have to talk like that?" No one answered him, and he

pulled up his shirt behind.

"Andre what's this on my back?"

"It's a pimple."

"Well, squeeze it then." Bruce woke in the night, sweating, with the

mosquitoes whining about his face. Outside it was still raining and

occasionally the reflected light from the searchlight on the roof of the

coach lit the interior dimly.

On one of the bottom bunks Mike Haig lay on his back.

His face was shining with sweat and he lolled his head from side to side

on the pillow. He was grinding his teeth – a sound to which

Bruce had become accustomed, and he preferred it to Hendry's snores.

"You poor old bugger," whispered Bruce.

From the bunk opposite, Andre de Surrier whimpered.

In sleep he looked like a child with dark soft hair falling over his

forehead.

The sun was hot before it cleared the horizon. It lifted a warm mist

from the dripping forest. and the rain petered out in the dawn.

As they ran north the forest thickened, the trees grew closer together

and the undergrowth beneath them was coarser than it had been around

Elisabethville.

Through the warm misty dawn Bruce saw the water tower at Msapa

junction rising like a lighthouse above the forest, its silver paint

streaked with brown rust. Then they came round the last curve in the

tracks and the little settlement huddled before them.

It was small, half a dozen buildings in all, and there was about it the

desolate aspect of human habitation reverting to jungl. Beside the

tracks stood the water tower and the raised concrete coal bins.

Then the station buildings of wood and iron, with the large sign above

the verandah:

MSAPA JUNCTION. Elevation 963m.

There was an avenue of casia flora trees with very dark green foliage

and orange flowers; and beyond that, on the edge of the forest, a row of

cottages.

One of the cottages had been burned, its ruins were fire blackened

and tumbled; and the gardens had lost all sense of discipline with three

months'neglect.

"Driver, stop beside the water tower. You have fifteen minutes to fill

your boiler."

"Thank you, monsieur." With a heavy sigh of steam the loco pulled up

beside the tower.

"Haig, take four men and go back to give the driver a hand."

"Okay, Bruce." Bruce turned once more to the radio.

"Hendry."

"Hello there."

"Get a patrol together, six men, and search those cottages. Then take a

look at the edge of the bush, we don't want any unexpected visitors."

Wally Hendry waved an acknowledgement from the leading truck, and Bruce

went on: "Put de

Surrier on." He watched Hendry pass the set to Andre

"De Surner, you are in charge of the leading trucks in Hendry's absence.

Keep Hendry covered, but watch the bush behind you also. They could come

from there." Bruce switched off the set and turned to Ruffy. "Stay up

here

on the roof, Ruffy. I'm going to chase them up with the watering. If you

see anything, don't write me a postcard, start pooping off." Ruffy

nodded. "Have some breakfast to take with you." He proffered an open

bottle of beer.

"Better than bacon and eggs." Bruce accepted the bottle and climbed down

on to the platform. Sipping the beer he walked back along the train and

looked up at Mike and the engine driver in the tower.

"Is it empty?" he called up at them.

"Half full, enough for a bath if you want one," answered Mike.

"Don't tempt me." The idea was suddenly very attractive, for he could

smell his own stale body odour and his eyelids were itchy and swollen

from mosquito bites. "My kingdom for a bath." He ran his fingers over

his jowls and they rasped over stiff beard.

He watched them swing the canvas hose out over the loco. The chubby

little engine driver clambered up and sat astride the boiler as

he fitted the hose.

A shout behind him made Bruce turn quickly, and he saw Hendry's patrol

coming back from the cottages. They were dragging two small prisoners

with them.

"Hiding in the first cottage," shouted Hendry. "They tried to leg it

into the bush." He prodded one of them with his bayonet. The child cried

out and twisted in the hands of the gendarme who held her.

"Enough of that." Bruce stopped him from using the bayonet again and

went to meet them. He looked at the two children.

The girl was close to puberty with breasts like insect bites just

starting to show, thin-legged with enlarged kneecaps out of proportion

to her thighs and calves. She wore only a dirty piece of trade cloth

drawn up between her legs and secured around her waist by a length of

bark string, and the tribal tattoo marks across her chest and cheeks and

forehead stood proud in ridges of scar tissue.

"Ruffy." Bruce called him down from the coach. "Can you speak to them?"

Ruffy picked up the boy and held him on his hip. He was younger than the

girl – seven, perhaps eight years old. Very dark-skinned and completely

naked, as naked as the terror on his face.

Ruffy grunted sharply and the gendarme released the girl.

She stood trembling, making no attempt to escape.

Then in a soothing rumble Ruffy began talking to the boy on his hip; he

smiled as he spoke and stroked the child's head. Slowly a little of the

fear melted and the boy answered in a piping treble that

Bruce could not understand.

"What does he say?" urged Bruce.

"He thinks we're going to eat them," laughed Ruffy. "Not enough

here for a decent breakfast." He patted the skinny little arm, grey with

crushed filth, then he gave an order to one of the gendarmes. The man

disappeared into the coach and came back with a handful of chocolate

bars. Still talking, Ruffy peeled one of them and placed it in the boy's

mouth. The child's eyes widened appreciatively at the taste and he

chewed quickly, his eyes on Ruffy's face, his answers now muffled with

chocolate.

At last Ruffy turned to Bruce.

"No trouble here, boss. They come from a small village about an hour's

walk away. just five or six families, and no war party. These kids

sneaked across to have a look at the houses, pinch what they could