Looking back on the fight, he felt that he could count himself lucky that the thugs had not used their knives from the beginning and, in fact, that he was alive at all. He owed that to Chela, who was moaning in the seat in front of him. He could only hope that both her wound and Hunterscombe’s were not serious, and that he would be able to get them to hospital quickly.
With that in mind, after a few minutes he became worried. From the height at which they were flying, the glow coming up from Mexico City was plainly visible; but they were heading away from it, in a north-easterly direction. Abruptly he said to Hunterscombe:
‘What the devil are you up to? We’re far enough now from the pyramid not to be shot at. For goodness’ sake, turn her round and head back to the airport.’
The Wing Commander gave a far from gay laugh. ‘D’you think I’m steering away from the city on purpose? Think again, chum. Those bastards shot away … away most of the controls.’
‘Good God!’ Adam exclaimed in horror. ‘D’you mean you can’t turn her?’
‘S’right.’
‘Then get her down, man! We’re still over the valley. You can land her in any field.’
‘Wish I could. But she’s stuck on course. Not a hope till we’ve … till we run out of petrol.’
Grimly Adam took in this frightening news. Faced with a fresh danger, his tiredness suddenly dropped from him. He was tempted to ask Hunterscombe further questions, but refrained because obviously to talk at all was an effort for him, and upon his remaining strength their lives now depended. He alone was capable of landing the helicopter when the petrol did give out; and if he collapsed before then, a crash that might kill them all was a certainty.
The glow from Mexico City faded behind them. Chela continued now and then to give a low moan. She had not spoken since Hunterscombe had lifted her into the machine, so Adam hoped that she was only semi-conscious and unaware of their perilous situation. Leaning forward, he found her hand and held it. Alberuque was sprawled on the floor between them, still apparently out from the kick on the side of the jaw that Adam had given him.
They had been in the air for some twenty minutes when Adam suddenly became aware that the angle of their course was bringing them-closer to the chain of mountains on the north side of the valley, and that if they continued on it they must either go over or crash into them. With rising apprehension he stared ahead at their rugged silhouette, made visible against the night sky by the moonlight. After another few minutes he discerned a plume of smoke rising from an active volcano. They were almost on a level with the crest and flying straight towards it.
Hunterscombe had seen it, too. Suddenly he said, ‘This is curtains, unless we can fly over it.’
‘How can we?’ Adam asked desperately, ‘if you can’t make her fly higher.’
‘Simple,’ came back the laconic reply. ‘Push that bloody sky-pilot out and she’ll lift herself.’
At his suggestion Chela suddenly roused. ‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘No! You can’t! You can’t! Whatever he has done, he is an anointed priest. I shot him to save Adam, but only to wound him. To cause his death deliberately would be the most terrible sacrilege.’
‘Couldn’t care less,’ muttered the Wing Commander. ‘Unload him. Gordon. It’s … our only chance.’
They were rapidly approaching the crater. The decision had to be taken swiftly or it would be too late. Adam looked down at Alberuque. His eyes were open and held abject terror. Evidently he had been shamming unconsciousness for some time and had heard what it was proposed to do with him.
‘Get going, damn you,’ Hunterscombe’s voice came with renewed strength. ‘Throw the bastard out or we’ll all have had it.’
At that moment the helicopter was within fifty feet of the near lip of the volcano. Adam cried, ‘O.K.,’ and gripped Alberuque by the throat just as he was about to scream for mercy.
Chela turned in her seat and pleaded desperately, ‘Don’t, Adam, don’t! The Lord Jesus has saved us once and He will again. Any risk is better than that we should have this awful sin on our consciences.’
‘Go on, man,’ shouted the Wing Commander. ‘Out with him or we’ll not clear the crest and all be killed on it.’
To spare Chela’s feelings, Adam told a swift lie. ‘We’ll be committing no sin. He is already dead.’ Continuing to choke Alberuque into silence with one hand, he put the other under his knees and lifted him. But before he could heave him out, the crest seemed to rush up at them.
‘Quick!’ gasped Hunterscombe. ‘For God’s sake.…’
There came a scraping noise as the undercarriage of the machine grazed the lip of the crater, but she just cleared it. Next moment Adam got Alberuque’s wildly kicking legs out in the rushing air, gave a final push and let him drop, to roll down the inner slope of the crater into the red-hot, bubbling lava.
The helicopter lifted at once. Another few seconds and it entered the plume of smoke. The hot air lifted it still higher. The smoke blinded them, they were half choked by it and by the awful stench of sulphur. The machine rocked crazily, filling them with terror that it would fall apart under the stress and that they, too, would end up screaming their lives out in the boiling mud beneath them.
Suddenly they shot out of the smoke and passed well above the far lip of the crater. Gasping for breath and with their eyes streaming, they felt immense relief. But only for a matter of moments. The engine began to splutter; then it died. From Mexico City it had flown some sixty miles, and the petrol tank was now empty.
Rapidly, it sank. There was nothing that Hunterscombe could do to check it. In an agony of apprehension they stared down at the barren, rocky slope below them, then braced themselves for the crash. It came with a grinding of splintered metal. They were all flung forward, then jerked upright; for luck had saved them from the worst. Owing to the formation of the ground, the light machine bounced and came to rest thirty feet further down on an uneven shelf of rock.
For more than a minute they sat there, stunned; hardly able to believe that they were still alive and had escaped serious injury. The lights had gone out, but pale moonlight seeping in made the heads and shoulders of each of them stand out to the others in silhouette.
Adam was the first to recover. As he rose to clamber down, he slipped in Alberuque’s blood. The interior of the machine was smothered with it and with that from the wounds of Chela and Hunterscombe. The smell of it was strong in their nostrils, mingled with that of the sulphur given off from the volcano.
Adam lifted Chela out, then helped the Wing Commander down. Supported by a hand on the fuselage, she stood beside the machine on her good foot. He tottered a few steps, then sank to the ground. Bending over him, Adam asked anxiously, ‘Just how bad is it, old chap?’
Hunterscombe gave a travesty of a laugh, ‘Pretty nasty. That bullet may have had my number on it.’
‘Don’t say that. You’re as tough as they make them. You’ll be all right if only I can get you to a doctor.’
‘That’s what I meant … If you could, I expect he’d patch me up. But you can’t … You’ve Chela to look after and … I’d never get down this mountain without help.’
‘I’ll manage.’ Chela spoke bravely. ‘That is, if you can find me something to use as a crutch.’
Adam climbed back into the machine. There was nothing suitable there but, rummaging in the pockets, he found a first-aid kit, a big torch and a flask of brandy. Hunterscombe’s wound was obviously the worse, so he went to him first and took a bandage from the pack. But their rescuer shook his head:
‘No good, chum … look at my back.’
The light of the torch showed below the right shoulder a large, dark patch where blood had soaked through his jacket. Staring at it, Adam realised that, even if he could get the coat off, to deal efficiently with such a wound would prove beyond him; so he turned to Chela.
Her wound was worse than he had expected. He could not tell if the bone was splintered, but the bullet had torn the ligaments in
her calf. She had lost a lot of blood and was still bleeding. When he applied the iodine, she fainted. Propping her up with her back against a boulder, he bandaged the wound and fixed a tourniquet beneath her knee.
Going back to Hunterscombe, he said, ‘We can’t stay here. These sulphur fumes are poisonous. If we keep on breathing them, we’ll be dead before morning.’
The Wing Commander spoke tersely. ‘Don’t argue. Get the girl down.’
‘We can’t possibly leave you here.’
To that the wounded man made no reply. Laboriously he fished out of his pocket a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, then lit one.
Chela had passed out only for a moment. She was now sitting with her head bowed on her knees. It was a terrible decision for Adam to have to make, but he knew that Hunterscombe was right. Love apart, his first duty was to the woman of the party; even if leaving the man up there meant that he would die from the poison in the air.
Kneeling beside Chela, he whispered, ‘I’ve got to get you down the mountain, and Jeremy is not up to making it on his own. He insists that we should leave him.’
She sat up and, in view of her state, spoke with surprising firmness. ‘We can’t. He saved us. It would be an awful thing to do.’ Then the fumes caught her in the throat and she was shaken by a bout of coughing.
‘We must,’ Adam insisted. ‘These fumes are deadly.’
Putting a hand on his shoulder, she levered herself up and said, ‘You can go if you like, but I’m not going without Jeremy.’ Then she looked across at Hunterscombe and added, ‘You heard what I said. For all our sakes, you must make the effort.’
He, too, was coughing now and had thrown aside his cigarette. With a touch of his old humour he muttered, ‘Little idiot. But … anything to oblige a lady.’ Then he struggled to his feet.
‘One moment,’ said Adam. Taking the second bandage from the pack, he draped it round Chela’s neck and tied it under her right foot, so that it should not drag on the ground and cause her injured leg to give her greater pain. From the first-aid pack he gave her half a tablet of morphia and a whole one to Hunterscombe. Knowing that he could not afford to carry any unnecessary weight, he took off and regretfully abandoned his gold armbands and leg gyves. As he did so, he thanked his stars that in those last hurried moments at the museum he had refused to let the attendants put on the soft, gilded sandals, and was still wearing his own stout shoes. But it was cold up there on the mountain-top, so he decided to keep the featherwork kilt and cloak that he had made them put on over his suit.
Two minutes later they had formed up. Adam had Hunterscombe on his right and Chela on his left, with an arm round the waist of each, while they both had an arm round his neck. Chela held the torch in her free hand, and they set off on their attempt to get down to safety.
The going was rough, but it might have been much worse, for the slope was steep only in places they were able to avoid by the light of the torch; but that meant their changing direction every dozen yards or so, and several times they had to make their way round patches of jagged rock that Chela and Hunterscome could not have got over. In silence, except for their heavy breathing and an occasional gasp, they gradually made their way downwards.
After a quarter of an hour they had to take a rest and sat for several minutes on a broad stone shelf, panting and wheezing. But the air was better there as the sulphur fumes were less pungent. While they recruited their strength, Adam’s thoughts were gloomy. He reckoned that, so far, they could not have covered more than two hundred yards and there might well be a mile to go before they could hope to come upon some habitation. The priests had given him such a battering that his body ached all over and, even had he been in the pink of condition, he doubted whether he could have got his two companions down to the valley.
Soon after they set out again he was cheered a little by coming upon a broad, smooth slope formed by an old river of lava. In the next quarter of an hour, gasping and sweating, they covered nearly double the distance they had before. But by the end of that time their state was desperate. Hunterscombe’s head was hanging forward on his chest and Chela’s jerking backwards and forwards with every hop she took. Owing to the gradient, Adam had all the time to lean back; otherwise he could not have held back the others, and all three of them would have broken into a stumbling run, then tripped and fallen on their faces. The strain of taking such a dead weight was appalling, his knees were beginning to give under him. Strong as he was, he knew that he could not support them for much longer.
The flow of hard lava ended in a small plateau, on one side of which there rose a ten-foot-high cliff with a cave in it. As Adam looked about for a place for them to rest again, Chela dropped the torch and slumped forward. She was all-in and had fainted.
Fortunately, the bulb of the torch had not broken. Lowering her to the ground, he picked it up, then said with a sigh to Hunterscombe, ‘It’s no good. We’ll never make it.’
‘Crazy to try,’ the Wing Commander wheezed. ‘Get me to that cave. I … I’ll stand a better chance lying still there than … And … and without me you can carry her.’
Adam had already realised that, the morphia he had given Chela having had time to take effect, it was not so much pain as loss of blood during their twenty-five minutes’ flight from the pyramid that had caused her to collapse. He knew, too, that when she did come round, her good leg could not possibly stand up to hopping more than another few hundred yards; so his only chance of getting her down was to carry her.
To leave Hunterscombe seemed an awful thing to do; but at least they were now clear of the poisonous sulphur fumes and he was no doubt right in believing that if he lay still for the remainder of the night he would lose less blood than if he continued to stagger down the mountain. Clearly the sensible course was for Adam to try to get Chela down then, if he succeeded, he could return next morning with a doctor and stretcher party to collect Hunterscombe.
Without further argument he helped the Wing Commander across the open ground to the cave and shone the torch round it. The beam revealed a primitive fireplace in which there were dead ashes, the rind of a paw-paw and the stubs of several cigarettes; so evidently the place was used in bad weather by some goatherd to take his midday meals and siesta.
Sinking to the ground, Hunterscombe muttered, ‘Worse places … to spend a night in. Give me the morphia.’
Retaining the odd half-tablet for Chela, Adam handed him the little phial. As he did so, he thought of giving him the flask of brandy as well, but decided against it because he recalled being told by someone that the effect of taking brandy on top of morphia could prove fatal. Instead, he took off his feather kilt and cloak, then folded the kilt into a pillow for Hunterscombe and covered him with the cloak.
There seemed nothing else he could do and he was anxious to carry Chela away from the plateau while she was still unconscious, lest she should again refuse to leave their rescuer. After a moment, he said:
‘I hate to leave you like this, and nothing would induce me to if it weren’t for Chela. But, having lost so much blood, she may die from the cold up here if I don’t get her down. In the morning, as soon as it’s light enough to find this place again, I’ll be up here with a doctor and a rescue team.’
‘No!’ Hunterscombe held up his hand as Adam was about to turn away. ‘A stretcher party, but no doctor.’
‘What the devil do you mean?’
‘Have to go to the nearest town for a doctor. You’d be recognised.’
‘Well, what if I am?’
For a good minute, Hunterscombe remained silent, recruiting his strength, then he said in a hoarse voice, ‘Until you’re certain I’m going to live you … you mustn’t show your face to anyone who might fetch a policeman.’
Adam stared down at him in amazement. ‘Why on earth shouldn’t I?’ he asked. ‘Alberuque is dead. There will be no rebellion now. On my information Mexico has been saved from a bloody civil war. Far from my having anything to fear, they should treat me
…’
‘You have,’ the Wing Commander cut in harshly. ‘I’ve let you down, chum. Took the credit to myself for giving the Mexicans the gen. Not … not for myself, really. But for the old firm … British Secret Service. Meant to see you right later. And … and will, of course, if they can get me to a hospital alive. But I’m in a pretty bad way so … so don’t gamble on that. If I do kick the bucket … make for the coast. Get out of the country. Otherwise … otherwise you’ll be for the high jump.’
20
‘There’s Many a Slip …’
Slowly the full implication of Hunterscombe’s confession sank into Adam’s tired brain. In the past hour of fear, distress and exhausting effort, he had had little time to think about what the future might hold for him; but while they had been in the helicopter, it had crossed his mind that, if only they could land safely, he would once again be able to count himself ‘Lucky’ Gordon.
Not only had he twice escaped with his life—once when he had believed that no more than a moment lay between him and death under the sacrificial knife, and again when Hunterscombe had saved him from the mob of Indians swarming up the pyramid—but he had earned the gratitude of the Mexican government and people for saving them from a bloody revolution and, above all, Chela had offered to marry him.
Now, in a few rasping sentences, Hunterscombe had rendered all those glowing prospects horribly uncertain. Unless Hunterscombe did live, Adam foresaw the awful situation in which he would find himself. Ramón Enriquez and the Chief of Police had never been fully convinced that by his speech at Uxmal he had not deliberately incited the assembly to rebellion. They had given him the benefit of the doubt only because they thought they could make use of him. There had then been the horrible affair at the prison in which, on his account, a score or more of people had been murdered. Lastly, only a few hours ago, he had again appeared as Quetzalcoatl and had given his blessing to a great crowd which was about to take up arms against the government. After that, how could anyone possibly believe him to be innocent?
Unholy Crusade Page 35
