Shaw sipped at his drink, chinking the ice round the glass. “Just what is the situation like?”
The man said quietly, “Bloody murder, chum, that’s what it is. It’s quiet now, but it’s only a lull, and when it starts again it’ll be ten times worse. Better go back home again pretty damn quick if you ask me.” He took a long pull at a John Collins and then dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. He picked up a cork drip-mat from the bar counter and passed it to Shaw. “See that?”
Shaw took it. The mat was marked ROYAL COLONY HOTEL. He asked, “Well?”
The man laughed contemptuously. “Typical of the African mind. Unthorough in detail—they forgot these mats. What I mean is, the joint was the Royal Colony Hotel till—what— just a week ago. Had been all its life, and they never bothered with the name even after Nogolia became independent. Not till the recent troubles started. Then one day we woke up and found those bloody great neons. Independence Hotel my foot! Names count with the blacks at times like this—you’d be surprised! It’s only a small point, but it all shows the way the wind’s blowing, doesn’t it? Little things, all mounting up to put old Tshemambi into a diehard minority position.” Again he laughed, bitterly. “Remember years ago some one spoke of ‘the wind of change’ sweeping Africa—Macmillan, wasn’t it? He was a better prophet than even he thought.”
“Yes—” Shaw frowned, rubbed at his chin. “What about the real trouble—rioting and that?”
“There’s been plenty, but of course it’s only what you expect out here these days. It’s what’s going to happen that’s got everybody on edge. I don’t know. . . the blacks seem to be kind of waiting for something.”
Reflectively Shaw said, “Yes, that’s the feeling I get.”
Course, it’s all to do with this bloke Edo. I dare say you’ve heard about him.”
“Vaguely,” Shaw murmured. “D’you think he’s as powerful as they say he is?”
The man nodded emphatically, “No doubt of it, chum. He’s the worst bastard that’s ever been visited on this whole bloody continent. Got a real stranglehold. Break it, and you’ve got the answer. But the question of how to break it— that’s different! And it won’t be my worry for much longer.” He finished his drink at a gulp. “I’m leaving to-night. Most of my friends are packed and ready to go as soon as anything blows up . . . just a few are determined to stay at all costs.” He gave a sardonic grin. “They’re the elderly birds you always find in the old Colonial Empire—you know ’em, I expect—the ones who’ve been out here all their lives with their heads rammed in the sand and who feel sure the blacks won’t attack them whoever else they attack.” He slid off the stool, suddenly seemed to have difficulty in keeping upright. He said, “Tell you what, though: Their throats’ll slit as easy as any other bastard’s when the time comes.” He came across and slapped Shaw on the shoulder. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
He made a somewhat unsteady progress out of the bar. Shaw watched him crashing through the swing doors into the street. If that man was typical of the whites out here, then things were going down the slippery slope right enough, and fast. And what would happen to Gillian Ross if she was left for long in the hands of a victorious Cult just didn’t bear thinking about.
After one more drink Shaw had an excellent lunch, but he was in no mood to enjoy it.
He picked up one of the American-style taxis, a really flash job with plenty of gleaming chromium all over it, to take him to the railway station that evening. There was quite a number of taxis and private cars at the station, most of them waiting for the express due in from up-country, and others bringing passengers for the train leaving for the naval port in the north; and Shaw didn’t particularly notice the Cadillac which also stopped, nor did he see the large, greyhaired African who sat back on the cushions smoking a cigar; he didn’t notice either when the man gave an order to his chauffeur, who got out and tagged on behind the passengers entering the station. The chauffeur followed Shaw on to the platform for the Manalati express, hung about casually puffing a cigarette, and watched while Shaw settled himself in a carriage which remained otherwise empty. When the express pulled out the chauffeur, who had noted the exact position of Shaw’s carriage, went back to the car and made his report. Then the Cadillac drove away fast, and within minutes a message was on its way up-country to Manalati and thence to a village not far from the track which the express would take.
The train, which was drawing three truck-loads of military stores and equipment under escort of a small detachment of the Nogolia Rifle Regiment, was hot and stuffy and reeked of damp and mildew.
Shaw sat and sweltered alone in his compartment, the upholstery adding to his discomfort. The train’s only stop was at midnight, when they were about half-way to Manalati, and a handful of soaked, bedraggled whites got on— probably, Shaw thought, employees of the copper-mining company which worked the Manalati mine. There were some women with them—wives, they would be. Shaw was left alone in his carriage. The station platform was open, wet, and dreary. A bunch of Africans, sullen and watchful, stared into the windows of the train as they mooched past to get in. One of them looked back for a moment at Shaw. There was none of that noisy chatter, the light-hearted chatter which Shaw remembered as being characteristic of Africans. It was as though a thick blanket of suspicion had descended over that old, carefree, childlike spirit, and he didn’t like it any more than he’d liked anything about this country so far; the Africans seemed to be holding themselves in check with difficulty, as though a dam would burst when the day of action came, the day of action that would come with Edo. . . .
The train started on the second and last lap for Manalati, and after a while Shaw dozed off, sunk in his corner seat as the train rattled and swayed under the slashing rainstorm across country, through miles and miles of thick green jungle, across rickety bridges over great deep river-beds now flooding deep and fast, over rocky gorges swelling with water, puffed and panted and strained up steep gradients which carried the track over the mountain-ranges into the interior.
He had been asleep for some hours when there was a sudden scream of the whistle which tore back through the rain, and then a jangling jolt of the coaches as the brakes were slammed on in the cab. Shaw came wide awake as the train stopped with a roar of escaping steam. There were flickers of light outside near the track, and he heard shouts and commotion. He jumped to his feet and went to the window. A few moments later all the lights went out. There was a faint sound behind him and as he turned he sensed rather than saw the vague ''shape, the shadow in the corridor moving for his compartment.
As he reached for the Webley .38 the shadow moved fast, hurled itself through the connecting door on top of him, and he went rolling, winded by a hard head in the guts. He felt something black and stuffy being drawn down over his face, suffocatingly, and then he was fighting for his life.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As the black bag came down over his nose and mouth Shaw got his hands around the unseen man’s throat and squeezed hard, his thumbs digging into the windpipe and forcing the Adam’s apple down and back. There was a harsh gurgling noise, and he felt breath rattle under his fingers and then the man was tearing at his hands, but unavailingly; Shaw was holding on as if his hands were steel grabs. The man stopped tearing and Shaw felt the fingers moving across the material of the bag until they found his eyeballs. There was a sudden cruel pressure and lights danced in his brain; the agony was intense, boring right into his head, but he hung on, sweating blood and panting hard.
He could no longer hear the shouts from ahead, and he didn’t hear the sporadic rifle-fire which now overlay those shouts, nor the splintering crash as panes of glass went to the floor in the carriages farther along the coach. From the rear coaches, where the African passengers were mainly travelling, there came the beginnings of that same low moaning noise that Shaw had heard in the outskirts of Jinda; it was the sound which seemed to foretell riot and bloodshed. But, from the van in the rear of the g
oods trucks on the end of the train, black soldiers of the Rifle Regiment stood ready—if they remained loyal—under white officers of the Nogolian Army to take control of any situation which might develop.
Shaw, squeezing desperately, knew none of this. All he could hear was the throb of drumming blood in his ears, and all he could think of now was the necessity of killing this man before he was killed himself. The man’s struggles didn’t seem to be getting any the less; the pressure on Shaw’s eyeballs was kept up until he thought they would be rammed back into the sockets, that even if he came out of this alive he would never see again. . . once more a vision flashed through his mind of Esamba Who Blows Out The Light Behind Men’s Eyes. His breath came hard, grating, while that of the other man still gurgled and rasped beneath his fingers despite the pressure. The neck-cords swelled beneath his hands, and he couldn’t quite close that powerful windpipe to stop the breath for ever. The fellow’s shoulders seemed to fill the whole of the floor space between the seats as he heaved in his struggles. After a while the realization came to Shaw that he was fighting a losing battle, that if the man didn’t succumb very soon he would be forced to let go.
And then the situation changed very suddenly.
The man must in fact have been much nearer the end than it had appeared; for all at once the neck-muscles fell slack. Taking no chances now, Shaw forced his fingers in hard. There was a choking gurgle and then a sticky, warm gush like blood, and the body went limp. As Shaw got to his feet and ripped the black bag off his face, footsteps sounded in the corridor and a torch was shone into the compartment.
A white man stopped by the door, stared in. He said, “Here, what the blazes. . . you all right, chum?”
“I’ll survive.” Shaw winced; his eyes were in fact very painful and he was badly out of breath, but otherwise he was intact. He knelt down beside the African on the floor and felt for his heart. He was very dead and there was a lot of blood. Possibly, Shaw thought, a blood-vessel had gone or maybe the windpipe had fractured. He lifted the right arm and saw, as he’d expected, the mark of the Black Widow, the mark of Edo. . . he let the arm drop, and got to his feet again.
The man in the doorway said, “Dead, is ’e?” He gave a short laugh.
“Yes. What happened out there?”
“Don’t really know the full score yet, except there’s a bunch of Africans sitting on the track ahead there.”
“Anyone else been attacked—individually, I mean?”
“Not that I know of. I think they’re after the army stores, myself.”
Non-committally Shaw said, “Yes, I—dare say.”
He glanced quickly out of the window as the first faint streaks of a grey and dismal dawn filtered over the distant hills. He saw indistinct shapes crouched by the track in the rear, alongside the goods wagons with the army stores. Soldiers. There was a ragged flicker of fire from the jungle, followed by the quick stutter of automatic weapons, and a spray of bullets spattered along the sides of the coach, was answered at once by a burst of rifle-fire from the soldiers—a not very effective burst compared with the automatics, and Shaw recognized the crash of the old Lee-Enfield rifle, once used by the British Army.
His companion, a short, thin man who had a ‘foreman’ look about him, asked, “You going to be all right?” He was plainly anxious to be on his way, and Shaw nodded. The man went on, “Because I’ve got orders to ask all white passengers who’ve got guns to muster in the leading coach, that’s the next one up from this—”
“Right, I get it. How many whites aboard?”
“I can’t say for sure, but not more than a dozen or so, I think. Major Kennet of the Rifles, he’s in charge now. Well—I’ll get on.” He moved away, looking into the carriages as he went. Shaw followed and went forward into the leading coach where, in the light of a shaded torch, a powerful, uniformed man with a chunky red face and sandy hair was addressing a handful of white male passengers armed with revolvers and sporting guns.
This man turned when he heard Shaw, flicked the torch round on to him, and said in an Australian accent, “Why, hullo there. Care to join the party, would you? I’m Kennet. Reckon I’ve kind of put myself in charge of the train.”
“Right. You can count on me. What seems to be the trouble, Major?”
Kennet jerked a beefy hand in the direction of the engine. “That mob out there, reckon they’re out to pinch my stores. That’s if we let ’em. Me, I aim to shoot down every mother’s bastard of ’em before we move on.”
“I see. . . Shaw looked searchingly at the Australian. He seemed a cool customer, reliable and tough, and he had an honest, open face, though at the moment it was twisted up with anger. “I’d like a word with you in private, Major, if I may.”
“Eh?” The soldier stared at him, saw the slight droop of an eyelid. “Oh . . . righto, then, come on in here. Make way, you lot—shan’t be a tick.”
Kennet shouldered his way through the small group of passengers and went into an empty compartment. Shaw followed. Kennet asked gruffly, “Well now, what’s it all about? Better make it quick.”
Shaw brought out his wallet and produced the red-and-green panelled Identity Card with the naval fouled anchor set across the colour intersection. He said, “That’s what it’s all about, Major. Naval Intelligence, out from home on special duties. Can’t say more than that, but I’ve just an idea that all this has been laid on for my benefit. They’re not after your stores at all. So when they attack it’ll be the passenger coaches they go for—to find me. I’ve already killed one of them.” Briefly he told Kennet of the recent attack on him. “It’s pretty important I get through to Manalati. I’d like to get this train moving right away and never mind shooting-up the crowd out there. Well?”
Kennet opened his mouth, then shut it again. Suddenly he laughed grimly and hitched at his belt. “Good on yer, son, I’m with you! Reckon it’s pretty important we all get through to Manalati, come to that, and I can have a crack at the mob another day.” He clapped Shaw on the shoulder with a huge hand. “We’ll get ’er started. You any good with a gun, Commander?”
“Not too bad.”
“Goodoh, me too . . . and that’s more than I’d say for the rest of the whites, can’t hit a bloody thing smaller than an elephant’s arse, I’ll bet.”
“What about your troops?”
“Oh, they’re all right—”
“I mean, are they loyal—even in a situation like this?” Kennet said, “Son, all I can say is I hope so, but I’d never depend on it entirely. No, you and I, we’re going to set this train to rights, all on our own if we have to.”
“How?”
“Easy. Just do as I say.” Kennet moved over to the door. “This compartment, it’s right next to the tender. If we nip down on to the track here we’ll only have the length of the tender to go before we can climb up to the footplate and take over. Reckon they may have got the driver, see, or else he’s playing along with ’em. Right? I’ll get the rest of the blokes to spread out along the coach and give us covering fire.”
Shaw nodded. Kennet went out into the corridor and called to the other passengers. Men moved into the compartments, their guns ready. Kennet came back quickly into the carriage and jerked the door back on its hinges. He leapt down on to the track and went forward at once in a crouching run. Shaw followed him, the early dawn air striking cool on his face, rain beating into him. As he landed on the muddy ground a rifle cracked and a bullet smacked into the coachwork just above his head and pinged away into the murk. At once a ragged burst of firing came from the train and there was a cry from the jungle, followed by more firing and more cries. Then there came an unearthly rising and falling chant which gathered volume as Shaw, crouching low, ran behind Major Kennet for the footplate.
In the glow of the furnace as he looked up he saw the African fireman bending towards Kennet, a shovel lifted in his hand and his lips drawn back. Shaw’s Webley roared, and the bullet took the fireman right between the eyes. The head seemed
to shatter into pieces, then he fell, landing plumb on top of the Australian. Shaw reached them, dragged the fireman’s blood-spattered body clear. Kennet scrambled up, cursing, and jumped for the rungs. Hauling himself up, he climbed rapidly, his revolver in his right hand and covering the driver. His thin tropic uniform was soaked with the fireman’s blood, and he looked a really terrifying sight. Shaw heaved himself up and joined the Major in the lee of the cab’s sides, out of the line of fire from the jungle.
The driver was crouched down, his face grey and scared in the red glow from the furnaces.
Kennet snapped, “Get ’er started.”
“Bwana, I cannot. The tribesmen, Bwana, they are right across the lines. I cannot—”
“Oh, yes, you bloody can!” Kennet’s heavy red face was lowering, furious, determined. “If you don’t, I’ll feed you into yer own furnaces!” He reached out, his huge hand seized the man by the neck, and he pushed him backward towards the blazing fixe. There was a high scream; muscles bulged in Kennet’s left arm, his other hand held the heavy revolver into the driver’s stomach. The African’s face was a snarl of fear and pain. Smoke began rising from the man’s back as his thin clothing began to scorch. Suddenly Kennet jerked the quivering figure towards him, gave a short, grating laugh, and let him go.
The driver collapsed on the steel flooring.
Kennet roared, “Start ’er. We’re getting out—flip those bastards on the line an’ all too!” He called to Shaw, “Commander, I reckon we’ll need more steam now—can you Use a shovel?”
“Yes . . . but we can’t run over those people—”
“They’ll shift soon enough when they see us coming.”
“I hope you’re right.” Shaw, keeping as low as he could, went backward towards the tender and grabbed a shovel. There was a pretty good rate of fire coming from the train now but an occasional bullet from the mob whistled across the footplate or zinged into the metalwork of the engine and tender. Peering over the cab’s side, Kennet sent a few shots into the jungle, backing up the passengers, his face rock-like and sweating in the glow. Shaw scrabbled at the coal, brought chunks of it spinning down, scraped them together and shot them into the furnace, working like a maniac. Slowly, slowly the steam-gauge showed more pressure, and a few minutes later the driver told Kennet they had enough head of steam.
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