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    Cry Wolf

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    Amongst the grey-green thorn trees and dense scrub goat and camel

      grazed in company with gazelle and gerenuk, oryx and greater kudu.

      n In the hush of noo', the column of four armoured cars came in from

      the east, and the hum of their engines carried at distance to the

      multitude that awaited their arrival.

      Jake led, as usual, followed by Vicky, then came Gregoritis with

      Sara riding in the turret of his car and the white stallion trailing

      them on a long lead rein. In the rear rode Gareth. Suddenly Sara

      shrieked at such a high pitch that her voice carried over the engine

      noise and she pointed ahead to the low valley filled with green scrub

      and taller denser trees. Jake halted the column and climbed up into

      the turret.

      Through his binoculars he studied the open forest, and then.

      started as he discerned a horde of moving figures coming headlong on

      wings of fine pale dust.

      "My God," he muttered aloud. "there must be hundreds of them," and he

      felt a stab of uneasiness. They looked anything but friendly.

      At that moment, he was distracted by the sound of galloping hooves

      close by, and Sara came dashing past him.

      She was mounted bareback on the white stallion, her robes streaming and

      fluttering in the sun-bright wind. She was shouting with almost

      hysterical excitement as she galloped to meet the oncoming riders and

      her behaviour reassured Jake a little. He signalled the column forward

      once again.

      The first ranks came swiftly in dust clouds, on running camels and

      galloping shaggy horses. Fierce, dark-faced men in billowing robes of

      dirty white, and a motley of other colours. Urging forward their

      mounts with wild cries, brandishing the small round bronze and iron

      studded and bossed war shields, they came racing towards the column.

      As they approached, they split into two wings and tore headlong past

      the startled drivers in a solid wall of moving men and animals.

      Most of the men were bearded, and here and there some warrior wore

      proudly a great fluffy headdress of lion mane proclaiming his valour to

      the world. The manes rippled and waved on the wind as the riders drove

      by, urging on their mounts with the high "Looloo" ululations so

      characteristic of the Ethiopians.

      The weapons they carried amazed Gareth, who as a professional dealer

      recognized twenty different types and makes, each one of them a

      collector's piece from the long muzzle-loading Tower muskets with the

      fancy hammers over percuss ion caps, through a range of Martini Henry

      carbines, which fired a heavy lead bullet in a cloud of black powder

      smoke, to a wide selection of Mousers; and Schneiders, Lee-Metfords,

      and obsolete models from half the arms-manufacturers of the world.

      As the riders swept by, they fired these weapons into the air,

      long spurts of black powder against the evening sky, and the crackle of

      musketry blended with the fierce ululations of welcome.

      After the first wave of riders came another of those on mules and

      donkeys moving more slowly but making as much noise and immediately

      after them came a swarming mob of running, howling foot soldiers,

      mingled with whom were women and shrieking children, and dozens of

      yelping dogs, scrawny yellow curs with long whippy tails and ridges of

      standing hair running down their skeletal backbones.

      As the first rank of riders turned, still loolooing and firing into the

      air, to complete the encirclement of the armoured column, they ran

      headlong into the following rabble and the entire congregation became a

      struggling mob of men and animals.

      Jake saw a mother with a child under her arm go down under the hooves

      of a running camel, the child flying from her grip and rolling in the

      sandy earth. Then he was past, forging ahead through a narrow path in

      the sea of humanity.

      Sara was keeping the path open, leading them in, riding just ahead of

      Jake's car, laying about her viciously with a long quirt of hippo hide

      to hold back the mob, while around her wheeled the wildly excited

      riders still firing their pieces into the air, and dozens of runners

      pressed in closely, trying to climb aboard the moving cars.

      Gradually the press of bodies and animals built up, until at last,

      following Sara, they moved slowly through the open forest that

      surrounded the wells into one of the shallow but steeply sided wadis in

      the broken ground beyond.

      Here any further forward movement became impossible.

      The wadi was choked solidly with humanity, even the steep earthen sides

      and the ledges above were crowded so closely that unfortunates,

      pushed by those behind, could no longer keep their Position and came

      tumbling down the sheer sides on to the heads of those in the wadi

      below. The cries of protest were lost in the general hubbub.

      From each of the turrets, the heads of the four drivers appeared

      timidly, like gophers peering out of their holes.

      They made helpless signs and expressions at each other, unable to

      communicate in the uproar.

      Sara leaped from the back of the stallion on to the sponson of Jake's

      car and began raining blows and kicks on those who were still

      attempting to climb aboard the vehicle. She was enjoying herself

      immensely, Jake realized, as he noticed the battle lust in her eyes and

      heard the crack of her whip and the yelps of her victims. He thought

      of trying to restrain her and then discarded the idea as being highly

      dangerous. Instead, he looked about distractedly for some other means

      to subdue the boisterous welcome and noticed for the first time the

      entrances to numerous caves in the sides of the wadi.

      From a number of these dark openings now poured a body of men,

      wearing a semblance of uniform jodhpurs and baggy khaki tunics, their

      chests crossed with bandoliers of ammunition, put teed calves and bare

      feet, high turbans bound around their heads and Mauser rifles swinging

      heartily, the butts used as clubs. They were every bit as enthusiastic

      as Sara, but considerably more successful in their attempts to quieten

      the crowd.

      "My grandfather's guards," Sara explained to Jake, still panting and

      grinning happily from her recent exertions. "I am sorry, Jake, but

      sometimes my people get excited."

      "Yeah," said Jake. "So I noticed."

      With gun butts rising and falling the guards cleared a space around the

      four laden vehicles, and the noise dropped in volume until it was

      equivalent to a medium-sized avalanche. The four drivers climbed

      warily down and came together in a defensive group in the small stretch

      of open ground before the caves. Vicky Camberwell placed herself

      strategically between Jake and Gareth and behind the lanky robed figure

      of Gregorius and she felt even more secure when Sara slipped up beside

      her and took her hand.

      "Please do not worry," she whispered. "We are all your friends."

      "You could have fooled me, honey." Vicky smiled back at her, and

      squeezed the slim brown hand. At that moment a procession emerged from

      the caves, headed by four coal-black priests of the Coptic Christian

     
    ; Church in their gaudy robes, chanting in Amharic, swinging incense and

      carrying ornate, if crudely wrought bronze crosses.

      Immediately after the priests followed a figure so tall and thin as to

      appear a caricature of the human shape. A long flowing sham ma of

      yellow and red stripes hung loosely on the gaunt frame. There was the

      suggestion of legs as long and as thin as those of an ostrich beneath

      the skirts of the robe as he strode forward, and the man's dark head

      was completely bald of hair no beard or eyebrows just a round

      glistening pate.

      His eyes were completely enclosed in a web of deep wrinkles and fleshy

      folds of old dried-out skin. The mouth was utterly toothless,

      so that the jaw seemed to be collapsible, folding the face in half like

      the bellows of a concertina.

      He gave an impression of vast age that was offset immediately by the

      youthful spring in his step and the twinkle in the black birdlike eyes,

      and yet Gareth realized that he could not be less than eighty years

      old.

      Gregorius hurried forward and knelt briefly for the old man's blessing,

      while Sara whispered to the group.

      "This is my grandfather, Ras Golam" she explained. "He speaks no

      English, but he is a great nobleman and a mighty warrior the bravest in

      all Ethiopia." The Ras ran a lively eye over the group and selected

      Gareth Swales, resplendent in Thorn-proof tweeds. He leapt forward

      and, before Gareth could avoid it, enfolded him in an embrace that was

      redolent of powerful native tobacco, woodsmoke, and other heady

      odours.

      "How do you do?" shouted the Ras, his only words of English.

      "My grandfather is a great lover of the English," explained

      Gregorius, as Gareth struggled in the Ras's embrace. "That is why all

      his sons and grandsons are sent to England."

      "He has a decoration which even makes him an English milord," Sara told

      them proudly, and pointed to her grandfather's chest where nestled a

      star of gaudy enamel and shiny paste chips.

      Noticing the gesture, the Ras released Gareth and invited them to

      admire the decoration, and, on his other breast, a rosette of tricolour

      silk in the centre of which was a framed miniature of the old Queen

      Victoria herself.

      "Tremendous, old boy absolutely tremendous" Gareth agreed, as he

      re-adjusted the lapels of his jacket and smoothed back his hair.

      "When he was a young man, my grandfather did a great service to the

      Queen and that is why he is now an English milord," Sara explained, and

      then she broke off to listen to her grandfather, and to translate. "My

      grandfather welcomes you to Ethiopia, and says that he is proud to

      embrace such a distinguished English gentleman. He has heard from my

      father of your fame s a warrior, that you bear the great

      Queen's medal for courage-"

      "Actually, it was Georgie Five's gong,"

      Gareth demurred modestly.

      At that moment, the dignified figure of Lij Mikhael Sagud stepped from

      the entrance of the cave behind the Ras.

      "My father recognizes only one English monarch, my dear Swales,"

      he explained quietly. "It is useless to try and convince him that she

      has passed away." He shook hands with all three of them, with a quick

      word of welcome for Jake and Vicky before turning back to listen to

      the

      Ras again.

      "My father asks if you have brought your medal he wishes you to wear it

      when you and he ride into battle side by side against the enemy," and

      Gareth's expression changed.

      "Now hold on there, old fellow," he protested. Gareth had no intention

      of riding into another battle in his life, but the moment had passed

      and the Ras was shouting orders to his guard.

      In response, they clambered aboard the armoured cars, and began

      unloading the wooden cases of weapons and ammunition which they stacked

      in the clearing before the caves, beating back the eager crowds that

      pressed forward.

      Now the priests came forward to bless the cars and weapons of war,

      and Sara took the opportunity to pull Vicky away and lead her

      unobtrusively to one of the caves.

      "My servants will bring you water to bathe," she whispered. "You must

      look beautiful for the feast. Perhaps we will decide which one it will

      be tonight." As night fell, so "the entire following of Ras

      Golarri gathered in the main wadi, those ranking highest or with most

      push managing to find seating in the large central cave while the

      others filled the valley with row upon row of seated and robed

      figures.

      The whole scene was lit by leaping bonfires.

      The fires reflected against the night sky with a faint orange glow

      which Major Luigi Castelani noticed at a distance of twenty kilometres

      from the Wells.

      He halted the column and climbed up on the roof of the leading truck to

      study this phenomenon, uncertain at first if the light of the fires was

      some freak afterglow of the sunset, but soon realizing that this was

      not the case.

      He jumped down and snapped at the driver, "Wait for me," before

      striding rapidly back along the long column of tall canvas-covered

      trucks to where the command car stood at the centre.

      "My Colonel." Castelani saluted the sulking figure of the Count who

      slumped on the rear seat of the Rolls with one hand thrust into the

      front of his unbuttoned tunic, much like the defeated Napoleon

      returning from Moscow. Aldo Belli had not yet recovered from the shock

      to his pride and self-esteem inflicted by the General. He had

      temporarily withdrawn from the vulgar world, and he did not even look

      up as Castelani made his report.

      "Do what you think correct in the circumstances," he muttered without

      interest. "Only make certain we have control of the Wells before

      dawn," and the Count turned his head away, wondering if

      Mussolini had yet received his cable.

      What Castelani thought correct in the circumstances was to darken the

      column immediately and put his entire battalion in a state of instant

      readiness. No lights were to be shown in any circumstances,

      and a rigorous silence was imposed. The column now advanced at little

      more than a walking speed, with each driver personally warned that

      engine noise was not to exceed idling volume. All the men had been

      alerted and rode now in silence with loaded weapons and tense nerves.

      When at last the Eritrean guides pointed out to Castelani the shallow

      forested valley below them, there was sufficient light from the sliver

      of silver moon overhead for Castelani to survey the ground with the eye

      of an old professional.

      Within ten minutes, he had planned his dispositions, decided where to

      hold his motor pool and main bivouac, where to site his machine guns,

      place his mortars and lay his rifle trenches. The Colonel grunted his

      agreement without even looking up, and quietly the Major gave the

      orders which would put into effect his plans and keep the battalion

      working all night.

      "And the first man who drops a shovel or sneezes I will strangle with

      his own guts," he warned, as he g
    lanced apprehensively at the faint

      glow that emanated from amongst the low dark hills beyond the

      Wells.

      In the main cave, the air was so thick and warm and moist that it lay

      upon the company like a wet woollen blanket. In the uneven light of

      the fires it was impossible to see from one end to the other of the

      cavernous room, with its rough earthen wall and columns. The restless

      body of guests and servants flitted through the smoky gloom like

      wraiths. Every once in a while there would be the terrified bellows of

      an ox from the wadi outside. the main entrance of the cave. The

      bellows would cease abruptly as the blackman swung his long two-handled

      sword and the carcass fell with a thud that seemed to reverberate

      through the cavern. A vast shout of approval greeted the fall of the

      beast, and a dozen eager assistants flayed the hide, hacked the flesh

      into bloody strips and piled them on to huge platters of baked clay.

      The servants staggered into the cave, bearing the laden platters of

      steaming, quivering meat. The guests fell upon it, men and women

      alike, snatching up the bleeding flesh, taking an end between their

      teeth, pulling it tight with one hand and hacking free a bite-sized

      piece with a knife grasped in the other. The flashing blade passed a

      mere fraction from the end of the diner's nose and warm blood trickled

      unheeded down the chin, as the lump was swallowed with a single

      convulsive heave of the throat.

      Each mouthful was washed down into the belly with a swig of the fiery

      Ethiopian tej - a brew made from wild honey, a liquid the colour of

      golden amber, with the impact of a charging buffalo bull.

      Gareth Swales sat between the old Ras and Lij Mikhael in the place of

      honour, while Jake and Vicky were a dozen places farther away amongst

      the lesser notables. In deference to the appetite and tastes of

      foreigners, they were offered, in place of raw beef, an endless

      succession of bubbling pots containing the fiery casseroles of beef,

      lamb, chicken and game that are known under the inclusive title of

      wat.

      These highly spiced, peppery but delicious concoctions were spooned out

      on to thin sheets of unleavened bread and rolled into a cigar shape

      before eating.

      Lij Mikhael warned his guests against the tea and instead offered

      Bollinger champagne, wrapped in wet sacking to lower its temperature.

      There was also pinch bottle Haig, London Dry Gin, and a vast array of

     


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