body of undisciplined, independent, spirited hills men had so long
maintained cohesion. He would not have been surprised if by this stage
half of them had lost interest and had set off homewards.
The only person who was occupied and seemed happy enough was Jake
Barton, and Gareth lowered his binoculars and regarded what he could
see of him with irritation. The front upper half of that gentleman was
completely hidden within the engine compartment of Priscilla the Pig,
and only his legs and backside protruded. The muffled strains of
"Tiger Rag" whistled endlessly added to Gareth's irritation.
"How are you coming along there?" he called, merely to stop the music,
and Jake's tousled head emerged, one cheek smeared with black oil.
think I've found it," he said cheerfully. "A lump of muck in the
carb," and he wiped his hands on the lump of cotton waste that
Gregorius handed him. "What are the Eyeties up to?"
"I think we've got a small problem, old son," Gareth murmured softly,
turning once more to resume his vigil, and his expression for once was
serious and concerned. "I must admit that I banked on the old Latin
dash and swagger to bring them charging down here without a backward
glance."
Jake came across from his car and clambered up beside J Gareth. The
two armoured cars were parked at the extreme end of the curved water
course, just before it lost its identity and vanished into the
limitless sea of grass and rolling sandy hills. Here the banks of the
river were only just enough to cover the hulls of the two cars, but
they left the turrets partially exposed. A light cover of cut Thorn
branches made them inconspicuous, while allowing them to act as
observation posts for the crews.
Gareth handed Jake his binoculars. "I think we've got ourselves a
really wily one here. This Italian commander isn't rushing. He's
coming on nice and slow, taking his time," Gareth shook his head
worriedly, "I don', like it at all."
"He's stopped again," Jake said,
watching the distant dust cloud that marked the position of the
advancing column.
The dust cloud shrivelled, and subsided.
"Oh my God!" groaned Gareth, and snatched the binoculars. "The
bastard is up to something, I'm sure of it. This is the seventh time
the column has halted and for no apparent reason at all. The scouts
can't work it out and nor can I. I've got a nasty hollow feeling that
we are up against some sort of military genius, a modern Napoleon, and
it's making me nervous as hell." Jake smiled and advised
philosophically, "What you really need is a soothing game of gin. The
Ras is waiting for you." As if on cue, the Ras looked up brightly and
expectantly from the ammunition box set in the small strip of shade
under the hull. He had laid out a pattern of playing cards on the lid
which he had been studying. His bodyguard were grouped behind him.
They also looked up expectantly.
"They've got me surrounded," groaned Gareth. "I'm not sure which one
is the most dangerous that old bastard down there, or that one out
there." He raised the binoculars again and swept the long horizon
below the mountains. There was no longer any sign of dust.
"What the hell is he up to?" In fact this seventh halt called by
Count Aldo Belli was to be the briefest of the day, and yet one of the
most unavoidable.
It was in fact an occasion of the utmost urgency, and while the
Count's portable commode was hastily unloaded from the truck carrying
his personal gear, he twisted and wriggled impatiently on the back seat
of the Rolls while Gino, the batman, tried to comfort him.
"It is the water from those wells, Excellency," he nodded sagely.
Once the commode had been set up, with a good view of the distant
mountains before it, a small canvas tent was raised around it to hide
the seat from the curious gaze of five hundred infantry men.
The job was completed, only just in time, and a respectful and
expectant hush fell over the entire column as the Count climbed
carefully down from the Rolls and then dashed like an Olympic athlete
for the small lonely canvas structure and disappeared. The silence and
expectation lasted for almost fifteen minutes and was shattered at last
by the Count's shouts from within the tent.
"Bring the doctor!" Five hundred men waited with all the genuine
suspense of a movie audience, speculation and rumour running wildly
down the column until it reached Major Castelani. Even he, convinced
as he was that he had seen it all, could not believe the cause of this
fresh delay, and he went forward to investigate.
He arrived at the tent to find the Count and his medical advisers
crowded around the commode and avidly discussing its contents. The
Count was pale, but proud, like a new mother whose infant is the centre
of attention. He looked up as Castelani appeared in the doorway, and
the Major recoiled slightly as, for a moment, it seemed the Count might
invite him to join in the examination.
He saluted hastily, taking another step backwards.
"Has your Excellency orders for me?"
"I am an ill man,
Castelani," and the Count struck a pose, drooping visibly, his head
lolling weakly. Then slowly he drew back his shoulders, and his chin
came up. A wan but brave smile tightened his lips. "But that is of no
account.
We advance, Castelani. Onwards! Tell the men I am well.
Hide the truth from them. If they know of my illness, they will
despair. They will panic." Castelani saluted again. "As you wish,
my
Colonel."
"Help me to the car, Castelani," he ordered, and reluctantly the Major
took his arm. The Count leaned heavily upon him as they crossed to the
Rolls, but he smiled gallantly at his men and waved to the nearest of
them.
"My poor brave boys," he muttered. "They must never know. I will not
fail them now." What the hell is happening out there?" fretted
Gareth Swales, glancing up anxiously at Jake on the turret of the car
above him.
"Nothing!" Jake assured him. "No sign of movement." don't like it,"
reiterated Gareth morosely, and his expression hardly altered as the
Ras let out one of his triumphant cries and began laying out his
cards.
"I don't like that either," he said again, and reached for his wallet
before the Ras reminded him. While the Ras shuffled and dealt the next
hand, he continued his conversation with Jake.
"What about Vicky? Nothing from that quarter either?"
"Not a peep, "Jake assured him.
"That's another thing I don't like. She took it too calmly.
I expected her to put in an appearance long ago despite my orders."
"She won't be coming," Jake assured him, raising the binoculars again
and sweeping the empty horizon.
"I wish I was that confident," muttered Gareth, picking up his cards.
"I've been expecting to see her car driving up at any minute.
It isn't like her to sit meekly in camp, while the action is going on
out here. She's a front
-ranker, that one.
She likes to be right there when anything is happening."
"I know,"
Jake -agreed. "She had that mean look in her eye when she agreed to
stay at the gorge. So I just made sure she wasn't going to use Miss
Wobbly. I took the carbon rod out of the distributor." Gareth began
to grin. "That's the only good news I've had today. I had visions
of
Vicky Camberwell arriving in the middle of a fire fight."
"Poor bloody
Italians," observed Jake, and they both laughed.
"Sometimes you surprise me. Do you know that?" said Gareth, and he
drew a cheroot from his breast pocket and tossed it up to where Jake
stood. "Thanks for" looking after what is mine, "he said. "I
appreciate that." Jake bit the tip off the cigar, and gave him a
quizzical look as he flicked a match across the rough steel of the
turret and held the flame in his cupped hands to burn off the
sulphur.
"They are all mavericks until somebody puts a brand on them.
That's the law of the range, old buddy," he answered, and lit the
cigar.
Vicky Camberwell had selected five full-grown men from the Ras's camp
attendants, rewarded each one with a silver Maria Theresa dollar,
and worn each of them down to the fine edge of exhaustion. One after
the other, they had taken hold of Miss Wobbly's crank handle and turned
it like a squad of demented organ-grinders while Vicky shouted
encouragement and threats at them from the driver's hatch, her eyes
blazing and cheeks fiery with frustration.
After an hour of this she was convinced that sabotage had been employed
to keep her safely out of the way, and she began to check out Miss
Wobbly's internal organs. She was one of those unusual women who liked
to know how things-worked, and throughout her life had plagued a long
series Of mechanics, boyfriends and instructors with her questions. It
was not enough for her to switch on a machine and steer it. She had
made herself an excellent driver and pilot, and in the process she had
acquired a fair idea of the workings of the internal combustion
engine.
"All right, Mr. Barton let's find out what you've done," she muttered
grimly. "Let's start on the fuel system." She rolled up her sleeves
and tied a scarf firmly around her hair. Her five hefty helpers
watched with awe as she approached the engine compartment and lifted
the cowling, and then they crowded forward to get a good view and offer
their advice. She had to beat them back and shoo them away before she
could begin work, but then she was completely absorbed in her task, and
in half an hour had checked an tested the fuel system,
making sure that gasoline was travelling freely from the tank along the
lines to carburettor and cylinders, and that the pump was functioning
smoothly.
"Right, now let's check out the electrics, she muttered to herself, and
turned irritably as an insistent hand tugged at her belt,
breaking her concentration.
"Yes, what is it?" Her expression changed, lighting up happily as she
saw who it was.
"Sara!" She embraced the girl. "How on earth did you get here?"
"I escaped, Miss Camberwell. It was so boring in the hospital. I had
my father's men bring a horse for me and I climbed out of the window
and rode down the gorge."
"What about your friend the young doctor?"
Vicky demanded, still holding the girl and surprised by the strength of
her affection for her.
"Oh, him!" Sara's voice held a world of scorn and contempt. "He was
the most boring thing in the hospital.
Doctor! Ha! He knows nothing about how a body works I had to try and
teach him, and that was no fun."
"And your leg?" she asked.
"How is your leg?"
"It is nothing almost well." Sara tried to dismiss the injury but
Vicky saw that she was drawn and haggard. The long,
rough ride down the gorge must have taxed her, and as Vicky led her
tenderly to a seat in the shade of the acacias, she favoured the
injured leg heavily.
"I heard there is going to be a battle. That's really why I came.
I heard the Italians are advancing-" She looked round her brightly,
seeming to thrust her pain and weariness aside. "Where are Jake and
Gareth? Where is Gregorius? We must not miss the battle, Miss
Camberwell "That's what I am working on." Vicky's smile faded. "They
have left us behind."
"What!" Sara's bright look became bellicose and then outraged as Vicky
explained how they had been edged out.
"Men! You cannot trust them, "fumed Sara. "If they aren't trying to
tip you on your back, then it's something worse.
We aren't going to let them do it, are we?"
"No," Vicky agreed.
"We are most certainly not." With Sara beside her, it was impossible
to continue her work on the armoured car, for the girl made up for a
total ignorance of the mechanism by an unbounded curiosity and when
Vicky should have been inspecting the magneto, she found instead that
she was looking closely at the back of Sara's head which had been
interposed.
After she had forcibly elbowed her aside for the sixth time, she asked
with exasperation, "Do you know how to fire a Vickers machine gun?"
"I
am a mountain girl," boasted Sara. "I was born with a gun in one hand
and a horse between my legs."
"Or what have you?" murmured Vicky, and the girl grinned impishly.
"But have you ever fired a Vickers?"
"But it won't take me long to find out how it works."
"There!"
Vicky indicated the thick water-jacketed barrel that protruded from the
turret. "Go ahead." When Sara scrambled awkwardly on to the
sponson,
still favouring the leg, Vicky could return to her inspection. It was
another half hour before she exclaimed, "He has taken the carbon rod
out of the distributor. Oh, the sneaky swine." Sara's head popped out
of the turret. "Gareth?"she asked.
"No," answered Vicky. "Jake."
"I didn't expect it of him." Sara climbed down beside Vicky to inspect
the damage.
"They're all the same."
"Where has he hidden it?"
"Probably in his own pocket."
"What are we going to do?" Sara wrung her hands anxiously.
"We'll miss the battle!" Vicky thought a moment and then her
expression changed. "In my bag, in the tent, is an Ever-Ready
flashlight.
There is also a leather cosmetic case. Bring them both to me,
please." One of the flashlight dry-cell batteries, split open by the
curved blade of the dagger from Sara's belt, yielded a thick carbon rod
from its core, and Vicky shaped it carefully with the nail-file from
her cosmetic case, until it slipped neatly into the central shaft of
the distributor and the engine fired at the first swing of the crank.
"You are really very clever, Miss Camberwell, said Sara, with such
patent and solemn sincerity that Vicky was deeply touched. She smiled
up at
the girl who stood above the driver's seat, her head and
shoulders in the turret and her knees braced against the back of the
driver's seat.
"Think you can work that gun yet?" she asked, and Sara nodded
uncertainly and placed her slim dark hands on the clumsy mahogany
pistol grips, standing on tiptoe to squint through the sights.
"Just take me to them, Miss Camberwell." Vicky let out the clutch and
swung the car in a tight lock out from under the acacia" trees and on
to the steep rocky track which led to the wide open grassland in the
funnel of the mountains.
am very angry with Jake," declared Sara, clutching wildly for support
as the car pounded and thumped over the rough track. "I did not expect
him to behave that way hiding the carbon rod. That is more like
Gareth. I am disappointed in him."
"You are?"
"Yes, I think we should punish him."
"How?"
"I think Gareth should be your lover," Sara stated firmly.
"I think that is how we will punish Jake." In between wrestling with
the heavy steering, and dancing her feet over the steel pedals of brake
and clutch, Vicky thought about what Sara had said. She thought also
of Jake's broad rangy shoulders, and thickly muscled arms she thought
about his mop of curly hair and that wide boyish grin that could change
so quickly to a heavy frown.
Suddenly she realized how very much she wanted to be with him, and how
she would miss him if he were gone.
"I must thank you for sorting out my affairs for me," she called to the
girl in the turret. "You have a knack."
"It's a pleasure, Miss
Camberwell," Sara called back. "It is just that I understand these
things." As the afternoon wore on, so thunderheads of cloud "Aformed
upon the mountains in the west. They soared into a sky of endless
sapphire blue, smoothly rounded masses of silver that rolled and
swirled with a ponderous majesty, swelling high and darkening to the
colour of ripening grapes and old bruises.
Yet over the plain the sky was open, clear and high, and the sun burned
down and heated the earth so that the air above it shimmered and
danced, distorting vision and distance. At one moment the mountains
were so close that it seemed they reached to the heavens and they must
topple upon the small group of men crouched in the shade of the two
concealed armoured cars; at the next they seemed remote and