The long white beam of the lamp struck him like a solid thing and he flung up his arm to shield his eyes and rolled off the rails, crouching down on the gravel on the opposite side to that of his pursuers.
In the light of the locomotive lamp, Mark saw a stocky agile figure come up the embankment at a run. He ducked across the tracks, directly under the roaring throbbing loco.
The dazzle of light prevented Mark seeing his face, yet there was something familiar in the way the man moved and held his shoulders.
The engine came thundering down on Mark, and as it drew level a spurt of steam from the driving pistons scalded him with its hot breath. Then it was past and there was just the dark blurred rush of the boxcars above him.
Mark dragged himself upright, balancing on his good foot and struck the streams of sweat from his eyes, peering upwards to judge his moment.
When it came, he almost missed it; his hands were slippery with sweat and the railing was almost jerked from his grip even though the train had lost much of its speed and power on the slope.
The strain in his shoulder shot an arrow of pain along his arm, and he was torn off his feet, swinging against the side of the boxcar while he grappled wildly for a grip with his other hand.
He found purchase and clung on to the side of the boxcar, his feet still free but scrabbling for the footplates, and at that moment hands like steel claws seized his injured ankle, the full weight of a heavy body bore him down, racking him out against the side of the car.
Mark screamed with the unbearable white-hot pain of the grip on his ankle, and it took all his strength and courage to maintain his double grip on the rail.
His body was penduluming, as the man who held him was himself swung off the ground and then came back to skid and run in the loose gravel of the embankment, as though he were driving a dog-sledge.
Mark twisted his head back and judged the white blob of the man's face and aimed the kick with his free foot, but it was an impossible target. At that instant the sound of the locomotive altered, as it hit the steel of the bridge where it crossed the deep gorge of the river.
The uprights of the bridge sprang out of the rushing corridor of blackness; Mark heard the deadly hiss of the riveted steel girders flit past his head, and at the same moment the grip on his leg was released. He clung with his remaining strength and resolve to the railing of that goods truck, while the train rocketed over the bridge and ploughed on steadily up the slope, until it burst at last over the crest on to the level ground of the plateau. It picked up speed sharply, and Mark dragged himself inch by agonized inch up the railing, until at last he tumbled over the side of the open boxcar on to the load of sugar sacks and lay face downwards, sobbing for each breath, while he rode the high storm surf of pain from his leg.
The cold roused him at last. His sweat-sodden coat was turned icy by the rush of night air and he crawled painfully forward towards the shelter of the high steel side of the car. He checked quietly and found with relief that his purse and notebook were still in his pocket.
Suddenly he was aware that he was not alone and fresh panic gripped him.
Who's that? he croaked, recoiling quickly into a defensive attitude.
A voice answered quickly in deep Zulu. I mean no harm, Nkosi, and Mark felt a quick rush of relief. A man crouched against the side of the car, out of the wind, and it was clear that he was as alarmed by Mark's presence as Mark had been by his. I mean no harm, lord. I am a poor man without the money to pay to ride the steamer. My father is sick and dying in Tekweni, Durban town. Peace, grunted Mark in the same language. I am a poor man also. He dragged himself into shelter beside the Zulu, and the movement twisted his ankle and he gasped at the fresh pain. Hau! the black man's eyes caught the starlight as he peered at Mark. You are hurt. My leg, Mark grunted, trying to ease it into a more comfortable position, and the Zulu leaned forward and Mark felt his gentle hands on the ankle. You are without shoes? The man was surprised at Mark's torn and bloodied feet. I was chased by bad men. Ha, the Zulu nodded, and Mark saw in the starlight that he was a young man. The leg is bad. I do not think the bone is broken, but it is bad. He untied the small pack beside him and he took out some article of clothing. Deliberately he began to tear the material into strips. No, Mark protested sharply. Do not destroy your clothes for me. He knew how each article of western clothing, however ragged and threadbare, was treasured. It is an old shirt, said the Zulu simply and began to bind up the swollen ankle skilfully. When he had finished, it felt easier.
Wgi ya bone, I praise you, Mark told him, and then he shivered violently as the delayed but icy fist of shock clamped down on him; he felt nausea rise in his throat and he shivered again.
The Zulu took the blanket from around his own shoulders and placed it carefully over Mark. No. I cannot take your blanket. The blanket smelled of smoke from a dung fire, and of the Zulu himself, the earthy African tang. I cannot take it. You need it, said the Zulu firmly. You are sick. Very well, Mark muttered, as another shivering fit caught him. But it is a large blanket, big enough for two It is not fitting. Come, said Mark roughly, and the Zulu hesitated a moment longer before drawing closer and taking up a fold of the woollen blanket.
Shoulder to shoulder, they sat on into the night, and Mark found himself dropping into a haze of exhaustion and pain, for the swollen ankle still beat like a drum. The Zulu beside him was silent, and Mark thought he slept, but as the train slowed after two hours hard run across the plateau, he whispered quietly, This is Sakabula halt. It stops here for to let the other train pass. Mark remembered the desolate siding with its double loop of line. No buildings and only a signboard to identify it. He would have lapsed once more into half sleep, but something warned him, a strange sense of danger which he had developed so acutely in France.
He shrugged aside the blanket, and dragged himself up on his knees to peer ahead. The track came into the siding on a gentle curve, and the silver rails glittered in the lamp of the locomotive.
Far ahead was the sign-post of the halt, stark white in the beam from the locomotive, but there was something else. Parked on the track beside the halt was a dark vehicle, a heavy lorry, and its headlights still burned. In the puddle of yellow light Mark made out the dark shapes of waiting men. Alarm jarred his bowels and clutched at his chest with a cold cramping fist.
A motor lorry from Ladyburg could not have reached here ahead of them, but a telegraph message could have alerted I must go, Mark blurted, and with stiff fingers he hooked a sovereign out of his money belt and pressed it quickly into the Zulu's hand. There is no call for -'the man began, but Mark cut him off brusquely. Stay in peace. He dragged himself to the side of the car furthest from the waiting men, and lowered himself down the steel ladder until he hung just above the tracks.
He waited for the locomotive to slow down, groaning and creaking and sighing steam, and then he braced himself and dropped - trying to take most of his weight on his good leg.
