Jake's grip.
The sound of Ras Kullah's terror warned Jake that they would be
frustrated no longer, the moment was upon them.
'Vicky, are you ready to start?' he called urgently, and her voice was
just audible.
'Ready to start.' He felt the fixed crank handle catch him in the back
of the legs, and at that instant a woman's voice shrilled and echoed
through the grove of camel-thorn trees. In that heart-stopping
ululation of the blood trill, the invocation to violence that the heart
of the African warrior cannot resist, the sound struck the jostling
press of Gallas like a whip, stroke and their bodies convulsed and
their voices rose in an answering blood roar.
'Oh Jesus, here they come,' thought Jake, and put all his strength into
the arm and shoulder that took Ras Kullah between the shoulder blades
and hurled him forward into the front rank of his own men. He crashed
into them, bringing down half a dozen of them in a sprawling tangle
over which the next rank tumbled and fell.
Jake turned swiftly and stooped to the crank handle. He had chosen
Miss Wobbly for this moment, knowing that she was the most gentle and
well-intentioned of all the cars.
He would have trembled to put the same trust in Priscilla and as it
was, even she coughed and hesitated at the first swing.
'Please, my darling, please, 'Jake pleaded desperately, and at the next
swing of the handle she hacked, choked and fired then suddenly she was
running sweetly. Jake jumped for the sponson, just as a great
two-handed sword swung down at him from on high.
He heard the hiss of the blade, passing like the flight of a bat in the
darkness, and he ducked under it. The sword struck the steel hull of
the car and sprayed a fiery burst of sparks, and Jake rolled and fired
the Beretta as the Galla raised the sword to swing again.
He heard the bullet slog into flesh, a meaty thump, and the man
collapsed backwards, the sword spinning from his hand as he went down
but from every direction, robed figures were swarming up the hull of
the car, like safari ants over the carcass of a helpless scarab
beetle,
and the roar of voices was a storm surf of anger.
Drive, Vicky for God's sake, drive,' he yelled and slammed the pistol
over the woolly head of a Galla as it rose beside him. The man fell
away and the engine bellowed, the car bounded forward with a jerk that
threw most of the Gallas from the hull, and Jake was himself thrown
half clear, snatching at one of the welded brackets as he went over and
saving himself from falling into the swarming pack of Gallas but the
pistol dropped out of his hand as he clung grimly to his precarious
hold.
Miss Wobbly, under Vicky's thrusting foot, roared into the thick wall
of men ahead of her and few of them had a chance to avoid her charge.
Their bodies went down before her, thudding against the frontal plate
of the car, their blood roar changing swiftly to yells and shrieks of
consternation as they scattered away into the darkness and the car
burst free of the press and tore on down the slope.
