birth cry of a man's firstborn child and the smell of the earth turning
under the plough. Gradually an attentive silence fell upon his unruly
audience, for the old man had still a power and force that demanded
complete respect.
As he went on, so a greater dignity invested him; he shrugged off the
supporting hands of his guard and seemed to grow in stature. His voice
lost the querulous tremor of age and took on a more compelling ring.
Jake did not need the Prince's translation to know that he was speaking
of mans pride, and the rights of a free man. The duty of a man to
defend that freedom with life itself, to preserve it for his sons and
their children.
'And now there comes a powerful enemy to challenge our rights as free
men. An enemy so powerful, armed with such terrible weapons, that even
the hearts of the warriors of Tigre and Shoo shrivelled in their
breasts like diseased fruit.' The old Ras was panting now, and a
scanty sweat trickled from under the tall lion headdress and ran down
the wrinkled black cheeks.
'But now, my children, powerful friends have come to stand beside us.
They have brought to us weapons as powerful as those of our enemies. No
longer must we fear.' Jake realized suddenly what pathetic store the
Ras had placed in the worn and obsolete war materials they had brought
him. He talked now of meeting the mighty armies of Italy on even
terms.
Abruptly, Jake felt a choking sense of guilt. He knew that a week
after he left, the four armoured cars would be piles of junk. There
was no man in all the Ras's following who could keep their elderly and
temperamental engines running.
Even if they were brought into action before the engines expired,
they would present a threat only to unsupported infantry. The moment
they engaged with Italian armour they would be instantly and hopelessly
out-classed. Even the light Italian CV.3 tanks would be immune to the
fire of the Vickers guns that the cars mounted, while in return the
thin steel of the cars would offer no protection from the 50 men.
armour-piercing shell that the enemy fired. There would be no one to
explain all this to the Ras and teach him how to achieve the best from
the puny weapons he commanded.
Jake visualized the first and probably the last battle that Ras
Golam would fight. Scorning manoeuvre and strategy, he would certainly
throw in all his force armoured cars, Vickers machine guns, obsolete
rifles and swords in a single frontal attack. This was the way he had
fought all his battles and the way he would fight the last.
Jake Barton felt his heart go out to the gallant ancient, who stood now
shouting a challenge to a modern military power, prepared to defend to
the death what was his and Jake felt a curious sense of recklessness.
It was a reaction that he knew well and usually it led him into
positions of acute discomfort and danger.
'Forget it,' he told himself firmly. 'It's their war. Take the money
and run. 'Then suddenly he looked across the dimly lit cave to where
Vicky Camberwell sat. She listened to the old Ras with misty eyes, and
