There were tiny lumps of yellow mucus in the corner of Sebastian's bloodshot eyes, but the stain that darkened his skin concealed the rings of fatigue under them.
'I'd rather not, old chap.' He ran his hand thoughtfully over his shaven scalp and the stubble of new hair rasped under his fingers. 'It was one of the most unpleasant hours of my life.'
'Quite,' said Captain
Joyce. 'Quite so! I wouldn't have asked you, had I not considered it to be of prime importance.' Joyce paused and pursed his lips to whistle softly the first bar of Chopin's 'Funeral March', then he sighed and shook his head. 'If I were to tell you that you alone have it in your power to save both the cruisers of this squadron from destruction and to protect the lives of fifteen thousand British soldiers and seamen. how would you answer then?' Glumly, Sebastian sagged back against the couch and closed his eyes.
'Can I have a few hours sleep first?' It was exactly the size of a box of twenty-four Monte Crista Havana Cigars, for that had been its contents before Renounce's chief engine room artificer and the gunnery lieutenant had set to work on it.
It lay on the centre of Captain Joyce's desk, while the artificer explained its purpose to the respectful audience that stood around him.
'It's very simple,' started the artificer in an accent that was as bracing as the fragrance of heather and highland whisky.
'It would have to be. ' commented Flynn O'Flynn,... for Bassie to understand it.'
'All you do is lift the lid.' The artificer suited action to the words, and even Flynn craned forward to examine the contents of the cigar box. Packed neatly into it were six yellow sticks of gelignite, looking like candles wrapped in grease-proof paper. There was also the flat dry cell battery from a bull's eye lantern, and a travelling-clock in a pigskin case. All of these were connected by loops and twists of fine copper wire. Engraved into the metal of the clock base were the words: 'To my dear husband Arthur,
With love, Iris.
Christmas 1914.' Captain Arthur Joyce stilled a sentimental pang of regret with the thought that Iris would understand.
'Then...' said the artificer, clearly enjoying the hold he had on his audience, '... you wind the knob on the clock.' He touched it with his forefinger, '... close the lid,' he closed it, '... wait twelve hours, and BoomV The enthusiasm with which the Scotsman simulated an explosion blew a fine spray of spittle across the desk,
and Flynn withdrew hurriedly out of range.
'Wait twelve hours?' asked Flynn, dabbing at the droplets on his cheeks. 'Why so long?'
'I ordered a twelve-hour delay on the fusing of the charge.' Joyce answered the question. 'If Mr. Oldsmith is to gain access to the Blitcher's magazines, he will have to infiltrate the native labour gangs engaged in transferring the explosives. Once he is a member of the gang he might find difficulty in extricating himself and getting away from the ship after he has placed the charge. I am sure that Mr. Oldsmith would be reluctant to make this attempt unless we could ensure that there is time for him to escape from Blucher, when his efforts... ah,' he sought the correct phraseology, ah... come to fruition.' Joyce was pleased with this speech, and- he turned to
Sebastian for endorsement. 'Am I correct in my, assumption, Mr.
Oldsmith?' Not to be outdone in verbosity, Sebastian pondered his reply for a second. Five hours of deathlike sleep curled in Rosa's arms had refreshed his body and sharpened his wit to the edge of a Toledo steel blade.
'Indubitably,'he replied, and beamed in triumph.
They sat together in the time when the sun was dying and bleeding on the clouds. They sat together on a kaross of monkey skin in a thicket of wild ebony, at the head of one of the draws that wrinkled down into the valley of the Rufiji. 'They sat in silence. Rosa bent forward over her needlework, as she stitched a concealed pocket into the filthy cloak of leather that lay across her lap. The pocket would hold the cigar box. Sebastian watched her, and his eyes upon her were a caress. She pulled the last stitch tight, knotted it, then leaned forward to bite the thread.
'There!' she said. 'It's finished.' And looked up into his eyes.
'Thank you,' said Sebastian. They sat together quietly and Rosa reached out to touch his shoulder. The muscle under the black stained skin was rubber hard, and warm.
'Come.'
she said and drew his head down to her so that their cheeks touched, and they held each other while the last light faded.
The African dusk thickened the shadows in the wild ebony, and down the draw a jackal yipped plaintively.
'Are you ready?' Flynn stood near them, a dark bulky figure, with
Mohammed beside him.
'Yes. 'Sebastian looked up at him.
'Kiss me, 'whispered Rosa, and come back safely.' Gently
Sebastian broke from her embrace. He stood tall above her, and draped the cloak over his naked body. The cigar box hung heavily between his shoulder blades.
'Wait for me,'he said, and walked away.
Flynn Patrick O'Flynn moved restlessly under his single blanket and belched. Heartburn moved acid sour in his throat, and he was cold.
The earth under him had long since lost the warmth it had sucked from yesterday's sun. A small slice of the old moon gave a little silver light to the night.
Unsleeping he lay and listened to the soft sound of Rosa sleeping near him. The sound irritated him, he lacked only an excuse to waken her and make her talk to him. Instead he reached into the haversack that served as his pillow and his fingers closed round the cold smooth glass of the bottle.
A night-bird hooted softly down the draw, and Flynn released the bottle and sat up quickly. He placed two fingers between his lips and repeated the night-bird's cry.
Minutes later Mohammed drifted like a small black ghost into camp and came to squat beside Flynn's bed.
'see you, Fini.'
'You I see also, Mohammed. It went well?'
'It went well.'
'Manali has entered the camp of the Allemand?'
'He sleeps now beside the man who is my cousin, and in the dawn they will go down the RLIfiji, to the big boat of the Allemand once again.'
'Good!'
grunted Flynn. 'You have done well.' Mohammed coughed softly to signify that there was more to tell.
'What is it? 'Flynn demanded.
'When I had seen Manali safely into the care of my cousin, I came back along the valley and...' he hesitated, '... perhaps it is not fitting to speak of such matters at a time when our Lord Manali goes unarmed and alone into the camp of the Allemand.'
'Speak,' said Flynn.
'As I walked without sound, I came to a place where this valley falls down to the little river called Abati. You know the place?'
'Yes, about a mile down the draw from here.'
'That is the place.' Mohammed nodded. 'It was here that I saw something move in the night. It was as though a mountain walked.' A silver of ice was thrust down Flynn's spine, and his breathing snagged painfully in his throat.
'Yes?' he breathed.
'It was a mountain armed with teeth of ivory that grew from its face to touch the ground as it walked.'
'Plough the Earth.' Flynn whispered the name, and his hand fell on to the rifle that lay loaded beside his bed.
'It was that one.' Mohammed nodded again. 'He feeds quietly,
moving towards the Rufiji. But the voice of a rifle would carry down to the ears of the Allemand.'
'I won't fire,' whispered Flynn. 'I just want to have a look at him. I just want to see him again.' And the hand on the rifle shook like that of a man in high fever.
the sun pushed up and sat fat and fiery as molten gold, on the hills of the Rufiji basin. Its warmth lifted streamers of mist from the swamps and reed beds that bounded the Abati river, and they smoked like the ashes of a dying fire.
Under the fever trees the air was still cool with the memory of the night, but the sun sent long yellow shafts of light probing through the branches to disperse and warm it.
Three old eland bulls came up from the river, bigger than domestic cattle, light bluey-brown in colour with faint chalk stripes across the barrel of their bodies, they walked in single file, heavy dewlaps swinging, thick stubby horns held erect, and the tuft of darker hair on their foreheads standing out clearly. They reached the grove of fever trees and the lead bull stopped, suddenly alert. For long seconds they stood absolutely still, staring into the open palisade of fever-tree trunks where the light was still vague beneath the canopy of interlaced leaves and branches.
The lead bull blew softly through his nostrils, and swung off the game path that led into the grove. Stepping lightly for such large animals, the three eland skirted the grove and moved away to blend into the dry Thorn scrub higher up the slope.
'He is in there,' whispered Mohammed. 'The eland saw him, and turned aside.'
'Yes,'
