'Joseph, M'pophu-' he shouted cheerfully picking out the two best
singers ' amongst his men. 'I regret the drumming is of a low standard,
but the Baluba are monkeys with no understanding of music.
Let us show them how a Bambala can sing.' They stirred; he could feel
the tension diminish.
'Come, Joseph-' He filled his lungs and shouted the opening chorus of
one of the planting songs, purposely offkey, singing so badly that it
must sting them.
Someone laughed, then Joseph's voice hesitantly starting the chorus,
gathering strength. M'pophu coming in with the bass to give a solid
foundation to the vibrant, sweet-ringing tenor. Half-beat to the drum,
hands clapped in the dark; around him Bruce could feel the rhythmic
swinging of bodies begin.
Shermaine was no longer trembling; he squeezed her waist and felt her
body cling to him.
Now we need light, thought Bruce. A night lamp for my children who fear
the darkness and the drum.
With Shermaine beside him he crossed the laager.
'Sergeant Jacque.'
'Captain?'
'You can start sweeping with the searchlights.'
'Oui, Captain.' The answer was less subdued. There were two spare
batteries for each light, Bruce knew. Eight hours' life in each, so they
would last tonight and tomorrow night.
From each side of the laager the beams leapt out, solid white shafts
through the darkness; they played along the edge of the jungle and
reflected back, lighting the interior of the laager sufficiently to make
out the features of each man. Bruce looked at their faces.
They're all right now, he decided, the ghosts have gone away.
'Bravo, Bonaparte,' said Shermaine, and Bruce became aware of the grins
on the faces of his men as they saw him embracing her. He was about to
drop his arm, then stopped himself. The hell with it, he
decided, give them something else to think about. He led her back to the
Ford.
'Tired?' he asked.
'A little,' she nodded.
'I'll fold down the seat for you. A blanket over the windows will give
you privacy.' 'You'll stay closep she asked quickly.
'I'll be right outside.' He unbuckled the webbing belt that carried his
pistol. 'You'd better wear this from now on.' Even at its minimum
adjustment the belt was too large for her and the pistol hung down
almost to her knee.
'The Maid of Orleans.' Bruce revenged himself. She pulled a face at him
and crawled into the back of the station wagon.
A long while later she called softly above the singing and the throb of
the drum.
'Bruce.'
'Yes?'
'I wanted to make sure you were there. Good night.'
