Among them rose the copper-clad spire of a church.
'Mission station,' guessed Bruce.
'St. Augustine's,' agreed Ruffy. 'My first wife's little brudder got
himself educated there. He's an attache to the ministry of something or
other in Elisabethville now, doing damn good for himself.'
Boasting a little.
'Bully for him,' said Bruce.
The train had started angling down the hills towards the town.
'Well, I reckon we've made it, boss.'
'I reckon also; all we have to do is get back again.'
'Yes sir, I
reckon that's all.' And they ran into the town.
There were more than forty people in the crowd that lined the platform
to welcome them.
We'll have a heavy load on the way home, thought Bruce as he ran his eye
over them. He saw the bright spots of women's dresses in the throng.
Bruce counted four of them. That's another complication; one day I hope
I find something in this life that turns out exactly as expected,
something that will run smoothly and evenly through to its right and
logical conclusion. Some hope, he decided, some bloody hope.
The joy and relief of the men and women on the platform was pathetically
apparent in their greetings. Most of the women were crying and the men
ran beside the train like small boys as it slid in along the raised
concrete platform.
All of them were of mixed blood, Bruce noted. They varied in colour from
creamy yellow to charcoal. The Belgians had certainly left
much to be remembered by.
Standing back from the throng, a little aloof from the general
jollification, was a half-blooded Belgian. There was an air of authority
about him that was unmistakable. On one side of him stood a large bosomy
woman of his own advanced age, darker skinned than he was; but Bruce saw
immediately that she was his wife. At his other hand stood a figure
dressed in a white open-necked shirt and blue jeans that
Bruce at first thought was a boy, until the head turned and he saw the
long plume of dark hair that hung down her back, and the unmanly double
pressure beneath the white shirt.
The train stopped and Bruce jumped down on to the platform and
laughingly pushed his way through the crowds towards the Belgian.
Despite a year in the Congo, Bruce had not grown accustomed to being
kissed by someone who had not shaved for two or three days and who
smelled strongly of garlic and cheap tobacco. This atrocity was
committed upon him a dozen times or more. before he arrived before the
Belgian.
'The Good Lord bless you for coming to our aid, Monsieur Captain.'
The Belgian recognized the twin bars on the front of Bruce's helmet and
held out his hand. Bruce had expected another kiss, so he accepted the
handshake with relief.
'I am only glad that we are in time,' he answered.
'May I introduce myself - Martin Boussier, district manager of
