Десмонд Бэгли - High Citadel

Armstrong smiled gently. ‘I think your little bit is more dangerous than mine. Shooting those fire-bolts in the dark will make you a perfect target — it won’t be as easy as this morning, and then you nearly got shot.’

‘Maybe,’ said O’Hara. ‘But this has got to be done. This is how we do it. When that other jeep — or whatever it is — comes up, maybe the chaps on the other side won’t be so vigilant. My guess is that they’ll tend to watch the vehicle manoeuvre into position; I don’t think they’re a very disciplined crowd. Now, while that’s happening is the time to do your stuff. I’ll give you the signal.’

‘All right, my boy,’ said Armstrong. ‘You can rely on me.’

O’Hara helped him to push the drum into the position easiest for him, and then Miss Ponsky and Benedetta came up with the crossbows. He said to Benedetta, ‘When I give Armstrong the signal to push off the drum, you light the first fire-bolt. This has got to be done quickly if it’s going to be done at all.’

‘All right, Tim,’ she said.

Miss Ponsky went to her post without a word.

He heard the engine again, this time louder. He saw nothing on the road downstream and guessed that the vehicle was coming slowly and without lights. He thought they’d be scared of being fired on during that half-mile journey. By God, he thought, if I had a dozen men with a dozen bows I’d make life difficult for them. He smiled sourly. Might as well wish for a machine-gun section — it was just as unlikely a possibility.

Suddenly the vehicle switched its lights on. It was quite near the bridge and O’Hara got ready to give Armstrong the signal. He held his hand until the vehicle — a jeep — drew level with the burnt-out truck, then he said in a whispered shout, ‘Now!’

He heard the rattle as the drum rolled over the rocks and out of the corner of his eye saw the flame as Benedetta ignited the fire-bolt. The drum came into sight on his left, bumping down the slight incline which led towards the bridge. It hit a larger stone which threw it off course. Christ, he whispered, we’ve bungled it.

Then he saw Armstrong run into the open, chasing after the drum. A few faint shouts came from across the river and there was a shot. ‘You damned fool,’ yelled O’Hara. ‘Get back.’ But Armstrong kept running forward until he had caught up with the drum and, straightening it on course again, he gave it another boost.

There was a rafale of rifle-fire and spurts of dust flew about Armstrong’s feet as he ran back at full speed, then a metallic thunk as a bullet hit the drum and, as it turned, O’Hara saw a silver spurt of liquid rise in the air. The enemy were divided in their intentions — they did not know which was more dangerous, Armstrong or the drum. And so Armstrong got safely into cover.

Miss Ponsky raised the bow. ‘Forget it, Jenny,’ roared O’Hara. ‘They’ve done it for us.’

Again and again the drum was hit as it rolled towards the bridge and the paraffin spurted out of more holes, rising in gleaming jets into the air until the drum looked like some strange kind of liquid Catherine wheel. But the repeated impact of bullets was slowing it down and there must have been a slight and unnoticed rise in the ground before the bridge because the drum rolled to a halt just short of the abutments.

O’Hara swore and turned to grasp the crossbow which Benedetta was holding. Firing in the dark with a fire-bolt was difficult; the flame obscured his vision and he had to will himself consciously to take aim slowly. There was another babble of shouts from over the river and a bullet ricocheted from a rock nearby and screamed over his head.

He pressed the trigger gently and the scorching heat was abruptly released from his face as the bolt shot away into the opposing glare of headlamps. He ducked as another bullet clipped the rock by the side of his head and thrust the bow at Benedetta for reloading.

It was not necessary. There was a dull explosion and a violent flare of light as the paraffin around the drum caught fire. O’Hara, breathing heavily, moved to another place where he could see what was happening. It would have been very foolish to pop his head up in the same place from which he had fired his bolt.

It was with dejection that he saw a raging fire arising from a great pool of paraffin just short of the bridge. The drum had stopped too soon and although the fire was spectacular it would do the bridge no damage at all. He watched for a long time, hoping the drum would explode and scatter burning paraffin on the bridge, but nothing happened and slowly the fire went out.

He dropped back to join the others. ‘Well, we messed that one up,’ he said bitterly.

‘I should have pushed it harder,’ Armstrong said.

O’Hara flared up in anger. ‘You damned fool, if you hadn’t run out and given it another shove it wouldn’t have gone as far as it did. Don’t do an idiotic thing like that again — you nearly got killed!’

Armstrong said quietly, ‘We’re all of us on the verge of getting killed. Someone has to risk something besides you.’

‘I should have surveyed the ground more carefully,’ said O’Hara self-accusingly.

Benedetta put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Tim; you did the best you could.’

‘Sure you did,’ said Miss Ponsky militantly. ‘And we’ve shown them we’re still here and fighting. I bet they’re scared to come across now for fear of being burned alive.’

‘Come,’ said Benedetta. ‘Come and eat.’ There was a flash of humour in her voice. ‘I didn’t bring the travois all the way down, so it will be stew again.’

Wearily O’Hara turned his back on the bridge. It was the third night since the plane crash — and six more to go!

Forester attacked his baked beans with gusto. The dawn light was breaking, dimming the bright glare of the Coleman lamp and smoothing out the harsh shadows on his face. He said, ‘One day at the mine — two days crossing the pass — another two days getting help. We must cut that down somehow. When we get to the other side we’ll have to act quickly.’

Peabody looked at the table morosely, ignoring Forester. He was wondering if he had made the right decision, done the right thing by Joe Peabody. The way these guys talked, crossing the mountains wasn’t going to be so easy. Aw, to hell with it — he could do anything any other guy could do — especially any spic.

Rohde said, ‘I thought I heard rifle-fire last night — just at sunset.’ His face was haunted by the knowledge of his helplessness.

‘They should be all right. I don’t see how the commies could have repaired the bridge and got across so quickly,’ said Forester reasonably. ‘That O’Hara’s a smart cookie. He must have been doing something with that drum of kerosene he took down the hill yesterday. He’s probably cooked the bridge to a turn.’

Rohde’s face cracked into a faint smile. ‘I hope so.’

Forester finished his beans. ‘Okay, let’s get the show on the road.’ He turned round in his chair and looked at the huddle of blankets on the bunk. ‘What about Willis?’

‘Let him sleep,’ said Rohde. ‘He worked harder and longer than any of us.’

Forester got up and examined the packs they had made up the previous night. Their equipment was pitifully inadequate for the job they had to do. He remembered the books he had read about mountaineering expeditions — the special rations they had, the lightweight nylon ropes and tents, the wind-proof clothing and the specialized gear — climbing-boots, ice-axes, pitons. He smiled grimly — yes, and porters to help hump it.

There was none of that here. Their packs were roughly cobbled together from blankets; they had an ice-axe which Willis had made — a roughly shaped metal blade mounted on the end of an old broom handle; their ropes were rotten and none too plentiful, scavenged from the rubbish heap of the camp and with too many knots and splices for safety; their climbing-boots were clumsy miners’ boots made of thick, unpliant leather, heavy and graceless. Willis had discovered the boots and Rohde had practically gone into raptures over them.