Десмонд Бэгли - High Citadel

‘Compassion?’ he shouted. ‘I have no need of your compassion — I’ve no time for people who are sorry for me. I don’t need it.’

‘Everyone needs it,’ she retorted. ‘We’re all afraid — that’s the human predicament, to be afraid, and any man who says he isn’t is a liar.’ In a quieter voice she went on, ‘You weren’t always like this, Tim — what caused it?’

He dropped his head into his hands. He could feel something breaking within him; there was a shattering and a crumbling of his defences, the walls he had hidden behind for so long. He had just realized the truth of what Benedetta said; that his fear was not an abnormality but the normal situation of mankind and that it was not weakness to admit it.

He said in a muffled voice, ‘Good Christ, Benedetta, I’m frightened — I’m scared of falling into their hands again.’

‘The communists?’

He nodded.

‘What did they do to you?’

So he told her and in the telling her face went white. He told her of the weeks of lying naked in his own filth in that icy cell; of the enforced sleeplessness, the interminable interrogations; of the blinding lamps and the electric shocks; of Lieutenant Feng. ‘They wanted me to confess to spreading plague germs,’ he said. He raised his head and she saw the streaks of tears in the moonlight. ‘But I didn’t; it wasn’t true, so I didn’t.’ He gulped. ‘But I nearly did.’

In her innermost being she felt a scalding contempt for herself — she had called this man weak. She cradled his head to her breast and felt the deep shudders which racked him. ‘It’s all right now, Tim,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’

He felt a draining of himself, a purging of the soul in the catharsis of telling to another human being that which had been locked within him for so long. And in a strange way, he felt strengthened and uplifted as he got rid of all the psychic pus that had festered in his spirit. Benedetta took the brunt of this verbal torrent calmly, comforting him with disconnected, almost incoherent endearments. She felt at once older and younger than he, which confused her and made her uncertain of what to do.

At last the violence of his speech ebbed and gradually he fell silent, leaning back against the rock as though physically exhausted. She held both his hands and said, ‘I’m sorry, Tim — for what I said.’

He managed a smile. ‘You were right — I have been a thorough bastard, haven’t I?’

‘With reason.’

‘I must apologize to the others,’ he said. ‘I’ve been riding everybody too hard.’

She said carefully, ‘We aren’t chess pieces, Tim, to be moved as though we had no feelings. And that’s what you have been doing, you know; moving my uncle, Willis and Armstrong — Jenny, too — as though they were just there to solve the problem. You see, it isn’t only your problem — it belongs to all of us. Willis has worked harder than any of us; there was no need to behave towards him as you did when the trebuchet broke down.’

O’Hara sighed. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it seemed the last straw. I was feeling bloody-minded about everything just then. But I’ll apologize to him.’

‘A better thing would be to help him.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll go now.’ He looked at her and wondered if he had alienated her for ever. It seemed to him that no woman could love him who knew about him what this woman knew. But then Benedetta smiled brilliantly at him, and he knew with relief that everything was going to be all right.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk with you as far as the shelter.’ She felt an almost physical swelling pain in her bosom, a surge of wild, unreasonable happiness, and she knew that she had been wrong when she had felt that Tim was not for her. This was the man with whom she would share her life — for as long as her life lasted.

He left her at the shelter and she kissed him before he went on. As she saw the dark shadow going away down the mountain she suddenly remembered and called, ‘What about the tear in your shirt?’

His answer came back almost gaily. ‘Tomorrow,’ he shouted, and went on to the glimmer of light where Willis was working against time.

The morning dawned mistily but the rising sun soon burned away the haze. They held a dawn conference by the trebuchet to decide what was to be done next. ‘What do you think?’ O’Hara asked Willis. ‘How much longer will it take?’

Armstrong clenched his teeth round the stem of his pipe and observed O’Hara with interest. Something of note had happened to this young man; something good. He looked over to where Benedetta was keeping watch on the bridge — her radiance this morning had been unbelievable, a shining effulgence that cast an almost visible glow about her. Armstrong smiled — it was almost indecent how happy these two were.

Willis said, ‘It’ll be better now we can see what we’re doing. I give us another couple of hours.’ His face was drawn and tired.

‘We’ll get to it,’ said O’Hara. He was going to continue but he paused suddenly, his head on one side. After a few seconds Armstrong also caught what O’Hara was listening to — the banshee whine of a jet plane approaching fast.

It was on them suddenly, coming low up-river. There was a howl and a wink of shadow as the aircraft swept over them to pull up into a steep climb and a sharp turn. Willis yelled, ‘They’ve found us — they’ve found us.’ He began to jump up and down in a frenzy of excitement, waving his arms.

‘It’s a Sabre,’ O’Hara shouted. ‘And it’s coming back.’

They watched the plane reach the top of its turning climb and come back at them in a shallow dive. Miss Ponsky screamed at the top of her voice, her arms going like a semaphore, but O’Hara said suddenly, ‘I don’t like this — everyone scatter — take cover.’

He had seen aircraft behave like that in Korea, and he had done it himself; it had all the hallmarks of the beginning of a strafing attack.

They scattered like chickens at the sudden onset of a hawk and again the Sabre roared over, but there was no chatter of guns — just the diminishing whine of the engine as it went away down river. Twice more it came over them and the tough grass standing in clumps trembled stiff stems in the wake of its passage. And then it was gone in a long, almost vertical climb heading west over the mountains.

They came out of cover and stood in a group looking towards the peaks. Willis was the first to speak. ‘Damn you,’ he shouted at O’Hara. ‘Why did you make us hide? That plane must have been searching for us.’

‘Was it?’ asked O’Hara. ‘Benedetta, does Cordillera have Sabres in the Air Force?’

‘That was an Air Force fighter,’ she said. ‘I don’t know which squadron.’

‘I missed the markings,’ said O’Hara. ‘Did anyone get them?’

No one had.

‘I’d like to know which squadron that was,’ mused O’Hara. ‘It could make a difference.’

‘I tell you it was part of the search,’ insisted Willis.

‘Nothing doing,’ said O’Hara. ‘The pilot of that plane knew exactly where to come — he wasn’t searching. Someone had given him a pinpoint map position. There was nothing uncertain about his passes over us. We didn’t tell him; Forester didn’t tell him — they’re only just leaving the mine now — so who did?’

Armstrong used his pipe as a pointer. They did,’ he said, and pointed across the river. ‘We must assume that it means nothing good.’

O’Hara was galvanized into activity. ‘Let’s get this bloody beast working again. I want that bridge ruined as soon as possible. Jenny, take a bow and go downriver to where you can get a good view of the road where it bends away. If anyone comes through, take a crack at them and then get back here as fast as you can. Benedetta, you watch the bridge — the rest of us will get cracking here.’