Десмонд Бэгли - High Citadel

Overhead, Forester watched the slow progress of the truck as it crossed the bridge. He thought there was a wind blowing down there because the bridge seemed to sway and shiver, but perhaps it was only his tired eyes playing tricks. He cast an anxious eye on his fuel gauges and decided it was time to put the plane down — and he hoped he could put it down in one piece. He felt desperately tired and his whole body ached.

Making one last pass at the bridge to make sure that all was well, he headed away following the road, and had gone only a few miles when he saw a convoy of vehicles coming up, some of them conspicuously marked with the RedCross. So that’s that, he thought; McGruder got through and someone got on the phone to this side of the mountains and stirred things up. It couldn’t possibly be another batch of communists — what would they want with ambulances?

He lifted his eyes and looked ahead for flat ground and a place to land.

Aguillar watched Armstrong’s face lighten as the wheels of the truck rolled off the bridge and they were at last on the other side of the river. So many good people, he thought; and so many good ones dead — the Coughlins, Señor Willis — Miss Ponsky so dreadfully wounded and O’Hara also. But O’Hara would be all right; Benedetta would see to that. He smiled as he thought of them, of all the years of their future happiness. And then there were the others, too — Miguel and the two Americans, Forester and Peabody. The State of Cordillera would honour them all — yes, even Peabody, and especially Miguel Rohde.

It would be much later that he heard of what had happened to Peabody — and to Rohde.

O’Hara looked at Miss Ponsky. ‘Will she be all right?’

‘The wound is clean — not as bad as yours, Tim. A hospital will do you both a lot of good.’ Benedetta fell silent.

‘What will you do now?’

‘I suppose I should go back to San Croce to hand my resignation to Filson — and to punch him on the nose, too — but I don’t think I will. He’s not worth it, so I won’t bother.’

‘You are returning to England, then?’ She seemed despondent.

O’Hara smiled. ‘A future President of a South American country has offered me an interesting job. I think I might stick around if the pay is good enough.’

He gasped as Benedetta rushed into his one-armed embrace. ‘Ouch! Careful on this shoulder! And for God’s sake, drop that damned gun — you might cause an accident.’

Armstrong was muttering to himself in a low chant and Aguillar turned his head. ‘What did you say, señor?’

Armstrong stopped and laughed. ‘Oh, it’s something about a medieval battle; rather a famous one where the odds were against winning. Shakespeare said something about it which I’ve been trying to remember — he’s not my line, really; he’s weak on detail but he gets the spirit all right. It goes something like this.’ He lifted his voice and declaimed:

He fell silent and after a few minutes gave a low chuckle. ‘I think Jenny Ponsky will be able to teach that very well when she returns to her school. Do you think she’ll “strip her sleeve and show her scars”?’

The truck lurched down the road towards freedom.