Shout at the Devil - Smith Wilbur (лучшие книги .TXT) 📗

Close alongside wallowed one of the transports. They were playing cricket on her afterdeck. As he watched, a sun-bronzed giant of a

South African clad only in short khaki pants swung the bat and clearly he heard the crack as it struck the ball. The ball soared up and dropped into the sea with a tiny splash.

"Oh, good shot, sir!" applauded the lieutenant who stood beside the captain.

"This is not the members" enclosure at Lords, Mr. Parkinson,"

snarled the destroyer captain. "If you have nothing to occupy you, I

can find duties for you." The lieutenant retired hurt, and the captain glanced along the line of troopships.

"Oh, no!" he groaned. Number Three was making smoke again. Ever since leaving Durban harbOUr Number Three had been giving periodic impersonations of Mount VesuViUS. It Would be a give-away to the lookout at Blucher's masthead.

He reached for his megaphone, ready to hurl the most scathing reprimand he Could muster at Number Three as he passed her.

"This is worse than being a teacher in a kindergarten.

They'll break me yet." And he lifted the megaphone to his lips as

Number Three came abreast.

The infantry-men that lined the troopship's rail cheered his eloquence to the echo.

"The fools. Let them cheer Blitcher when she comes," growled the captain and crowd the bridge to gaze apprehensively into the west where

Africa lay just below the horizon.

"Strength to Renounce and Pegasus." He made the wish fervently "God grant they hold Bliacher. If she gets through..

"It's no use, Bwana. They won't move," the sergeant of Askari reported to Ensign Proust.

"What is the trouble? "demanded Proust.

"They say there is a bad magic on the ship. They will not go to her today." Proust looked over the mass of black humanity. They squatted sullenly among the huts and palm trees, rank upon rank Of them, huddled in their cloaks, faces closed and secretive.

Drawn up on the mud bank of the island were the two motor launches, ready to ferry the bearers downstream to the day's labour aboard Blitcher. The German seamen tending the launches were watching with interest this charade of dumb rebellion, and Ensign Proust was very conscious of their attention.

Proust was at the age where he had an iron-clad faith in his own sagacity, the dignity of a patriarch, and pimples.

He was, in other words, nineteen years of age.

It was clear to him that these native tribesmen had embarked on their present course of action for no other reason than to embarrass

Ensign Proust. It was a direct and personal attack on his standing and authority.

He lifted his right hand to his mouth and began to feed thoughtfully on his fingernails. His rather prominent Adam's apple moved in sympathy with the working of his jaws. Suddenly he realized what he was doing. It was a habit he was trying to cure, and he jerked his hand away and linked it with its mate behind his back, in a faithful imitation of Captain Otto von Kleine, a man whom he held in high admiration. It had hurt him deeply when Lieutenant Kyller had greeted his request for permission to grow a beard like Captain von

Kleine's with ribald laughter.

Now he sank his bare chin on to his chest and began to pace solemnly up and down the small clearing above the mud bank. The sergeant of Askari waited respectfully with his men drawn up behind him for Ensign Proust to reach a decision.

He could send one of the launches back to Blitcher, to fetch

Commissioner Fleischer. After all, this was really the Herr

Commissioner's shoW. (Proust had taken to using odd Swahili words like an old Africa hand). Yet he realized that to call for Fleischer would be an admission that he was unable to handle the situation.

Commissioner Fleischer would jeer at him, Commissioner Fleischer had shown an increasing tendency to jeer at Ensign Proust.

"No," he thought, flushing so that the red spots on his skin were less noticeable, "I will not send for that fat peasant." He stopped pacing and addressed himself to the sergeant of Askari.

"Tell them..." he started, and his voice squeaked alarmingly.

He adjusted the timbre to a deep throaty rumble, "Tell them I take a very serious view of this matter." The sergeant saluted, did a showy about-face with much feet stamping, and passed on Ensign Proust's message in loud Swahili. From the dark ranks of bearers there was no reaction whatsoever, not so much as a raised eyebrow. The crews of the launches were more responsive. One of them laughed.

Ensign Proust's Adam's apple bobbed, and his ears chameleoned to the colour of a good burgundy.

"Tell them that it is mutiny!" The last word squeaked again, and the sergeant hesitated while he groped for the Swahili equivalent.

Finally he settled for: "Bwana Heron is very angry." Proust had been nicknamed for his pointed nose and long thin legs. The tribesmen bore up valiantly under this intelligence.

"Tell them i will take drastic steps." Now, thought the sergeant,

he is making" sense. He allowed himself literary licence in his translation.