The Dark of the Sun - Smith Wilbur (читать книгу онлайн бесплатно полностью без регистрации .TXT) 📗

gasoline tanker in bright yellow and red with the Shell Company insignia

on the barrel-shaped body. Hitched behind the leading lorry

was a squat, rubbertyred 25-pounder anti-tank gun with its long barrel

pointed jauntily skywards. Round the vehicles, dressed in an assortment

of uniforms and different styled helmets, were at least sixty men. They

were all armed, some with automatic weapons and others with obsolete

bolt-action rifles. Most of them were urinating carelessly into the

grass that lined the road, while the others were standing in small

groups smoking and talking.

"General Moses!" said Shermaine, her voice small with the shock.

"Get down," ordered Bruce and with his free hand thrust her on to the

floor. He rammed the accelerator flat and the Ford roared out into the

main road, swerving violently, the back end floating free in the loose

dust as he held the wheel over. Correcting the skid, meeting it and

straightening out, Bruce glanced at the rear-view mirror. Behind

them the men had dissolved into a confused pattern of movement; he heard

their shouts high and thin above the racing engine of the Ford.

Bruce looked ahead; it was another hundred yards to the bend in the road

that would hide them and take them down to the causeway across the

swamp.

Shermaine was on her knees pulling herself up to look over the back of

the seat.

"Keep on the floor, damn you!" shouted Bruce and pushed her head down

roughly.

As he spoke the roadside next to them erupted in a rapid series of

leaping dust fountains and he heard the high hysterical beat of

machine-gun fire.

The bend in the road rushed towards them, just a few more seconds.

Then with a succession of jarring crashes that shook the whole body of

the car a burst of fire hit them from behind. The windscreen starred

into a sheet of opaque diamond lacework, the dashboard clock exploded

powdering Shermaine's hair with particles of glass, two bullets tore

"through the seat ripping out the stuffing like the entrails of a

wounded animal.

"Close your eyes," shouted Bruce and punched his fist through the

windscreen. Slitting his own eyes against the chips of flying glass, he

could just see through the hole his fist had made. The corner was right

on top of them and he dragged the steering-wheel over, skidding into it,

his offside wheels bumping into the verge, grass and leaves brushing the

side of the car.

Then they were through the corner and racing down towards the causeway.

"Are you all right, Shermaine?"

"Yes, are you?" She emerged from under the dashboard, a smear of blood

across one cheek where the glass had scratched her, and her eyes bigger

than ever with fright.

"I only pray that Boussier and Hendry are ready to pull out.

Those bastards won't be five minutes behind us." They went across the

causeway with the needle of the speedometer touching eighty, up the far

side and into the main street of Port Reprieve. Bruce thrust his hand

down on the hooter ring, blowing urgent warning blasts.

"Please God, let them be ready," he muttered. With relief he saw that

the street was empty and the hotel seemed deserted. He kept blowing the

horn as they roared down towards the station, a great

billowing cloud of dust rising behind them. Braking the Ford hard, he

turned it in past the station buildings and on to the platform.

Most of Boussier's people were standing next to the train.

Boussier himself was beside the last truck with his wife and the small

group of women around him. Bruce shouted at them through the open

window.

"Get those women into the train, the shufta are right behind us, we're

leaving immediately." Without question or argument old Boussier gathered

them together and hurried them up the steel ladder into the truck. Bruce

drove down the station platform shouting as he went.

"Get in! For Chrissake, hurry up! They're coming!" He braked to

a standstill next to the cab of the locomotive and shouted up at the

bald head of the driver.

"Get going. Don't waste a second. Give her everything she's got.

There's a bunch of shufta not five minutes behind US." The driver's head

disappeared into the cab without even the usual polite," Oui monsieur."

"Come on, Shermaine." Bruce grabbed her hand and dragged her

from the car. Together they ran to one of the covered coaches and

Bruce pushed her half way up the steel steps.

At that moment the train erked forward so violently that she lost her

grip on the handrails and tumbled backwards on top of Bruce. He

was caught off balance and they fell together in a heap on the dusty

platform. Above them the train gathered speed, pulling away. He

remembered this nightmare from his childhood, running after a train and

never catching it. He had to fight down his panic as he and Shermaine

scrambled up, both of them panting, clinging to each other, the coaches

clackety-clacking past them, the rhythm of their wheels mounting.

"Run!" he gasped, "Run!" and with the panic weakening their legs he just

managed to catch the handrail of the second coach. He clung to

it, stumbling along beside the train, one arm round Shermaine's waist.

Sergeant Major Ruffararo leaned out, took Shermaine by the scruff of her

neck and lifted her in like a lost kitten. Then he reached down for

Bruce.

"Boss, some day we going to lose you if you go on playing around like

that."

"I'm sorry, Bruce," she panted, leaning against him.

"No damage done." He could grin at her. "Now I want you to get into that

compartment and stay there until I tell you to come out. Do you

understand?"

"Yes, Bruce."

"Off you go." He turned from her to

Ruffy. "Up on to the roof, Sergeant Major! We're going to have

fireworks. Those shufta have got a field gun with them and we'll be in

full view of the town right up to the top of the hills. By the time they

reached the roof of the train it had pulled out of Port Reprieve and was

making its first angling turn up the slope of the hills. The sun was up

now, well clear of the horizon, and the mist from the swamp had lifted

so that they could see the whole village spread out beneath

them.

General Moses's column had crossed the causeway and was into the main

street. As Bruce watched, the leading truck swung sharply across the

road and stopped. Men boiled out from under the canopy and swarmed over

the field gun, unhitching it, manhandling it into position.

"I hope those Arabs haven't had any drill on that piece," grunted

Ruffy.

"We'll soon find out," Bruce assured him grimly and looked back along

the train. In the last truck Boussier stood protectively over the small

group of four women and their children, like an old white-haired collie

with its sheep.

Crouched against the steel side of the truck, Andre de Surrier and half

a dozen gendarmes were swinging and sighting the two Bren guns.

In the second truck also the gendarmes were preparing to open fire.

"What are you waiting for?" roared Ruffy. "Get me that field gun - start

shooting." They fired a ragged volley, then the Bren guns

joined in.

With every burst Andre's helmet slipped forward over his eyes and he had