Authors: Philip McCutchan
He could no longer hear the shouts from ahead, and he didn’t hear the sporadic rifle-fire which now overlay those shouts, nor the splintering crash as panes of glass went to the floor in the carriages farther along the coach. From the rear coaches, where the African passengers were mainly travelling, there came the beginnings of that same low moaning noise that Shaw had heard in the outskirts of Jinda; it was the sound which seemed to foretell riot and bloodshed. But, from the van in the rear of the goods trucks on the end of the train, black soldiers of the Rifle Regiment stood ready—if they remained loyal—under white officers of the Nogolian Army to take control of any situation which might develop.
Shaw, squeezing desperately, knew none of this. All he could hear was the throb of drumming blood in his ears, and all he could think of now was the necessity of killing this man before he was killed himself. The man’s struggles didn’t seem to be getting any the less; the pressure on Shaw’s eyeballs was kept up until he thought they would be rammed back into the sockets, that even if he came out of this alive he would never see again. . . once more a vision flashed through his mind of Esamba Who Blows Out The Light Behind Men’s Eyes. His breath came hard, grating, while that of the other man still gurgled and rasped beneath his fingers despite the pressure. The neck-cords swelled beneath his hands, and he couldn’t quite close that powerful windpipe to stop the breath for ever. The fellow’s shoulders seemed to fill the whole of the floor space between the seats as he heaved in his struggles. After a while the realization came to Shaw that he was fighting a losing battle, that if the man didn’t succumb very soon he would be forced to let go.
And then the situation changed very suddenly.
The man must in fact have been much nearer the end than it had appeared; for all at once the neck-muscles fell slack. Taking no chances now, Shaw forced his fingers in hard. There was a choking gurgle and then a sticky, warm gush like blood, and the body went limp. As Shaw got to his feet and ripped the black bag off his face, footsteps sounded in the corridor and a torch was shone into the compartment.
A white man stopped by the door, stared in. He said, “Here, what the blazes. . . you all right, chum?”
“I’ll survive.” Shaw winced; his eyes were in fact very painful and he was badly out of breath, but otherwise he was intact. He knelt down beside the African on the floor and felt for his heart. He was very dead and there was a lot of blood. Possibly, Shaw thought, a blood-vessel had gone or maybe the windpipe had fractured. He lifted the right arm and saw, as he’d expected, the mark of the Black Widow, the mark of Edo. . . he let the arm drop, and got to his feet again.
The man in the doorway said, “Dead, is ’e?” He gave a short laugh.
“Yes. What happened out there?”
“Don’t really know the full score yet, except there’s a bunch of Africans sitting on the track ahead there.”
“Anyone else been attacked—individually, I mean?”
“Not that I know of. I think they’re after the army stores, myself.”
Non-committally Shaw said, “Yes, I—dare say.”
He glanced quickly out of the window as the first faint streaks of a grey and dismal dawn filtered over the distant hills. He saw indistinct shapes crouched by the track in the rear, alongside the goods wagons with the army stores. Soldiers. There was a ragged flicker of fire from the jungle, followed by the quick stutter of automatic weapons, and a spray of bullets spattered along the sides of the coach, was answered at once by a burst of rifle-fire from the soldiers—a not very effective burst compared with the automatics, and Shaw recognized the crash of the old Lee-Enfield rifle, once used by the British Army.
His companion, a short, thin man who had a ‘foreman’ look about him, asked, “You going to be all right?” He was plainly anxious to be on his way, and Shaw nodded. The man went on, “Because I’ve got orders to ask all white passengers who’ve got guns to muster in the leading coach, that’s the next one up from this—”
“Right, I get it. How many whites aboard?”
“I can’t say for sure, but not more than a dozen or so, I think. Major Kennet of the Rifles, he’s in charge now. Well—I’ll get on.” He moved away, looking into the carriages as he went. Shaw followed and went forward into the leading coach where, in the light of a shaded torch, a powerful, uniformed man with a chunky red face and sandy hair was addressing a handful of white male passengers armed with revolvers and sporting guns.
This man turned when he heard Shaw, flicked the torch round on to him, and said in an Australian accent, “Why, hullo there. Care to join the party, would you? I’m Kennet. Reckon I’ve kind of put myself in charge of the train.”
“Right. You can count on me. What seems to be the trouble, Major?”
Kennet jerked a beefy hand in the direction of the engine. “That mob out there, reckon they’re out to pinch my stores. That’s if we let ’em. Me, I aim to shoot down every mother’s bastard of ’em before we move on.”
“I see. . . Shaw looked searchingly at the Australian. He seemed a cool customer, reliable and tough, and he had an honest, open face, though at the moment it was twisted up with anger. “I’d like a word with you in private, Major, if I may.”
“Eh?” The soldier stared at him, saw the slight droop of an eyelid. “Oh . . . righto, then, come on in here. Make way, you lot—shan’t be a tick.”
Kennet shouldered his way through the small group of passengers and went into an empty compartment. Shaw followed. Kennet asked gruffly, “Well now, what’s it all about? Better make it quick.”
Shaw brought out his wallet and produced the red-and-green panelled Identity Card with the naval fouled anchor set across the colour intersection. He said, “That’s what it’s all about, Major. Naval Intelligence, out from home on special duties. Can’t say more than that, but I’ve just an idea that all this has been laid on for my benefit. They’re not after your stores at all. So when they attack it’ll be the passenger coaches they go for—to find me. I’ve already killed one of them.” Briefly he told Kennet of the recent attack on him. “It’s pretty important I get through to Manalati. I’d like to get this train moving right away and never mind shooting-up the crowd out there. Well?”
Kennet opened his mouth, then shut it again. Suddenly he laughed grimly and hitched at his belt. “Good on yer, son, I’m with you! Reckon it’s pretty important we all get through to Manalati, come to that, and I can have a crack at the mob another day.” He clapped Shaw on the shoulder with a huge hand. “We’ll get ’er started. You any good with a gun, Commander?”
“Not too bad.”
“Goodoh, me too . . . and that’s more than I’d say for the rest of the whites, can’t hit a bloody thing smaller than an elephant’s arse, I’ll bet.”
“What about your troops?”
“Oh, they’re all right—”
“I mean, are they loyal—even in a situation like this?” Kennet said, “Son, all I can say is I hope so, but I’d never depend on it entirely. No, you and I, we’re going to set this train to rights, all on our own if we have to.”
“How?”
“Easy. Just do as I say.” Kennet moved over to the door. “This compartment, it’s right next to the tender. If we nip down on to the track here we’ll only have the length of the tender to go before we can climb up to the footplate and take over. Reckon they may have got the driver, see, or else he’s playing along with ’em. Right? I’ll get the rest of the blokes to spread out along the coach and give us covering fire.”
Shaw nodded. Kennet went out into the corridor and called to the other passengers. Men moved into the compartments, their guns ready. Kennet came back quickly into the carriage and jerked the door back on its hinges. He leapt down on to the track and went forward at once in a crouching run. Shaw followed him, the early dawn air striking cool on his face, rain beating into him. As he landed on the muddy ground a rifle cracked and a bullet smacked into the coachwork just above his head and pinged away into the murk. At once a ragged burst of firing came from the train and there was a cry from the jungle, followed by more firing and more cries. Then there came an unearthly rising and falling chant which gathered volume as Shaw, crouching low, ran behind Major Kennet for the footplate.
In the glow of the furnace as he looked up he saw the African fireman bending towards Kennet, a shovel lifted in his hand and his lips drawn back. Shaw’s Webley roared, and the bullet took the fireman right between the eyes. The head seemed to shatter into pieces, then he fell, landing plumb on top of the Australian. Shaw reached them, dragged the fireman’s blood-spattered body clear. Kennet scrambled up, cursing, and jumped for the rungs. Hauling himself up, he climbed rapidly, his revolver in his right hand and covering the driver. His thin tropic uniform was soaked with the fireman’s blood, and he looked a really terrifying sight. Shaw heaved himself up and joined the Major in the lee of the cab’s sides, out of the line of fire from the jungle.
The driver was crouched down, his face grey and scared in the red glow from the furnaces.
Kennet snapped, “Get ’er started.”
“Bwana, I cannot. The tribesmen, Bwana, they are right across the lines. I cannot—”
“Oh, yes, you bloody can!” Kennet’s heavy red face was lowering, furious, determined. “If you don’t, I’ll feed you into yer own furnaces!” He reached out, his huge hand seized the man by the neck, and he pushed him backward towards the blazing fixe. There was a high scream; muscles bulged in Kennet’s left arm, his other hand held the heavy revolver into the driver’s stomach. The African’s face was a snarl of fear and pain. Smoke began rising from the man’s back as his thin clothing began to scorch. Suddenly Kennet jerked the quivering figure towards him, gave a short, grating laugh, and let him go.
The driver collapsed on the steel flooring.
Kennet roared, “Start ’er. We’re getting out—flip those bastards on the line an’ all too!” He called to Shaw, “Commander, I reckon we’ll need more steam now—can you Use a shovel?”
“Yes . . . but we can’t run over those people—”
“They’ll shift soon enough when they see us coming.”
“I hope you’re right.” Shaw, keeping as low as he could, went backward towards the tender and grabbed a shovel. There was a pretty good rate of fire coming from the train now but an occasional bullet from the mob whistled across the footplate or zinged into the metalwork of the engine and tender. Peering over the cab’s side, Kennet sent a few shots into the jungle, backing up the passengers, his face rock-like and sweating in the glow. Shaw scrabbled at the coal, brought chunks of it spinning down, scraped them together and shot them into the furnace, working like a maniac. Slowly, slowly the steam-gauge showed more pressure, and a few minutes later the driver told Kennet they had enough head of steam.
Kennet snapped, “Right, let’s go.” He prodded the African with his gun. “Move ’er, Charlie-boy, move ’er!”
The driver’s hand went out to a lever, moved it. Slowly, very slowly at first, the great pistons drove forward and the wheels turned. The footplate shuddered, and steam roared. Shaw said, “Give them a whistle, Major.”
Kennet looked at him, then reached for the whistle. A shower of boiling droplets spattered down, and a harsh shriek drove banshee-like out into the jungle silence and the slashing rain. Slow yet and ponderous, the Manalati Express out of Jinda went ahead again, thrusting into the dawn. The awful chant began again, a chant of death now, and a wail came from ahead, and the shouts, the cries of men. Shaw’s face was expressionless, stony. He detested this, hated having to stand there while steel-shod wheels drove over thin black legs and bodies—for he felt certain that not all the blacks would move. If they’d been talked into this by their voodoo men, by the promise of what Edo would do for them, then they were probably in a fanatical mood and fanatics always died hard; and they could hardly in that case be held responsible for their actions. They were simple people, childlike people, most of them, easy meat for the scheming brains behind the Cult.
As the great engine drove ahead, faster now, Shaw leaned from the cab at the risk of his life, and shouted, his voice carrying out strongly.
“We’re coming and this time we’re not going to stop. If anyone stays on the track he’ll be overrun.”
He rubbed the sweat from his eyes. They wouldn’t understand the language, most likely; but they would get the meaning. He dodged back as the shower of bullets spattered round the cab. Grimy now with sweat and coal-dust, he bent to chuck more fuel into the furnaces, and the flames roared up in a shower of sparks. Kennet kept the driver covered with his gun. The train rolled forward, gathering speed. Ahead, men moved hastily off the track. Shaw gave a gasp of relief, almost smiling—until he saw that two or three of them were not moving.
The Major, his face streaming sweat and his eyes rimmed with coal-dust, snapped an order and the driver moved the lever farther over. The train gathered more momentum, getting into the beginning of its rhythm now. As they came down on the hold-up spot an African hurled himself at the cab, missed the handholds but caught a foot somewhere below. He gave a wild, terrified scream of despair and his body was yanked sharply downward as the plunging metal took his legs and pulled him down to be beaten to a pulp between the huge, glittering, pounding shafts and the spinning wheels, A moment later there was another long-drawn scream from beneath the tender. There was not a tremor from the iron monster as the wheels crushed the bodies, sliced them into sections like pieces of bacon on a grocer’s counter.
Five seconds later the Manalati Express was clear and away.
Shaw and Major Kennet remained on the footplate, the soldier keeping his eyes on the driver while Shaw inexpertly fired the boilers. From time to time they alternated these duties but even so they made poor speed and the express was well overdue when it neared Manalati, coming out of the last of the jungle to run through open country and then sparsely cultivated ground which gave way to the outskirts and the ramshackle, tin-roofed dwellings of the town.
When they drew in at the little wood-built terminus Shaw climbed wearily down from the cab. He brushed aside the congratulations of the white passengers who came thronging towards the engine, found himself buttonholed by a small, perky official who looked like a quadroon and who had been pushing his way importantly through the group of passengers.