At the back of The Hill I could see a broad wadi of sand — an ancient watercourse perhaps — about a mile wide. Here our expedition had camped. The wadi separated The Hill from a great circle of hills beyond to the south, a broken complex about five miles in circumference and two across. Intersecting this to the halfway mark, like a sawn-off wagon wheel spoke, was a broad dyke of rock. These hills were generally lower than the fortress itself, although one directly across the wadi had a peak almost as high as the tabletop.
The first move in my plan of campaign was to find out whether the area was in the process of being policed by irregular patrols and, if so, how strong they were. I guessed that only one man might be involved. I'd come to this conclusion after questioning Nadine in prison as discreetly as possible after I'd made my decision. Her inquiries to the authorities had run slap up against a security screen but the fact that a light plane was being used to ferry the patrol to the bush airstrip some miles away seemed to point to a single guard, or at the most two. Before starting my search for Rankin I wanted to be sure it did not founder on the patrol. I had allowed for this contingency and had decided that if guards were active I would by-pass The Hill by river and lie low until they had been withdrawn.
I raised my head again and scanned the terrace. However, I could not spot the patrol hut, which I thought must be situated somewhere close to The Hill's cliffs facing my way among big boulders.
A shout from the river behind me sent my heart racing. It sounded raucous and inhuman in the oppressive vacuum of silence. I hastily sought somewhere to hide. The kanniedood trunk was inside the fence itself and was too slender for concealment. The nearest real cover-was a tattered clump of chest-high elephant palm about fifty yards back along my route, beyond the rolls of barbed wire. My only path was forward through the cut wire which meant rising into full sight on the terrace.
The seconds I spent wavering seemed like hours. I glanced anxiously back to the pool where the two great rivers met and then — in spite of again hearing the unnatural shout — my heart changed into lower gear; for on the surface of the water I saw a tell-tale line of froth. The cry wasn't human, but a fisheagle's. The clear harsh call, which precedes its dive-bomber swoop from high cloud, is one of the great sights of river-sea estuaries in Southern Africa. But here on the dried-up river the drought had debased the noble hunter to a carrion scavenger quarrelling with crocodiles for one stinking piece of mudfish or winkling putrid crabs from lairs become their graves as the water receded.
I wiped my sweating hands on my gritty shirt front. The bird's cry underlined the fact that if I hesitated where I was I could be trapped without the opportunity to escape. My immediate target was plain — the partly ruined defence wall to my left running along the eastern edge of the terrace. Its drop was not so sheer as the one facing the river and therefore I reckoned it would be possible to negotiate it. If I could get behind the wall on a narrow shelf between it and the drop I could approach the guard hut unseen and discover whether it was occupied or not. My further plans depended on that. The alternative route that remained was simply across the broad terrace itself, bare as a billiard table.
There was about a hundred yards of open ground from my gully to the wall. It was flat like the rest of the terrace but intersected by a number of small runnels — smaller versions of the wire-blocked gullies-which would provide some slight cover.
I acted on my decision: leading with my left shoulder I rolled on to the cut fence, holding the rifle tucked against my chest. On the naked terrace I lay still while all eternity seemed to hold its breath. Then I jerked to a low crouch and made a shambling sort of crawl to the nearest gully and threw myself in. I hid there until the sun forced me on to the next hollow.
Again and again I repeated the performance until at length I found myself gasping behind the safety of the eight-foot wall near its extremity where it had collapsed. To work around it was easy enough and, except for the first twenty yards or so where it lipped the drop, the going was easy for (as I had surmised) the terrace flattened out and shelved towards the river bed. This was probably the reason why a protecting wall had been built there in the first place.
I hung back for a moment, reluctant to leave the river which had served me well so far. I had camouflaged the odd boat I had travelled in up river under a palm clump by the big pool and a double-check now showed me it was completely hidden from view. My shoestring budget had precluded a Land-Rover but in Messina I had seen for sale this curious craft which had been used for catching tiger-fish on the river. Its hull was a cut-out aluminium float from a wartime Catalina flying-boat and it was propelled by an ageing outboard motor. The boat's shallow draught was ideal for my purpose, for the higher I ascended the river the worse it became until finally it was reduced to a series of stagnant hippo pools interconnected by shallow channels twisting through moats of burning sand. At length, at the Limpopo's junction with the Shashi, the water became a soupy devil's brew stinking of dead fish and crocodiles, surrounded by a fringe of unsavoury mud. I shook off my unwillingness to cut my lines of communication and set off along the wall, I edged along cautiously hoping to find a spy hole. The structure was built of unmortared tabular blocks set stringer-wise but there was no coursing or bonding as. in modern building practice. Portions of the upper surface had fallen away here and there. It continued true towards my target, the guard's hut in the northeastern sector of The Hill on the corner opposite the queen's grave. It looked as if eventually the wall ended slap against the cliff face.
It was slow going at first because of the drop within a foot or two of the outer face but within range of the cliffs this ledge broadened in keeping with the shelving terrain and I picked up speed, moving at a tight crouch, gun in hand. I decided to load only when I could see my objective, for fear that a chance fall might loose off a shot and give me away. Nearer the cliffs and therefore nearer the hut the wall became more solid: it would have taken a modern tank or bulldozer to break through.
It was imperative I should see what lay on the other side. I went on to where a huge boulder had been used to form part of the wall, in the hope that I might be able to climb it. It was unnecessary, however, for where the blocks joined the boulder there were several rainwater drainage holes at the height of my head.
I started to get my eye to one of them but it was blocked with rubble and dirt. I reached to clear it with my fingers but drew back in alarm at the feel of something alive. There was a movement and hiss like a tyre deflating and a puff-adder's head emerged. I dodged out of range of its strike with a shudder at the sight of the beautiful mother-of-pearl palate gleaming behind the deadly fangs.
There were more drainage holes where the wall continued on the other side of the boulder and this time I took the precaution of cleaning one out with my rifle butt before trying to look. I loaded the Mannlicher silently with one round — it had no magazine-and rested it ready to hand against the wall.
The guard's hut was only a biscuit's toss away on the other side. It was a rough affair built of kanniedood poles with a sloping thatched roof and several windows. A radio aerial was strung from a long pole on the roof to a nearby cliff and a big barrel-shaped water tank stood near by with a ladder against it.
I watched and waited, but there was no sign of life or movement.
It seemed significant that a window at the back (presumably the kitchen) was open, which meant that the hut was in current occupation. In the shadow of the wall I was cool and I could afford to let the moves come from the other side. After half an hour I decided that it was safe. Apart from checking the place I was also tempted by thoughts of a long drink from the tank. My mopani leaf had been chewed tasteless. I spat it out and started to climb the wall. It was smooth and difficult and I flinched at the thought of another puff-adder since I had to search blindly for grips in the open stone joints each time I handed myself up a stage farther.