CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As the black bag came down over his nose and mouth Shaw got his hands around the unseen man’s throat and squeezed hard, his thumbs digging into the windpipe and forcing the Adam’s apple down and back. There was a harsh gurgling noise, and he felt breath rattle under his fingers and then the man was tearing at his hands, but unavailingly; Shaw was holding on as if his hands were steel grabs. The man stopped tearing and Shaw felt the fingers moving across the material of the bag until they found his eyeballs. There was a sudden cruel pressure and lights danced in his brain; the agony was intense, boring right into his head, but he hung on, sweating blood and panting hard.
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.”