“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.
The little man said, “Sir, I am the stationmaster of Manalati. Name of Mister Tonks. I understand the train was held up—"
“That’s right.” Shaw told him the story as quickly as he could.
Tonks said, “You’ll be Commander Shaw, sir?”
Shaw nodded, rubbing at his eyes. “Why — how do you know?”