Shout at the Devil by Wilbur Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

the narrow waterway between the mangroves and plucked at the furled sail on the boom.
    With a rope sling under his armpits, they lifted Flynn from the canoe and swung him, legs dangling, over the bulwark. Sebastian was ready to receive him and lower him gently to the deck.
    â€˜Get that goddamn sail up, and let’s get the hell out of the river,’ gasped Flynn.
    â€˜I must tend to your leg.’
    â€˜That can wait. We’ve got to get out into the open sea. The Germans have got a steam launch. They’ll be looking for us. We can expect them to drop in on us at any minute.’
    â€˜They can’t touch us – we’re under the protection of the flag,’ Sebastian protested.
    â€˜Listen, you stupid, bloody limey,’ Flynn’s voice was a squawk of pain and impatience. ‘That murdering Hun will give us a rope dance with or without the flag. Don’t argue, get that sail up!’

    They laid him on a blanket in the shadow of the high poop before Sebastian hurried forward to release the Arab crew from the hold. They came up shiny with sweat and blinking in the dazzle of the sun. It took perhaps fifteen seconds for Mohammed to explain to them the urgency of the situation, and this invoked a few seconds of paralysed horror before they scattered to their stations. Four of them were hauling ineffectively at the anchor rope, but the great lump of coral was buried in the gluey mud of the bottom. Sebastian pushed them aside impatiently and with one knife stroke, severed the rope.
    The crew, with the enthusiastic assistance of Flynn’s bearers and gun-boys, ran up the faded and patched old sail. The wind caught it and bellied it. The deck canted slightly and two Arabs ran back to the tiller. From under the bows came the faint giggle of water, and from the stern spread a wide oily wake. With a cluster of the Arabs and bearers calling directions in the bows to the steersman at the rudder, the ancient dhow pointed downstream and ambled towards the sea.
    When Sebastian went back to Flynn, he found old Mohammed squatting anxiously beside him and watching, as Flynn drank from the square bottle. Already a quarter of its contents had disappeared.
    Flynn lowered the gin bottle, and breathed heavily through his mouth. ‘Tastes like honey,’ he gasped.
    â€˜Let’s look at that leg.’ Sebastian stooped over Flynn’s naked, mud-besmeared body. ‘My God, what a mess! Mohammed, get a basin of water and try and find some clean cloth.’

– 10 –
    W ith the coming of evening, the breeze gathered strength, kicking up a chop on the widening water-ways of the delta. All afternoon the little dhow had butted against the run of the tide, but now began the ebb and it helped push her down towards the sea.
    â€˜With any luck we’ll reach the mouth before sunset.’ Sebastian was sitting beside Flynn’s blanket-wrapped form under the poop. Flynn grunted. He was weak with pain, and groggy with gin. ‘If we don’t, we’ll have to moor somewhere for the night. Can’t risk the channel in the dark.’ He received no reply from Flynn and himself fell silent.
    Except for the gurgle of the bow-wave and the singsong chant of the pilot, a lazy silence blanketed the dhow. Most of the crew and the bearers were strewn in sleep about the deck, although two of them worked quietly over the open galley as they prepared the evening meal.
    The heavy miasma of the swamps blended poorly with the stench of the bilges and the cargo of green ivory in the holds. It seemed to act as a drug, increasing Sebastian’s fatigue. His head sagged forward on his chest and his hands slipped from the rifle in his lap. He slept.
    The magpie chatter of the crew, and Mohammed’s urgent hands on his shoulder, shook him awake. He came to his feet and gazed blearily around him. ‘What is it? What is the trouble, Mohammed?
    For answer, Mohammed shouted the crew into silence,