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

and turned back to Sebastian. ‘Listen, master.’
    Sebastian shook the remnants of sleep from his head, then cocked it slightly. ‘I can’t hear …’ He stopped, an expression of uncertainty on his face.
    Very faintly in the still of the evening he heard it, a faint
huffing rhythm, as though a train passed in the distance. ‘Yes,’ he said, still uncertain. ‘What is it?’
    â€˜The toot-toot boat, she comes.’
    Sebastian stared at him without comprehension.
    â€˜The Allemand. The Germans.’ Mohammed’s hands fluttered with agitation. ‘They follow us. They chase. They catch. They …’ He clutched his own throat with both hands and rolled his eyes. His tongue protruded from the corner of his mouth.
    Flynn’s entire retinue was gathered in a mob around Sebastian, and at Mohammed’s graphic little charade, they burst once more into a frightened chorus. Every eye was on Sebastian, waiting for his lead, and he felt confused, uncertain. Instinctively he turned to Flynn. Flynn lay on his back, his mouth open, snoring. Quickly Sebastian knelt beside him. ‘Flynn! Flynn!’ Flynn opened his eyes but they were focused beyond Sebastian’s face. ‘The Germans are coming.’
    â€˜The Campbells are coming. Hurrah! Hurrah!’ muttered Flynn and closed his eyes again. His usually red face was flushed hot-scarlet with fever.
    â€˜What must I do?’ pleaded Sebastian.
    â€˜Drink it!’ advised Flynn. ‘Never hesitate. Drink it!’ his eyes still closed, his voice slurred.
    â€˜Please, Flynn. Please tell me.’
    â€˜Tell you?’ muttered Flynn in delirium. ‘Sure! Have you heard the one about the camel and the missionary?’
    Sebastian jumped to his feet and looked wildly about him. The sun was low, perhaps another two hours to nightfall. If only we can hold them off until then. ‘Mohammed. Get the gun-boys up into the stern,’ he snapped, and Mohammed, recognizing the new crispness in his voice, turned on the mob about him to relay the order.
    The ten gun-boys scattered to gather their weapons and
then crowded up on to the poop. Sebastian followed them, gazing anxiously back along the channel. He could see two thousand yards to the bend behind them and the channel was empty, but he was sure the sound of the steam engine was louder.
    â€˜Spread them along the rail,’ he ordered Mohammed. He was thinking hard now; always a difficult task for Sebastian. Stubborn as a mule, his mind began to sulk as soon as he flogged it. He wrinkled his high scholar’s forehead and his next thought emerged slowly. ‘A barricade,’ he said. The thin planking of the bulwark would offer little protection against the high-powered Mousers. ‘Mohammed, get the others to carry up everything they can find, and pile it here to shield the steersmen and the gun-boys. Bring everything – water barrels, the sacks of coconuts, those old fishing-nets.’
    While they hurried to obey the order, Sebastian stood in frowning concentration, prodding the mass within his skull and finding it as responsive as a lump of freshly kneaded dough. He tried to estimate the relative speeds of the dhow and a modern steam launch. Perhaps they were moving at half the speed of their pursuers. With a sliding sensation, he decided that even in this wind, sail could not hope to outrun a propeller-driven craft.
    The word propeller , and the chance that at that moment he was forced to move aside to allow four of the men to drag an untidy bundle of old fishing-nets past, eased the next idea to the surface of his mind.
    Humbled by the brilliance of his idea, he clung to it desperately, lest it somehow sink once more below the surface to be lost. ‘Mohammed …’ he stammered in his excitement. ‘Mohammed, those nets …’ He looked back again along the wide channel, and saw it still empty. He looked ahead and saw the