Wings of the Morning by Julian Beale Read Free Book Online

covering the Belgian who stood large but relaxed in a clear exhibition of ‘not my fight’. Then Josh was behind the
wheel and driving, at Patrick’s instruction, back down the track.
    ‘Must go that way, Suh. Go gentle. I play dead.’ They bounced back past the convoy, past men who could have been dangerous but who in their ignorance of what had been causing the
delay were bored and inactive except to note that rough justice had apparently been meted out.
    As they cleared the column and built up some speed on the track, Josh considered their next move. There would be swift pursuit once they had sorted themselves out. Not from loyalty or love,
Moses Samson would have earned little of either from black or white. But money, that was a different matter. Samson had raised and financed the expedition. He was the banker and the paymaster.
Without him, the motley force had no purpose and no reward. That’s why they would pursue and they would be deadly, especially the white mercenaries. And that’s why Josh Trollope braked
the Land Rover to a stop in a shower of dust and turned in his seat. Patrick too had worked it out and moved off Samson who sat up, choking and spitting. Without a further word, Josh shot him
cleanly between the eyes with his own gun. Patrick tipped the body over the tailboard and onto the track for the ‘army of Moses’ to find. Then they drove on in silence and made best
time back to Mbornou.
    And there it might so easily have ended. Just another little African punch up, characterised as much by incompetence as violence. There was no further pursuit. Josh and Patrick dumped the Land
Rover just outside the town and walked into the centre with Patrick garbed only in a form of loin cloth which he had fashioned from a large rag in the toolbox. Once there, Josh funded a brisk
search for some other clothes and a quick meal before lying in cover to watch their back while Patrick found them a bush taxi in which they completed a direct journey to Libreville, arriving after
nearly sixteen hours of bone shaking travel, punctuated by the odd breakdown.
    Barry Bingham had died less than twenty-four hours after Josh had left him at the hospital, as he learned from the French doctor. Cremation had already taken place and the doctor handed Josh an
urn of ashes together with a little bundle of documents and effects which were the only residue of Barry Bingham. Josh had no idea of the deceased’s family or responsibilities, but he
accepted this small burden which included a notarised bill of transfer under which Barry’s pay for this last, shambolic operation passed to him. Josh handed a significant sum in cash to
Patrick before they parted at Libreville airport, promising to stay in touch.
    Josh Trollope flew home to his farm, his wife, and his new born son. He never took up arms again. But life’s lottery casts a long shadow. Patrick Nugumu continued as a soldier under the
influences of both choice and circumstance. Quite shortly after this little incident came the outbreak of the Biafra war in Nigeria, which he survived on the losing side and thereafter he gained
the distinction of a mention in Frederick Forsyth’s account of The Dogs of War. Later by far, when age and experience had honed his fighting judgement to its full potency, would come his most
productive struggle, to be waged at the shoulder of Josh’s son Rory Trollope whose father had plucked him from a grubby death some thirty-five years earlier.

SOLOMON KIRCHOFF — 1965
    Before the end of 1965, just a few weeks after Josh Trollope’s little skirmish in Africa, David Heaven was looking for a job. He was no different to a million other
graduates. He had vague notions of what he wanted to do with his life, but was surer of what was not for him. He was certain he would not join Pente in the church, nor to go soldiering with Conrad,
nor follow Alexa into banking. Medicine, the law, accounting or insurance — he couldn’t get excited