The Man from the 'Turkish Slave' Page 14

  Ahead of him Lesset saw Assis turn for an instant. He shouted something exultantly and pointed ahead. The moonlight showed Peter’s black figure scrambling across broken, tilted strata of volcanic slabs, heading straight for the gap above him. Assis would be enjoying this, Lesset thought. He loved hunting and, blast him, he had a good wind.

  Peter saw the great gap in the ridge line above him and made for it. His mind was working now with a steady, comforting logic. Half the crater would be in dark shadow from the moon. The clouds were thickening and, if the moonlight went altogether, everything would be in his favour. Once he got into the wild, broken ground of the crater bowl he could hide. All he needed was to get them past him, even if it were only a matter of yards. Then he would turn, risk the shotgun and make his way back. The gap was an easy way through to the crater. He was buoyed up now by a grim decision to get the better of Lesset.

  Up here the breeze was stronger, cool across the back of his neck. Once a bunch of goats rose from the lee of a boulder before him and scattered away madly across the rocks, their hooves beating sharp and staccato in the night. His legs were tired and his lungs wheezed like an old concertina, but he comforted himself with the thought that the others would be in no better shape.

  He came up on to the edge of the gap, saw the towering, unscaleable black faces of the broken rim rise on his left and right, and ran forward through knee-high weeds and wind-flattened thorn bushes towards the crater. He saw the far side of the bowl, grey and silver with dark shadow markings. As he ran he disturbed a scraggy sheep from the scrub. It leaped ahead of him, startled. He saw it go bounding wildly forward, its thin, frightened bleat echoing from the high walls of the gap. Then it disappeared over the inner lip of the gap. A few seconds later he reached the point on the edge of the gap where it had disappeared. He pulled up, slipping and clutching at a clump of bushes to hold himself from going over.

  He straightened up, his knees trembling beneath him. And at that moment from far below in the blackness which seemed thick and impenetrable came the crash of the sheep’s body hitting the ground. It was a savage, soft, beastly sound followed by the roar of sliding debris and then silence. Peter stood gasping and straining for breath, his heart thumping away and a sickness in his throat which made him giddy. Another moment and he would have been over.

  The moon slid out from behind a bank of cloud. The tarn, hundreds of feet below, glittered like polished jet. Each bush and boulder was pocked with a black shadow and the long sweeps of loose scree were speckled and ragged like the sloughed skins of snakes. From the chasm at his feet rose the bitter-sweet alarm note of a rock pipit disturbed from its night-roost by the falling sheep. The warm night air was suddenly cold on Peter’s sweating skin. The whole crater was spectral, unearthly, a cold, dead stretch of unhospitable ground that might have been part of some lifeless planet.

  He turned at a cry from behind him. Against the far edge of the gap he saw four figures rise, dwarflike at first, and then, taking their full height, advance slowly towards him. They walked now, strung out and barring his way back.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lesset, as he moved slowly forward, watched Peter.

  It was interesting, he thought, to have forced a man into this position. What would he do? Jump, or turn and fight? Fight, he hoped; for that way he would recover the pearl collar without much trouble.

  He was sorry for Peter, but the man was an obstacle in his way, and he had to be brushed aside. This kind of thing was disordered and undignified, and usually set up a train of trouble. Twice before in his career he had been forced to kill a man, and each time there had been inconvenience and extra work and planning to cover the violence … Both he and Lopez Miranda hated violence. It was a matter of satisfaction to them that they seldom had to use it. This time there was no choice.

  He saw Peter turn and run along the lip of the precipice towards the left-hand rim face. It won’t help you, son, he thought. You can’t go up and you can’t go down. Peter’s figure was lost in the blackness under the sheer face of the broken rim. Lesset raised an arm and signalled the line of men. They wheeled slightly and drove on towards the spot where Peter had disappeared into the shadows.

  When they reached the place Peter had gone. But they could hear him. A loose stone fell, bounding and striking against the cliff below.

  Where the edge of the gap met the steep upthrust of the rim, a small ledge ran out, little more than a slightly tilted fault in the rock. Nowhere was it more than six inches wide. It curved towards an overhanging bulge of rock and disappeared. The four of them stood looking towards the bulge of rock.

  Assis said, ‘The ledge finishes just around the corner. There is a little place, half-shelf, half-cave. He can go no further.’

  Lesset pulled an automatic from his pocket and handed it to Assis.

  ‘Try to shoot so that he does not fall outwards.’

  Assis hesitated, the gun in his hand. He did not like the idea of shooting a man in cold blood. He liked his quarry to be moving.

  ‘We can’t leave this island until we’ve dealt with him.’ Lesset smiled, understanding Assis and knowing the spur he needed. ‘Think of all the money waiting for you, Assis. You can’t spend money in prison.’

  Assis put the gun in his pocket and began to move out along the ledge, his arms spread-eagled, his body pressed close against the rock face. Hundreds of feet below him, at the foot of the cliff, lay a great fan of rock waste, spreading out to the shores of the small lake.

  He worked his way out carefully. He knew Pae well, every rock and cranny, and he treated the mountain with respect. As he worked round the bulge, he had to crouch, his hands reaching up over the curve, his body arched, his feet feeling slowly for each fresh hold. At its very tip the bulge flattened into a blunt muzzle and the ledge widened again so that he could stand almost comfortably, holding with one hand. Lesset and the Pastori brothers could no longer see him.

  Slowly Assis fumbled in his pocket for the automatic. As he did so, he felt the rockface against which he was pressed shake gently. A slow spill of dirt and small stones from above came rattling and sliding down upon him, filling his eyes with dust and beating against his face. His hand came back from his pocket, empty, and he grabbed at the rock to give himself a firmer hold.

  Assis knew what was happening. For the last six months there had been these sudden small tremors. Old Pae stirring in his sleep, people said, and they paid no attention. Pae had once been a mighty volcano … He still liked to remind them of his past glory.

  ‘Assis—are you all right?’ He heard Lesset call, but before he could answer there was another shake, longer this time. Assis swung his arms close about his head, shifting his grasp quickly, to protect himself from falling rocks. The mountain face seemed to judder angrily. A rock slipped from the broken outcrop above him, slid and crashed against his arm, tearing the thin shirt material and cutting into his flesh. For a moment he was almost torn from the ledge. A hand and foot were jerked free and he pivoted half round, dust and stones sweeping over him. He reached out desperately, felt rock under his hand and his swinging foot found the ledge. He hugged himself against the rock and then was conscious that the mountain was still. Slowly he straightened up, shaking the dust and rubbish from his face and hair, feeling the sharp prick of small stones that had lodged inside his shirt. The blood ran down his arm, but he paid no attention to it.

  When his breath had evened and no other quake had come, he remembered Peter. And now there was anger in him against the Englishman. It was because of him that he had been caught out on the ledge, because of him that he had nearly been twitched off into the darkness below. He pulled the automatic out and inched forward.

  Peter was waiting for him. During the quake he had heard Lesset’s warning shout and had guessed that Assis was out on the ledge after him. He, himself, had been safe, backed into the little hollow in the cliff-face where the ledge ended. A few yards from him he could see the blunt nose of the out-thrust.
He saw Assis’ head come up over the rock and then the quick gleam of the gun. He drew back into the hollow, crouching against the side for cover. Assis saw the movement and fired. The shot woke a chattering succession of echoes around the crater. The bullet smacked into the rock at the back of the hollow and ricochetted with a waspish snarl out into the night.

  Peter flattened himself against the side of the depression. From where Assis stood he could not get a direct shot at him, but a ricochetting bullet might hit him. Assis fired again and this time the bullet glanced off a rock projection a foot from Peter’s head and whipped by him so near that the wind of its passage was like the sudden drag of hot fingers across his cheek. He heard Assis laugh, a low, rough sound in the night. Edging forward, he saw that he was now working around the out-thrust. If he could come a few feet further along the ledge he would have a clear view of the inside of the hollow.

  Peter bent down and picked up a loose rock. He leaned out and hurled it. The rock hit the cliff face an inch from Assis’ side, glanced against his body and fell into the darkness. Peter threw another rock and heard the dull shock as it smashed into Assis’ back. But by the time he had another ready to throw Assis had prudently drawn back. And now, knowing that the fisherman had his revolver hand free again, Peter kept under cover.

  He waited for the next shot. None came. He heard Assis moving on the far side of the overhang. In the hollow he was perched right on the lip of a great fall. Now and again the moon, paling a little as the dawn began to stir in the East beyond the distant rim of the crater, escaped from behind the banking clouds and he could see the great gulf at his feet. He tried not to look down, remembering the first time he had ever gone to a mast-head and had seen the ship’s deck dwarfed and rolling below him …

  He heard Assis shouting to the others and the words came clearly to him. Thanks to Tereza he knew more Portuguese now. The shotgun. Assis was shouting for the shotgun. He knew what that meant. Both barrels would blast off into this meagre scoop out of the rocks … hundreds of pellets slashing back from the hard rock. He would be finished, ripped into a bloody mass. He stood up, swearing to himself.

  He had to get away. The black abyss yawned up at him and he looked away quickly, looked up. The rock face went straight up in a three foot run above the hollow. Then there was a slight overhang and beyond that … he could not know. But even the thought of climbing the first few feet was frightening. He was no climber.

  He had no choice and for spur he had an angry determination not to be trapped, not to be mangled. He reached up, worked his fingers into a tiny hold and then felt with his feet for a purchase on the side of the hollow. He found a projection and hauled himself up, his legs and arms trembling in sympathy with the strain that ran from his crooked fingers in the top hold.

  He tried not to think about himself or the danger. He was just a thing, a compound of bone, muscle and flesh driven by a will not to be caught, not to be beaten … He had to go on, to live, to get back to Portos Marias. He reached the overhang and got a grip on it. He pulled himself up, his feet swinging clear over the depths below. He lay, panting, pressed into the momentary shelter of a thin horizontal rift in the rocks, his face taking the coolness of the stone. He raised himself cautiously to his feet, and worked along the rift. The rock-face bulged out at him as though it were alive, malevolent, trying to bunt him off into the depths below. Blind in the darkness cast by a slow moving pall of clouds over the moon, he groped his way along.

  The narrow foothold came to an end. He reached with his right foot, seeking some fresh hold. But there was nothing. He brought his foot back, and reached out with his right hand, running his fingers along the rock-face. The rock drew back at a sharp angle. He reached round, straining for a fresh hold. His finger-tips found the smooth side of a small rock boss. But he could get no firm hold on it.

  Then away to his left he heard Assis. He was coming back along the ledge. Assis fired twice at the rock scoop. Below him Peter heard the shots whine and fret from the cliff and a shower of stones hammered down upon him, shaken loose by the explosions.

  He reached out again, found the rock boss with his hand and then, desperate, let himself go, his other hand swinging free for a second as he hung, his feet dragging clear of the ledge. Then he had both hands on the knob of the rock. His knees thudded against the cliff and his feet found a hold. He hauled himself up and, the clouds passing, found himself in a narrow funnel. A piece of rotten rock broke under his hand and fell. Assis heard him.

  The shotgun was fired and a blast of pellets whined off the projecting edge of the funnel. His back wedged against one side of the funnel, his feet braced against the other wall, he inched his way upwards. The whole of his right side was exposed as the funnel narrowed and became shallower. Assis fired again, and a few random pellets bit into Peter’s cheek and arm as the main charge whipped into the rock wall below him. He winced with the sudden pain, and then, as the echoes died, fought his way upwards again. He dragged himself over the mouth of the funnel at last, and was on a steep, loose slope cluttered with great slabs of rock. He plunged forward, digging his feet into the soft rubble. Sweat stung his eyes which were gritty with dust and the cliff swum before him. At the head of the slope, under a towering bastion of rock, he slipped. He came down the steep incline of a twenty-foot slab and thudded against a barrier of loose boulders. He grabbed a scraggy growth of bush and hung on. A fall of stones and shale rumbled into the depths below him. He heard Assis shout and there was another shot; but they were both distant.

  He crawled again towards the pale grey flank of the rock bastion above him.

  It was an agony that seemed endless. Pae laughed at him. He went up the bastion, spread-eagled, groping, driven only by one thought. He must go up, up, always upwards. His hands were cut and bloody, his nails broken. A fine madness possessed him. He no longer felt any pain when he fell. He swore and talked to himself, but he kept going. He took the most desperate risks with a contemptuous indifference and then, when they were past, rested, swamped with fear, his heart pounding, his head swimming as the black depths below sucked at him.

  And as he climbed, the night drew back. The tarn below became a dull bronze plaque. But here under the rim of the crest the shadows and darkness clung still, holding out tenaciously against the coming day.

  Away on his left he still heard the shouts of Lesset and his men and knew that they were after him, trying to anticipate his route. His trousers and shirt were torn and ripped and his face was a mess of dust and blood. But he kept on. Talking to himself, swearing as a hold failed and he slipped and his body took the shock of sliding into rock-point and crevice. Inch by inch he clawed and fought his way up.

  The sky grew lighter, and the undersides of the clouds took on a dull colour like the bellies of fish long out of water. The morning was fast coming.

  He came finally up over a loose crumbling terrace of old lava stone and found a small patch of thin grass. Beyond it he could see a narrow notch in the crest, and he realised that he was practically at the top. Through the notch lay the way down to Portos Marias. But his feet refused to move for him. He had to rest. He dropped to the grass, and lay panting, stupid with the relief of doing nothing. For a long time he lay there and knew he did not want to move ever again. Somewhere away to his left he could hear shouts but they meant nothing to him. He was up and that was all. Now he wanted no more than to lie still, to feel the grass under his cheek, to ease his heaving lungs and madly pumping heart. And as he lay there, far out at sea, the first edge of the sun came dolphin-backed over the horizon and long, sharp morning shadows hardened from the foot of the pinnacles and boulders on the ridge top.

  He wanted to stay here, but he knew he must not. And now, the dour, obstinate Cornish spirit helped him. He forced himself to move.

  He was on his hands and knees, making the effort to rise when he heard the rattle of loose gravel and then the soft thud of feet against grass.

  His head came up. Black and bulky,
dominating the pale line of the sky above, was Assis. He stood there, his great chest heaving from his running and he held the shotgun at Peter. The twin muzzles were only a foot from his face.

  ‘Senhor … Senhor.’ The words came jerkily from Assis as he fought for his breath. ‘Senhor … too bad …’ Even in his despair Peter was aware of a rough sympathy in the voice. Assis shook his head and then Peter saw one hand slide down the barrel and the other settle snugly about the trigger guard and he heard the safety-catch snap off.

  Peter lurched forward clumsily and caught at the barrel. Momentarily the dark muzzles were an inch from his face, then he pushed the shotgun aside, wrenching it from Assis as the man fired. There was a roaring sheet of flame and the vicious sweep of shot-tortured air. They fell together, rolling and struggling. Peter raised his arm and drove with his fist at the contorted boyish face below him. Nails raked across his neck. They smashed and kicked at one another … and suddenly they were torn apart and there was the long angry slithering sound of moving gravel and loose stone. Peter’s hand found a bush and he held on. He saw Assis fall away from him, rolling and sliding down a thirty-foot slope of gravel towards the lip of a sheer drop. He heard Assis shout wildly and then a few feet from the edge he saw the man crash into a pile of loose boulders. For a moment Peter thought the whole lot would go over the edge; but the boulders held. He shut his eyes, breathing hard, his head spinning. When he looked again, Assis was beginning to crawl slowly back up the slope.