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

it there. A fat, hot sack of it. Reckon we’ve got to dig for it pretty soon. Reckon if we can’t make it back to Zanzibar pretty soon, we’re going to have to dig for it.’ Then his mind escaped once more into the hot land of delirium.
    â€˜My little girl, I’ll bring you a pretty ribbon. There, don’t cry. A pretty ribbon for a pretty girl.’ His voice syrupy, then suddenly harsh. ‘You cheeky little bitch. You’re just like that goddamned mother of yours. Don’t know why I don’t chase you out,’ this last followed immediately by the hyena imitation again.
    Now Sebastian turned away from the poop rail and looked down on Flynn. Beside him the faithful Mohammed was dipping strips of cloth in a bucket of sea water, wringing them out and then laying them on Flynn’s flushed forehead in a futile attempt to reduce the fever.
    Sebastian sighed. His responsibilities lay heavily. The command of the expedition had devolved squarely upon him. And yet, there was a sneaky sensation of pleasure, of pride in his execution of that command to the present. He went back and replayed in his mind the episode of the fishnet, remembering the quick decision that had altered the launch’s course and lured it into the trap. He smiled at the memory, and the smile was not his usual self-effacing grin, but something harder. When he turned away to pace the narrow deck there was more spring in his step, and he set his shoulders square.
    Again he stopped by the rail and looked towards the west. There was a cloud on the horizon, a tiny dark figure of it. And he watched it with hope that it might herald the start of the afternoon sea breeze. Yet it seemed unnatural. As he watched, it moved. He could swear it moved. Now
his whole attention was fastened upon it. Realization began to flicker in him, building up until it was certainty.
    A ship. By God, a ship!
    He ran to the poop ladder, and slid down into the waist, across it to the mast.
    The crew and the bearers watched him with awakening interest. Some of them got to their feet.
    Sebastian jumped on to the boom, balancing there a moment before he started to shin up the mast. Using the mainsail hoops like the rungs of a ladder, he reached the masthead and clung there, peering eagerly into the west.
    There she was – no doubt about it. He could see the tips of the triple stacks, each with its feather of dark smoke, and he began to cheer.
    Below him the rail was lined with his men, all peering out in the direction they took from him. Sebastian slid down the mast, the friction burning his hands in his haste. His feet hit the deck and he ran to Flynn. ‘A ship. A big ship coming up fast.’ Flynn rolled his head and looked at him vaguely. ‘Listen to me, Flynn. There’ll be a doctor aboard. We’ll get you to a port in no time.’
    â€˜That’s good, Bassie.’ Flynn’s brain clicked back into focus. ‘You’ve done real good.’
    She came up over the horizon with astonishing rapidity, and her silhouette changed as she altered course towards them. But not before Sebastian had seen the gun turrets.
    â€˜A warship!’ he shouted. To his mind this proved her British – only one nation ruled the waves. ‘They’ve seen us!’ He waved his hands above his head.
    Bows on, each second growing in size, grey and big, she bore down upon the little dhow.
    Gradually the cheering of the crew faltered and subsided into an uneasy silence. Magnified by the still, hot air, huge on the velvety gloss of the ocean, lifting a bow wave of pearling white, the warship came on. No check in her
speed, the ensign at her masthead streaming away from them so they could not see the colours.
    â€˜What are they going to do?’ Sebastian asked aloud, and was answered by Flynn’s voice. Sebastian glanced around. Balancing on his good leg with one arm draped around Mohammed’s neck, Flynn was hopping across the