Half an hour later he and Benedetta left. She was pulling the travois and he was clumsily steering the drum of paraffin. There were two loops of wire round the drum in a sling so that he could have a measure of control. They had wasted little time in saying goodbye to Rohde and Forester, and still less on Peabody. Willis had said, ‘We’ll need you up here tomorrow; the trebuchet will be ready then.’
‘I’ll be here,’ promised O’Hara. ‘If I haven’t any other engagements.’
It was difficult going down the mountain, even though they were on the road. Benedetta hauled on the travois and had to stop frequently to rest, and more often to help O’Hara with the drum. It weighed nearly four hundred pounds and seemed to have a malevolent mind of its own. His idea of being able to steer it by pulling on the wires did not work well. The drum would take charge and go careering at an angle to wedge itself in the ditch at the side of the road. Then it would be a matter of sweat and strain to get it out, whereupon it would charge into the opposite ditch.
By the time they got down to the bottom O’Hara felt as though he had been wrestling with a malign and evil adversary. His muscles ached and it seemed as though someone had pounded him with a hammer all over his body. Worse, in order to get the drum down the mountain at all he had been obliged to lighten the load by jettisoning a quarter of the contents and had helplessly watched ten gallons of invaluable paraffin drain away into the thirsty dust.
When they reached the valley Benedetta abandoned the travois and went for help. O’Hara had looked at the sky and said, ‘I want this drum at the bridge before nightfall.’
Night swoops early on the eastern slopes of the Andes. The mountain wall catches the setting sun, casting long shadows across the hot jungles of the interior. At five in the afternoon the sun was just touching the topmost peaks and O’Hara knew that in an hour it would be dark.
Armstrong came up to help and O’Hara immediately asked, ‘Who’s on watch?’
‘Jenny. She’s all right. Besides, there’s nothing doing at all.’
With two men to control the erratic drum it went more easily and they manoeuvred it to the bridgehead within half an hour. Miss Ponsky came running up. ‘They switched on their lights just now and I think I heard an auto engine from way back along there.’ She pointed downstream.
‘I would have liked to try and put out the headlamps on this jeep,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t want to waste an arrow – a quarrel – and in any case there’s something in front of the glass.’
‘They have stone guards in front of the lights,’ said Armstrong. ‘Heavy mesh wire.’
‘Go easy on the bolts, anyway,’ said O’Hara. ‘Peabody was supposed to be making some but he’s been loafing on the job.’ He carefully crept up and surveyed the bridgehead. The jeep’s headlights illuminated the whole bridge and its approaches and he knew that at least a dozen sharp pairs of eyes were watching. It would be suicidal to go out there.
He dropped back and looked at the drum in the fading light. It was much dented by its careering trip down the mountain road but he thought it would roll a little farther. He said, ‘This is the plan. We’re going to burn the bridge. We’re going to play the same trick that we played this morning but we’ll apply it on this side of the bridge.’
He put his foot on top of the drum and rocked it gently. ‘If Armstrong gives this one good heave it should roll right down to the bridge – if we’re lucky. Jenny will be standing up there with her crossbow and when it gets into the right position she’ll puncture it. I’ll be in position too, with Benedetta to hand me the other crossbow with a fire-bolt. If the drum is placed right then we’ll burn through the ropes on this side and the whole bloody bridge will drop into the water.’
‘That sounds all right,’ said Armstrong.
‘Get the bows, Jenny,’ said O’Hara and took Armstrong to one side, out of hearing of the others. ‘It’s a bit more tricky than that,’ he said. ‘In order to get the drum in the right place you’ll have to come into the open.’ He held his head on one side; the noise of the vehicle had stopped. ‘So I want to do it before they get any more lights on the job.’
Armstrong smiled gently. ‘I think your little bit is more dangerous than mine. Shooting those fire-bolts in the dark will make you a perfect target – it won’t be as easy as this morning, and then you nearly got shot.’
‘Maybe,’ said O’Hara. ‘But this has got to be done. This is how we do it. When that other jeep – or whatever it is – comes up, maybe the chaps on the other side won’t be so vigilant. My guess is that they’ll tend to watch the vehicle manoeuvre into position; I don’t think they’re a very disciplined crowd. Now, while that’s happening is the time to do your stuff. I’ll give you the signal.’
‘All right, my boy,’ said Armstrong. ‘You can rely on me.’
O’Hara helped him to push the drum into the position easiest for him, and then Miss Ponsky and Benedetta came up with the crossbows. He said to Benedetta, ‘When I give Armstrong the signal to push off the drum, you light the first fire-bolt. This has got to be done quickly if it’s going to be done at all.’
‘All right, Tim,’ she said.
Miss Ponsky went to her post without a word.
He heard the engine again, this time louder. He saw nothing on the road downstream and guessed that the vehicle was coming slowly and without lights. He thought they’d be scared of being fired on during that half-mile journey. By God, he thought, if I had a dozen men with a dozen bows I’d make life difficult for them. He smiled sourly. Might as well wish for a machine-gun section – it was just as unlikely a possibility.
Suddenly the vehicle switched its lights on. It was quite near the bridge and O’Hara got ready to give Armstrong the signal. He held his hand until the vehicle – a jeep – drew level with the burnt-out truck, then he said in a whispered shout, ‘Now!’
He heard the rattle as the drum rolled over the rocks and out of the corner of his eye saw the flame as Benedetta ignited the fire-bolt. The drum came into sight on his left, bumping down the slight incline which led towards the bridge. It hit a larger stone which threw it off course. Christ, he whispered, we’ve bungled it.
Then he saw Armstrong run into the open, chasing after the drum. A few faint shouts came from across the river and there was a shot. ‘You damned fool,’ yelled O’Hara. ‘Get back.’ But Armstrong kept running forward until he had caught up with the drum and, straightening it on course again, he gave it another boost.
There was a rafale of rifle-fire and spurts of dust flew about Armstrong’s feet as he ran back at full speed, then a metallic thunk as a bullet hit the drum and, as it turned, O’Hara saw a silver spurt of liquid rise in the air. The enemy were divided in their intentions – they did not know which was more dangerous, Armstrong or the drum. And so Armstrong got safely into cover.
Miss Ponsky raised the bow. ‘Forget it, Jenny,’ roared O’Hara. ‘They’ve done it for us.’
Again and again the drum was hit as it rolled towards the bridge and the paraffin spurted out of more holes, rising in gleaming jets into the air until the drum looked like some strange kind of liquid Catherine wheel. But the repeated impact of bullets was slowing it down and there must have been a slight and unnoticed rise in the ground before the bridge because the drum rolled to a halt just short of the abutments.
O’Hara swore and turned to grasp the crossbow which Benedetta was holding. Firing in the dark with a fire-bolt was difficult; the flame obscured his vision and he had to will himself consciously to take aim slowly. There was another babble of shouts from over the river and a bullet ricocheted from a rock nearby and