The Keys Of Hell

FOURTEEN

THE RIVER WAS ANGRY, SWOLLEN BY the rains flowing down from the mountains of the north, and it rushed toward the sea with more than usual force.

The frail punt skipped water constantly and Chavasse and Orsini took turns at bailing with an old tin basin. They ate the food the priest had provided and finished the bottle of brandy.

Chavasse sat in the prow, his collar turned up against the spray, and longed for a cigarette. He wondered what Kapo would do? Probably tie up farther downriver till dawn. Then he would send Francesca in with the dinghy and Carlo would swallow every damned thing she said.

Perhaps half an hour later, the engine faltered and died abruptly. As the punt started to drift broadside on in the strong current, Liri called, “There are paddles under the seat. Keep her head round.”

Chavasse fumbled in the darkness and found two crude paddles. He leaned over the side and dug one deep into the water, using all his strength, and gradually the punt turned into the current.

Orsini scrambled to the stern and, after a struggle, managed to get the engine housing off. He started to try to trace the fault by touch alone and after a while his sensitive fingers encountered a broken lead to one of the plugs. The wire was old and brittle and crumbled between his fingers, but he eventually managed to link it together and tried the starter. The engine turned over twice, faltered, then rumbled into life, and Chavasse rested on the thwart in relief as the punt surged forward.

“Any chance of that happening again?” he called softly.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. This must be the one they used on the Ark.”

Orsini stayed at the tiller, nursing the engine along, and Liri moved into the center and started to bail. It was still quite dark and visibility was almost nil. Only the surge of white water against the bank gave them any kind of bearing.

The bulk of a large island loomed out of the night and Liri called urgently as Orsini swung the tiller, taking them away toward the center of the river.

As the current caught them, there was a sudden challenge from the left and Chavasse glanced over his shoulder and saw the motor boat anchored in the lee of the island, a light in her wheelhouse.

He was aware of people moving along the deck, of confused voices and then a powerful spot mounted on top of the wheelhouse was switched on, the beam splaying out across the dark water. It followed them relentlessly, trapping them in its dazzling beam like flies in a web.

There was an incredulous cry of dismay and Francesca’s voice sounded on the cold air like a bugle. “Kapo! Kapo! Come quickly!”

Chavasse leaned over the side, digging the paddle into the water feverishly as Orsini gave the old motor everything it had. They dipped into the millrace as the current flowed past the final curved point of the island and coasted into darkness again.

A few moments later, the engine of the motor boat rumbled into life and Liri scrambled back into the stern. “I’ll take over now,” she said. “There’s a creek about a quarter of a mile below. If we can reach that, we’re safe. It’s too narrow for the motor boat to enter. They’ll have to stay in the main channel.”

Orsini moved down beside Chavasse, picked up the other paddle and drove it into the water with all his great strength. They were passing through a narrower section of the river now and the flood waters rushed with a mighty roar, drowning the sound of the motor boat’s engine. Chavasse stabbed the crude paddle into the water again and again, exerting everything of mind and will in a supreme effort, pushing the tiredness, the fatigue, of the past twenty-four hours away from him.

They swung in close to the land as the river broadened, and quite suddenly, as the roaring of the flood waters subsided, the engine of the motor boat sounded close behind.

He glanced over his shoulder, saw the lighted wheelhouse, the searchlight stabbing out toward them. There was the harsh deadly staccato of a submachine gun and then the punt swerved into the lee of a small island and started to turn.

Reeds swam out of the darkness and as the beam of the searchlight fell across them, the opening of the creek sprang out of the night. The punt surged toward it, slowed as it slid across a submerged mud bank and then they were through. The machine gun rattled again ineffectually as the reeds closed about them.

Liri reduced speed and they coasted on, brushing against the pale fronds. Gradually, the sound of the river faded. The engine of the motor boat had stopped for a while, but now they heard it start again faintly in the distance and fade downstream.

Orsini laughed shakily. “A close call.”

Chavasse took from his pocket the compass Father Shedu had given him, and passed it to the Italian. “You’d better start using this. We haven’t got time to hang about.”

Orsini moved in to the stern beside Liri. “South-southwest must be our general direction. Can we do it?”

“I think so. I know this creek and where it goes. We’ll come to a large lagoon soon. We change direction there. But it’s possible you might have to get out and push in places.”

“When will it be light?” Chavasse asked.

“An hour, perhaps a little longer. It will be misty, one can always tell.”

“We’re in your hands, cara,” Orsini told her.

THEY MOVED INTO A LARGE LAGOON AS SHE had indicated and turned into a maze of twisting channels. The outboard motor stopped several times as trailing weeds clogged the propeller and finally, it died altogether.

Orsini examined it for several minutes and shook his head. “That’s all, I’m afraid. There’s nothing I can do, not under these conditions.”

From then on they used the paddles, and after a while the reeds became so thick that the two men had to go over the side, wading through thick glutinous mud as they forced a way through for the punt, always trying to keep to their general compass bearing.

The swampy water was treacherous and had a way of changing depth without warning. Once, Chavasse stepped into a deep hole and went in over his head. He struggled back with a curse to a comparatively safe footing and scrambled back into the punt as they emerged into another waterway.

Orsini laughed grimly. “Now this I could do without.”

It was bitterly cold and a damp mist curled from the water. Occasionally, wildfowl fluttered protestingly from the reeds as they passed through, calling angrily to each other, warning those ahead of the intruders.

There was an appreciable lightening of the darkness and a faint luminosity drifted around them. And then they could see the reeds and there was a honking of geese overhead lifting to meet the dawn.

Orsini was pale and drawn, the dark stubble of his beard accentuating his pallor. He looked about twenty years older, his hands shaking slightly in the extreme cold, and Chavasse didn’t feel any better. The girl looked healthier than either of them, but on the other hand, she hadn’t spent the best part of an hour up to her waist in freezing water.

They coasted into a broad channel and Orsini held up his hand. “We must be close now. Very close.”

He stood up in the punt, cupped his hands to his mouth and called at the top of his voice, “Buona Esperanza, ahoy! Ahoy, Buona Esperanza!”

There was no reply and Chavasse joined him. “Carlo! Carlo Arezzi!”

Their voices died away and in the gray light they looked helplessly at each other. Liri held up her hand. “I heard something.”

At first Chavasse thought it was the cry of a bird, but then it sounded again, unmistakably a human voice. They paddled into the mist, calling again and again and gradually the voice grew louder.

For the last time, Chavasse and Orsini went over the side, forcing the punt through a wall of reeds and then, quite suddenly, they were through and drifting into a familiar lagoon.

At the other end, the Buona Esperanza seemed to swim out of the mist to meet them, Carlo Arezzi poised on top of the wheelhouse.