hair, the great mainsail whispered above her head, and there was an
almost physical ache in her chest at the beauty of this night.
When Gareth came up silently behind her and slipped his arms about her
waist, she did not even turn her head, but lay back against him.
She did not want to argue and tease. As she herself had written, she
might soon be dead and the night was too beautiful to let it pass.
Neither of them spoke, but Vicky sighed and shuddered voluptuously as
she felt his hands, smooth and skilful, slide up under the light cotton
blouse. His touch, like the wind, was softly caressing.
Through their thin clothing she could feel the warmth and resilience of
his flesh pressed against her, feel his chest surge and subside to the
urgency of his breathing.
She turned slowly within the circle of his arms and lifted her face to
his as he stooped, meeting his body with a forward thrust of her hips.
The taste of his mouth and the musky male smell of his body hastened
her own arousal.
It took all her determination to tear her lips loose from his, and to
draw away from his embrace. She crossed quickly to where her blankets
lay and picked them up with hands that shook.
She spread them again between the dark supine forms of Jake and
Gregorius, and only when she rolled herself into their coarse folds and
lay upon her back trying to control her ragged breathing was she aware
that Jake Barton was awake.
His eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and even, but she knew
with complete certainty that he was awake.
eneral Emilio De Bono stood at the window of his office and looked
across the squalid roofs of the town of Asmara towards the great
brooding massif of the Ethiopian highlands. It looked like the
backbone of a dragon, he thought, and suppressed a shudder.
The General was seventy years of age, so he recalled vividly the last
Italian army that had ventured into that mountain fastness. The name
Adowa was a dark blot on the history of Italian arms, and after forty
years, that terrible bloody defeat of a modern European army was still
unavenged.
Now destiny had chosen him as the avenger and Emilio De Bono was not
certain that the role suited him. It would be much more to his liking
if wars could be fought without anybody getting hurt. The
General would go to great lengths to avoid inflicting pain or even
discomfort. Orders that might be distasteful. to the recipient were
avoided. Operations that might place anybody in jeopardy were frowned
upon severely by the commanding General and his officers had learned
not to suggest such extravagances.
The General was at heart a diplomat and a politician not a warrior. He
liked to see smiling faces, so he smiled a great deal himself. He
resembled a sprightly, wizened little goat, with the pointed white
beard that gave him the nickname of "Little Beard'. And he addressed
his officers as
"Caro', and his men as "Bambino'. He just wanted to be loved. So he
smiled and smiled.
However, the General was not smiling now. This morning he had received
from Rome another one of those importunate coded telegrams signed
Benito Mussolini. The wording had been even more peremptory than
usual. "The King of Italy wishes, and I, Benito Mussolini,
Minister of the armed forces, order that-" Suddenly he struck himself a
blow on his medal-bedecked chest which startled Captain Crespi, his
aide-decamp.
"They do not understand," cried De Bono bitterly. "It is all very
beautiful to sit in Rome and urge haste. To cry "Strike!" But they do
not see the picture as we do, who stand here looking across the Mareb
River at the swarming multitudes of the enemy." The Captain came to
the
General's side and he also stared out of the window. The building that
housed the expeditionary army headquarters in Asmara was double
storied
and the General's office on the top floor commanded a sweeping view to
the foot of the mountains. The Captain observed wryly that the
swarming multitudes were not readily apparent. The land was a vast
emptiness slumbering in the brilliant sunlight. Air reconnaissance in
depth had descried no concentrations of Ethiopian troops, and reliable
intelligence reported that the Emperor Baile Selassie had ordered that
none of his rudimentary military units approach the border as close as
fifty kilometres, to avoid giving the Italians an excuse to march.
"They do not understand that I must consolidate my position here in
Eritrea. That I must have a firm base and supply train," cried De
Bono pitifully. For over a year he had been consolidating his position
and assembling his supplies.
The crude little harbour of Massawa, which once had lazily served the
needs of an occasional tramp steamer or one of the little Japanese
salt-traders, had been reconstructed completely. Magnificent stone
piers ran out into the sea, great wharves bustled with steam cranes,
and busy locomotives shuttled the incredible array of warlike stores
that poured ashore by the thousands of tons a day for month after
month. The Suez Canal remained open to the transports of the Italian
