The Iron Tiger - Jack Higgins [37]
He raked the soil from the fire and brought wood from a pile in one comer. Hamid rummaged amongst the sheepskins at the back and came up with a couple of stone jars.
He brought them to the fire with a grin. 'Goat's milk and cheese. Pretty rancid, but good for the constitution.'
'At the moment, I could face anything except going out there in these wet clothes again,' Drummond said.
He built the fire into a great, roaring pyramid and Hamid gave the sheepskins a shake. 'God alone knows what we'll get from this lot.'
But it didn't matter, nothing mattered except that it was warm and the fire was hot on the skin. Drummond crouched there, Watching the steam rise from his clothes suspended from the ridge pole, a sheepskin around his shoulders, and after a while he slept.
He awakened slowly and stared through the dim grey light at his clothes hanging from the ridge pole of the hut, wondering where he was. After a while he remembered and sat up.
Hamid squatted on the other side of the fire. He was wearing his uniform again and grinned. 'How do you feel?'
'Bloody awful!' Drummond stretched his arms and blood started to flow through cramped limbs. 'How long have we been here?'
'A couple of hours, that's all. Must be about two o'clock. We'd better get moving. Your clothes are pretty dry by now. Better than they were, anyway.'
Drummond started to dress and Hamid peered outside. 'From the looks of it, this rain is never going to stop. I think it'll turn to snow before it does.'
'As if we haven't got enough to worry about.'
Hamid shrugged. 'The weather should help if anything. It makes things just as difficult for the Chinese.'
Drummond moved to the entrance, zipping up the front of his flying jacket and looked out. The rain was lancing into the earth with steady force and a slight mist rising from the cold ground combined with it to reduce visibility to a few yards.
'I think you're right about the snow.'
'Which means we've got to move fast. We can't be more than seven or eight miles from the road. Anyone else who got across the river is bound to move in the same direction. They've no other choice.'
'You're thinking of Father Kerrigan and Janet?'
'Or Sher Dil, but the Chinese will follow the same route once they get across and we must keep ahead of them. If we can only reach the village Sher Dil mentioned, Bandong, and get horses, we might stand a chance.'
He picked up a couple of sheepskins and tossed one to Drummond. 'Better wear that over your shoulders. It'll keep out some of the rain.'
In the same moment, he drew back from the entrance, a finger to his mouth and dropped to one knee.
They crouched side by side, soundless and waiting. At first there was only the savage drumming of the rain and then Drummond heard it. A slipping, stumbling sound of feet trailing through the wet ground outside.
As the steps approached the hut and paused, Hamid launched himself through the entrance. There was a sudden splashing through the mud outside, the sound of a blow.
Drummond went after him, fists ready, but there was no need. Hamid stood over the huddled figure of a man who crouched in the mud. He grabbed a handful of hair and jerked the head back savagely. A great scar ran from the man's right eye to the corner of his mouth. The tattered remnants of a khaki uniform with corporal's stripes on the right sleeve still clung to his wiry body.
'It's the one who plunged into the river ahead of us,' Drummond said. 'You remember? He's one of Sher Dil's men.'
The man's face split into a wide, impudent grin. 'You know me, Major Hamid. Ahmed Hussein, Corporal in Number One Section.' His English was almost perfect, but with a slight, sing-song accent. 'Drummond Sahib, I have seen many times.'
Hamid started to laugh. 'I know this one, all right. One of the greatest rogues you'll ever meet in your life. An old Indian Army man, Khyber Rifles, wasn't it?'
'That's right, sahib.' Ahmed