Storm and Silence

Storm and Silence Page 227

He observed me for a moment through slightly narrowed eyes, as I stood there, legs shaking, hands clasped around the handle.

‘But you’re too weak to do this. You said so yourself.’

‘I? I never said anything of the sort! Let’s get going!’

Something twitched at the corner of his mouth. I blinked. Had I seen right? Could that have been the shadow of a smile? But no! Why would he smile? What was there to smile about, here and now?

‘All right… If you’re sure you can handle it…’

I had to be mistaken! Rikkard Ambrose never smiled.

‘Yes, I’m bloody sure! What are you waiting for?’

Another moment of silence passed. Then he gave a curt nod and abruptly took hold of the other end of the see-saw once more.

‘Well, if you insist, Mr Linton.’

He shoved down so hard it nearly lifted me off my feet. I gathered all my strength and pushed, and let loose, and pushed, and let loose. From then on, I kept up, although the pace he set nearly killed me. I wouldn’t give up again for anything, not after what he had said! Ha! Weak, feminine girl indeed…!

We were already halfway up the hill when it occurred to me that he might have said that on purpose, just to get me off the floor and moving again. But no… He didn’t know me that well, did he?

Yes, he does, that little annoying voice whispered in my ear.

I told it to shut up and help my aching arms.

I pushed and pulled and pushed. But although I gave it my best effort, we still were only moving as fast as an old lady’s carriage drawn by a horse with two lame legs. I estimated our stunning speed at about one mile per hour. Fortunately, the soldiers behind us seemed to have troubles, too. To judge by the voices I heard echoing behind me in the tunnel, there appeared to be more than two of them on the draisine, and the added weight was making it difficult for them to get up the latest hillside.

But that didn’t make my burning arms feel any better.

‘Mr… Ambrose?’ I gasped.

‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

‘Next time… you pick a cart to flee on, Sir… pick one that is steam-engine driven!’

‘Mr Linton?’

‘Yes… Sir?’

‘Be quiet and move faster!’

‘Yes… Sir!’

From behind us came the boom of a shot. I nearly dropped the handle and threw myself to the floor.

‘Don’t!’ Mr Ambrose commanded. ‘They can’t hit us! The metal container shields us from any gunfire!’

‘As long as… they’re behind us.’

‘Yes.’

‘What happens… when they realize that they… could probably catch up… by jumping off and… running after us?’

‘Mr Linton?’

‘Yes… Sir?’

‘One of the advantages of being silent is not giving your enemies any ideas while they might be in hearing distance. Now be quiet!’

‘Yes, Sir!’

It was about five minutes later, and we were just struggling up another slope, when we heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind us.

Mr Ambrose shot me a dark look. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. His look said it all: faster!

Another shot whistled over my head. And another, and another! The last one came so close that I could feel the air move as it whizzed past. Then came the sound of panting, and I knew they were catching up. Quickly, I risked a glance over my shoulder.

There they were! Halfway up the hill, only a few dozen yards behind us. The red and gold of their uniforms shimmered menacingly in the light of the torches they carried, the steel of their rifles adding another deadly colour to the mix of blood-red and gold. They were three in number, and were dashing forward at a dead run. One of them in particular, a slim-built fellow who looked as if he were used to running from Bristol to Bath and back again every morning before breakfast, seemed intent on sinking his claws into us. He was catching up fast.

‘We'll never get away from them,’ I panted. ‘They’ll get us!’

‘No, they won’t,’ was Mr Ambrose’s cool reply. ‘Not if we make it to the top of the hill in time.’

‘How…?’

‘Be quiet and move! Faster!’ And he started shoving down the handle twice as fast as before. Now, even his breathing sounded a little laboured. A single drop of sweat appeared on his chiselled forehead and ran down the side, disappearing into his collar.

Ha! So he is human after all, not some inanimate statue into which the God of Mammon has breathed life by accident!

Unfortunately, I wasn’t a living statue either. My tortured, aching muscles made my humanity all too clear to me. Gripping the handle more tightly so my slippery hands wouldn’t lose their grip on it, I tried to keep up with his insane tempo.

Think of Joan of Arc, I told myself. She threw an entire invasion of men out of her country! And you are going to be defeated by a stinking mining cart? What are you? A baby?

Well, at the moment I definitely felt like lying down and crying.

Blinking the sweat out of my eyes, I stared past Mr Ambrose and, in the dim light of the torches that our pursuers carried, could make out a dark black outline rising above us. The top of the hill? I couldn’t tell. It seemed miles away yet, but in the gloom, distances were impossible to gauge. Behind us, the sound of panting breath was growing louder.

‘Stop!’ The shouted command from behind me came so suddenly, and sounded so near, it nearly made my heart jump out of my chest. ‘Stop or we'll shoot!’

How very kind of you to warn us… Of course, you have already shot at us, so it’s not much of a warning, but still, very thoughtful.

‘Don’t stop,’ hissed Mr Ambrose.

‘Of course not! What do you take me for? An idiot?’

Silence. Very meaningful silence.

‘Well, thanks so much!’ I growled.

‘I did not say anything, Mr Linton.’

‘You didn’t have to, Sir! You were thinking loud and clear.’

‘Just keep moving, Mr Lin-’

The crack of a shot cut off his words brutally. It was so loud, so terribly near now that my ears stung from the impact of the sound. Mr Ambrose’s eyes burned into mine, and again I could read the same message in them: Faster! Faster!

And I did move faster. Up and down and up and down - the repetitive movement sent shocks of pain up my tired arms and down my back. I kept going, but didn’t know how long it would be before I collapsed again. Even my thoughts of Joan of Arc didn’t comfort me anymore. Surely, beating an army of men had to be easier than this? There probably was some way to just hoodwink the stupid fools into falling on their own swords. But a mine cart… a mine cart was devious, and unrelenting. Up, down, up, down-