The Angry Mountain (33 page)

Seeing them go like that without question gave me a sense of command, and with it confidence. I jumped down and found some planks to form a ramp. Hacket came into the barn leading the mule, its cut traces trailing behind it. I went up to the animal and rubbed its velvet muzzle, talking to it, calming it with the sound of my voice. It baulked at the ramp, but pushing and pulling we got it up and into the plane. I backed it so that its rump was against the toilet at the rear and we roped it. I stood talking to him for a bit and then I turned to go fo'ard to the cockpit and found myself face to face with Sansevino. He was holding a bloodstained rag of a handkerchief to his broken face and his eyes looked from me to the mule with a malevolence that halted me. “You touch that animal,” I said, “and I'll kill you.”

He smiled and said nothing. I turned to Reece. “Keep him away from that mule,” I said.

“The mule will be all right,” Hacket assured me.

I hesitated, staring at Sansevino. You can't kill a human being in cold blood whatever sort of a devil he is, but by God I wanted to. Then Hilda was at my side, leading me
back to the aircrew's cabin. I heard the door of the fuselage clang to and then I was in the pilot's seat, my hands resting on the controls. “Anything I can do?” It was Reece.

“Nothing,” I said. “Go and keep an eye on that damned doctor.” I didn't want Reece near me. I didn't want him to see that I was trembling and sweating. He went and I said, “Tell them to fix their safety belts and then shut the door, Hilda.”

I heard her passing on the order and then the door to the crew's cabin slid to and she was back in the seat beside me. I pressed the starter button. The port engine sprang into life. Then the starboard motor was turning, too. A cloud of dust swirled through the barn. The noise was shattering. I taxied out then, bumping through the ash towards the vineyard. Automatically I ran through the final routine check-up—flaps, rudder, oil, petrol, brakes, everything. All the time I kept the tail swinging back and forth as I tested out the strength of my dummy leg on the rudder.

At length I swung into position at the road end of the vineyard, facing the villa. I put the brakes on then, revving the engines, watching the dials, trimming the airscrews. From behind in the fuselage I thought I heard the frightened whinny of the mule and the clash of hooves on metal. Then I throttled back till the screws were just ticking over and wiped the sweat from the palms of my hands. There was nothing now between me and take-off except the trembling ache at the back of my knees.

Hilda's hand touched mine. I looked across at her. She smiled. It was a slow smile of friendliness and confidence. Then she raised her thumbs and nodded.

I turned to face the runway. It stretched ahead of me, a grey plain of ash marked out with bush vines drawn up in straight, orderly lines, each a drab, pitiful object under its mantle of ash. And at the end was the lava outcrop and the villa. I thought perhaps I ought to take off from the villa end. But then suddenly my hand was on the throttle, revving
the motors. If I taxied the length of the vineyard, feeling each bump, I knew my nerve would be gone. It was now or never.

I took the brakes off, felt the plane begin to move, checked the trim of the motors and braced my feet on the rudder bar, my left hand gripping the control column. The thing that worried me more than anything was the ash. How would the plane react when it gathered speed? What bumps did that damned carpet of ash hide? But there was no going back now. I opened out to full throttle. The ash was streaming past us now. Little grey bushes fled beneath us faster and faster, the villa on its lava outcrop raced to meet us. I braced myself, waiting for the tail to lift, my hands on the control column. We began to swing. I checked the swing with my left foot, checked too much and felt the tail swinging across in the opposite direction. For a second all my mind was concentrated on adjusting the rudder. And then at last I had it and at the same moment I felt the tail rise. The villa grew large till it seemed to fill the whole windshield and then I was pulling back on the stick, sensing the sudden lift of the wings, hearing the motor noise soften to a drone, and the red-tiled roof of the villa slid away beneath us.

I relaxed with a sense of relief. Hilda's hand pressed mine. I looked out through the perspex and beyond the port wing tip I saw there was nothing left of Santo Francisco now, just a black welt of lava.

And then some Jinx got hold of the wings of the plane, shook them, slammed us down and then rocketed us up towards the black pall of the sky. I knew what it was even as we were flung upwards. We were caught in the uprush of hot air from the lava stream that had outflanked Santo Francisco. I fought to keep myself from panicking, to keep control of the plane. As the uprush lessened we began to bump about, tossed here and there like a shuttlecock in the turbulence of the air-streams and all the time I was fighting with stick and rudder to hold us on our course. The lacerated
stump of my leg was agony each time I had to put on left rudder.

And then quite suddenly I was at home there in the pilot's seat—at home and at ease. I knew we'd get through all right. I knew I could still fly. And as though in conquering myself the elements recognised defeat, the turbulence suddenly ceased and we were flying straight and steady without a bump as though we were floating in space.

It was then that Hacket burst into the cockpit. “Farrell. There's been an accident. That damned mule. Can you land as soon as possible?”

“What's happened?” I asked. I was banking now, turning away to the sea, clear of the lava.

“It's that doctor fellow. He's badly hurt. The mule kicked him.”

“Kicked Sansevino?” I suddenly wanted to laugh. “That mule's got sense.”

“Don't be a fool, man. He's pretty bad.”

I straightened the plane up, flying along the coast, headed towards Naples. “What happened?” I asked. “The mule couldn't have kicked him unless he was behind it.”

“It was when you hit that updraught of air. Sansevino had got to his feet to see that Maxwell was all right. Then he lost his balance, the plane tilted and he went slithering down between the mule's legs to the back of the fuselage. The mule was lashing about and whinnying. If he'd lain still he'd probably have been okay. But he tried to get to his feet. The mule caught him as he got up. He's lying there now close against the rubber dinghies. He's unconscious and it looks as though his head's badly battered. We can't get to him because of the mule.”

“Well, for God's sake don't try and shift the mule,” I said “Wait till we've landed.”

“Okay. But hurry. He looks bad.”

I was swinging in towards the Vomero now and all Naple lay below me, grey with ash, the roads out of the city blocked
with traffic. “Go and sit down,” I said. “And see that everybody's got their safety belts fixed. We'll be landing at Pomigliano in a few minutes now.”

He left then and I heard the connecting door to the fuselage slide to. I sat there, my hands on the controls, staring out ahead, searching for the airfield, and there was a feeling of complete calm within me. I think I knew Sansevino was dead. I felt as though a chapter of my life was closed now, as though the hand of God had been stretched out and had closed it for me. The past was dead. A new life stretched ahead. I had only to land the plane safely.…

I saw Pomigliano then, a grey, flat circle like a huge arena. I thrust forward the undercarriage lever. Through my side window I saw the port wheel come down into position. “Check that your wheel is down,” I called to Hilda. She glanced back through her window and nodded. I circled the airport, losing height. I felt no sense of nervousness. The calmness that had come over me with the news of what had happened to Sansevino was still with me. But through that calmness I was conscious of an aching tenseness in all my muscles.

There was no aircraft on the runway or lined up for take-off. I swung away towards Vesuvius, banking for a westward run-in. Then I had the flaps down and we were coming in to land. There was little wind and the plane was quite steady. I misjudged slightly and had to come in rather steep. The grey edge of the landing ground came rushing towards me. For a moment I felt a sense of panic. Then I pulled back on the control column. The wheels slammed on the concrete. The plane lifted. Then the wheels were firm on the deck and I was braking. We stopped well short of the runway end and I taxied in towards the airport buildings. A truck came out to meet us. I stopped the engines and sat there for a moment in a sort of daze, a cold nausea sweeping over me. I think I was sick. I know I fainted for when I came to I was lying stretched out on the canvas seats in the fuselage and
Hilda's voice, very far away, was saying in Italian, “Nervous exhaustion, that's all.”

After that I had only moments of half-consciousness in which I was being bumped about in a smell of disinfectant. I could feel that somebody had hold of my hand. The fingers were cool and safe and I kept trying to tell them not to hurt the mule. After that I remember nothing till I woke up in a room full of soft furnishings and the cool of blinds drawn against the daylight.

Somebody moved in the shadows and then I saw Zina bending over me. “Where am I?” I asked her.

“At the Villa Carlotta. It is all right, Dick. Everything is all right.”

“Hilda?” I asked.

“I tell her to get some sleep. Now you must also go to sleep.” Her hands were stroking my forehead. My eye? closed. From far away I thought I heard someone say, “Good-bye, Dick.” Then I slept again.

I woke to sunshine and the friendly bulk of Hacket sitting beside me. I rubbed my eyes and sat up. I felt damnably weak, but my head was clear. “How long have I been out?” I asked him.

He said, “Well, between drugs and sleep you've had about fifty hours.”

“Good God!” I said. And then I remembered Sansevino.

But when I asked about him, Hacket shook his head. “You can forget him now,” he said. “He's dead. They buried him as Walter Shirer. Maxwell's orders. He thought it was easier that way.”

“And the others?” I asked.

“Maxwell's doing fine. He's in the next room. He insisted on staying here. The Countess has gone to Rome to join he husband. Some nuns are looking after the little Italian kid and all the others are fine.”

“What about George?” I asked. “They didn't—do anything to the mule, did they?”

He had risen to his feet. “You don't have to worry about George,” he said with a grin. “I guess George saved every one a lot of trouble. Right now he's stabled in the summerhouse here. You're at the Countess's villa, by the way. And the eruption is over.” He turned towards the door. “Now I must get the nurse.”

I heard the door close and I lay there for a moment blinking at the sunlight that showed through the slits of the Venetian blinds. Then I pulled back the bedclothes and put my foot to the floor. The tiles were wonderfully smooth and cold to the touch. There was no grit in the room. It was clean and clear of ash. The left leg of my pyjamas had been cut off short and I saw that the stump of my leg had been bandaged. I got hold of the back of a chair and manoeuvred myself to the window. I hung there for a moment, panting with the effort and feeling very weak. Then I pulled up the blind and sunshine flooded into the room.

For a moment I was blinded. Then as I got accustomed to the glare I saw the sea glittering below me and away to the left the ash-heap of Vesuvius. It was no longer a pyramid. It seemed to have been distorted into the shape of a camel with two enormous rounded humps of ash. It looked remote and unreal without even a wisp of gas coming from the crater. It was hard to believe that those twin hills had been spouting fire and ash only a few hours ago. The scene was placid, tranquil. The whole thing was like a nightmare dimly remembered.

And then in the garden below I saw the mule. His neck was stretched out and he was eating the wisteria that still cascaded over the summerhouse as it had done that day I met Zina to go out to Casamicciola. So little time had passed and so much had happened.

The door opened behind me and I turned to see Hilda and her father. “What are you doing out of bed, Dick?”

I started to move towards the bed, not wishing her to see me standing there with only one leg. And then I stopped
for I saw she had on a white overall and carried an enamel tray with bottles on it, “Have you been nursing me?” My voice sounded angry.

“You and Max—yes.”

My hand touched the stump of my leg. It was she who had put the bandages there. A sort of thankfulness swept over me. I didn't even have to worry about that any more. I reached for the bed and sank into it, feeling as though I wanted to cry. Jan Tu
č
ek came forward and his hand gripped mine. He didn't say anything and I was glad. I couldn't have borne it if he'd said anything. He was very pale and the bones of his skull seemed to stare through the fleshless skin. But his eyes were quite different. They were no longer haunted, but full of confidence. And Hilda, who had put down her tray and was holding on to his arm, was different, too. The harassed look was gone. Instead, it was the smiling face of the photograph on her father's desk that looked down at me. “You were right,” I said to Tu
č
ek. “She's got freckles.”

Hilda made a face at me, and then she and Tu
č
ek were laughing. I don't think I've ever been so happy as I was then, seeing those two laughing together.

She came round the bed and handed me my jacket. “I think, Dick, you have something for my father.” It was still torn and dirty, just as it had been—and the pockets bulged. I put my hand into one of the pockets and the first thing I touched was Zina's automatic. I put it down softly on the table beside me and then I got out the two packages that had been hidden so long in the shaft of my leg. I handed them to Tu
č
ek.