The Courtney Series - 08 - A Time to Die by Wilbur Smith

Author:Wilbur Smith
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9781785765728
Published: 2018-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

With her hands still manacled behind her back, the two female wardresses and an escort of five troopers marched Claudia Monterro through the darkness over a rough track. Often she stumbled and when she fell and sprawled full length, she was unable to use her hands to protect herself from the rocky surface. Soon her knees were raw and bleeding, and the march became a torturous nightmare.

It seemed without end, hour after hour it went on and every time she fell the tall sergeant harangued her in a language she could not understand. Each time it required more of an effort to regain her feet, for she was unable to use her hands and arms to balance herself.

She was so thirsty that her saliva had turned to a sticky paste in her mouth, her legs ached and her hands and arms held so long in such an unnatural position were numb and cold. Sometimes, she heard voices in the darkness around her and once or twice smelled smoke and saw the glow of a camp-fire or a feeble paraffin lantern so she knew that she was still within the Renamo lines.

The march ended abruptly. She guessed that they were still near the river, she could feel the chill of its waters in the air and see the taller riverine trees silhouetted against the stars and she could smell humanity around her: stale ash of the cooking-fires and woodsmoke, human sweat in unwashed clothing, and human body wastes and the sour odours of garbage. At last, they led her through a barbed wire gate into another prison compound, and dragged her towards one of a row of dugouts.

The two wardresses took her arms and hustled her down a set of earthen steps and pushed her into the darkness so she tripped and fell once more on her injured knees. Behind her, she heard a door being closed and barred, and the darkness was absolute.

After a short struggle she regained her feet, but when she tried to stand full height, the top of her head bumped on the low roof. It felt like a roof of undressed wooden poles still in their bark. She shuffled backwards, stretching out her fingers behind her until she touched the door. It was of hand-sawn planks, rough and sharp with splinters. She pressed her weight upon it but it was solid and unmoving.

Bent over to protect her head, she shuffled around her prison. The walls were damp earth. Her cell was tiny, about six feet square, and in the far corner she stumbled over the only furnishing it contained. It was metal and she explored it with her foot and found that it was an iron bucket. The ripe stench from it left no doubt of its purpose. She completed the circuit of her cell and came back to the door.

Her thirst was an agony now, and she called through the door.

‘Please I need water.’ Her voice was a harsh croak and her lips felt tight and dry, ready to split.

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