The Sound of Thunder by Wilbur Smith

Author:Wilbur Smith
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Sagas, Action & Adventure, Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 9780312940676
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 1966-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

The Sound Of Thunder

“I’ll go down now.” Sean resisted the impulse to repeat his previous orders. He wanted to say again how important it was that no one escaped, but he had learned that once was enough with Eccles.

Instead he whispered,

“Listen for my signal. ” The Boers had only one sentry. Secure in the knowledge that their stratagy had thrown off all pursuit, they slept around the poorly screened fire. Sean and Mbenjane moved down quietly and squatted in the grass twenty paces from the high rock on which the sentry sat. The man was outlined darkly against the stars and Sean watched him intently for a full minute before he decided.

“He sleeps also.”

Mbejane grunted.

“Take him quietly,” Sean whispered. “Make sure his rifle does not fall.” Mbejane moved and Sean laid a hand on his shoulder to restrain him. “Do not kill, it is not necessary.”

And Mbejane moved silently as a leopard towards the rock.

Sean waited straining his eyes into the darkness. The seconds dragged by, and suddenly the Boer was gone from the rock. A gasp, a soft sliding sound and stillness.

Sean waited, and then Mbejane was back as silently as he had left.

“It is done, Nkosi.

Sean laid his rifle aside and cupped his hands over his lips, filled his cheeks and blew the long warbling whistle of a night bird

At the fire one of the sleepers stirred and muttered. Farther off a horse stamped and blew softly through its nostrils. Then Sean heard a pebble click and the cautious swish of feet through grass, small sounds lost in the wind.

“Eccles?” Sean murmured.

Sir.

Sean stood up and they closed in on the camp.

“Wake up, gentlemen. Breakfast is ready.” Sean shouted in the Taal, and each burgher woke to find a man standing over him and the muzzle of a Lee, Metford pressing into his chest.

“Build up that fire, ” Sean ordered. “Take their rifles. ” It had been too easy, he spoke roughly in the irritation of anti, climax, “Mbejane, bring the one from the rock, I want to see how gently YOU dealt with him.

Mbejane dragged him into the firelight and Sean’s lips tightened as he saw the way the man’s head lolled and his legs hung

“He’s dead,”

Sean accused.

“He sleeps, Nkosi,” MbeJane denied.

Sean knelt beside him and twisted his face to catch the light.

Not a man, a lad with a thin bitter face and the fluff of pale, imature beard on his cheeks. In the corner of his eye a stye had burst to matt the closed lashes with yellow pus. He was breathing.

Sean glanced up at the other prisoners. They were being herded away out of earshot.

“Water, Mbejane. ” And the Zulu brought a canteen from the fire while Sean explored the hard swelling above the boy’s temple “He’ll do,” Sean grunted, and curled his lips in distaste at what he must do as soon as the lad recovered. He must do it while he was still groggy and bemused by the blow. From his cupped hand he splashed cold water into his face and the boy gasped and rolled his head.

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