Free Shout at the Devil by Wilbur Smith Page A

‘Come on, you blood-smeared little pig.’
    The tall hull of the cruiser was close now, so close he could see the bulky figure in grey turn to the tall white-uniformed officer beside him, gesticulating in what was clearly entreaty.
    The officer turned away, and moved to the rail of the bridge. He leaned out and waved to a group of seamen on the deck below him.
    â€˜That’s right. Tell them to shoot. Let’s get it over with. Tell them …’
    A large square object was lifted over the rail by the gang below the bridge. It dropped and fell with a splash alongside.
    Flynn’s voice dried up, and he watched in disbelief as the white-clad officer lifted his right arm in a gesture that might have been a salute. The beat of the cruiser’s engines mounted as it increased speed, and she swung away towards the west.
    Flynn O’Flynn began to laugh, the cackling hysteria of relief and delirium. He rolled off the sack of corks and his head dropped forward, so the warm green water smothered his laughter. Mohammed took a handful of the grey hair and lifted his face to prevent him drowning.

– 14 –
    S ebastian reached the raft, and grasped the rope that hung in loops around its sides. He paused to regain his breath before hauling himself up to lie gasping, the blood-warm sea-water streaming from his sodden clothing, and watched the shape of the battle cruiser recede into the west.
    â€˜Master! Help me!’
    The voice roused him and he sat up. Mohammed was struggling, dragging Flynn and the sack through the water. Among the floating wreckage a dozen others of the crew and the bearers were flapping their way towards the raft; the weaker swimmers were already failing, their cries becoming more pitiful, and their splashing more frenzied.
    There were oars roped to the slatted deck of the raft. Quickly Sebastian cut one loose with his hunting knife and began rowing towards the pair. His progress was slow, for the raft was an ungainly bitch that balked and swung away from the thrust of the oar.
    An Arab crewman reached the raft and scrambled aboard, then another, and another. Each of them freed an oar and helped with the rowing. They passed the body of one of the bearers floating just below the surface, both its legs cut off above the knees and the bones sticking out of the ragged meat of the stumps. This was not the only one – there was other human flotsam among the scattered wreckage, and the pinky-brown stains that drifted away on the current attracted the sharks.
    The Arab beside Sebastian saw the first one and called out, pointing with the oar.
    It came hunting, its fin waggling from side to side as it tacked up against the current, so that they could sense its excitation, the cold, unthinking excitement of Euselachii
hunger. Below the surface, distorted and dark, showed the tapering length of its body. Not a big one. Perhaps nine feet in length and four hundred pounds in weight, but big enough to chop a leg with one bite. No longer guided by the drift of blood-taste, picking up the vibrations of the swimmers, it straightened and came in on its first run.
    â€˜Shark!’ Sebastian yelled at Flynn and Mohammed where they foundered ten yards away. And both of them panicked; no longer making for the raft, they tried to clamber on to the sack of corks. Terror has no logic. Their only concern was to lift their dangling legs from the water, but the sack was too small, too unstable and their panic attracted the shark’s attention. It veered towards them, showing the full height of its curved triangular fin, each sweep of its tail breaking the surface as it drove in.
    â€˜This way,’ shouted Sebastian. ‘Come to the raft!’ He was hacking at the water with the oar, while beside him the Arabs worked in equal dedication. ‘This way, Flynn. For God’s sake, this way.’
    His voice penetrated their panic, and once more they struck out for the raft. But the shark was