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‘I take the one on the left,’ Mr Ambrose commanded in a whisper. ‘Karim takes the two on the right.’
‘And me?’ I demanded.
‘You take this.’ And he dumped three knapsacks full of provisions onto me. Staggering under the weight, I barely managed to remain upright. By the time I had gotten enough breath back to curse, Karim and Mr Ambrose were already outside, and I could hear the noises of a struggle. It didn’t last long. When I staggered out of the door, two men were lying limp on the ground, and Mr Ambrose had the third in a headlock, the man’s own knife at his throat.
‘You have two choices now,’ Mr Ambrose informed the wide-eyed young soldier coolly. ‘You can show us where the stables are, or you can die with a knife in your throat. Which do you prefer?’
It didn’t take the young man long to decide. He was a most intelligent fellow and directed us to the stables without once trying to run or even screaming for help. Having reached the stables, Mr Ambrose repeated his ruse from inside the prison, leaving his prisoner bound and gagged, with erroneous directions.
‘Time to go.’ Bending over, Mr Ambrose peeked out through a gap between two of the wooden boards of the stable wall. Outside, the sun was just b
eginning to rise, and first spears of light were stabbing through the gaps in the wood. If we hurried, we might still be able to slip away under cover of semi-darkness.
‘Anyone out there?’ I demanded.
‘A patrol just passed. I listened to the rhythm of patrols from my cell. If they don’t suddenly change the pattern for some reason, we should have five to six minutes to reach the edge of the jungle.’ Pulling his packhorse behind him, Mr Ambrose marched out of the stable with a stride so arrogant you might think he was in charge of this place. ‘Let’s go!’
We started to cross the open ground in a northeastern direction, in keeping with Mr Ambrose’s ruse. With every step we took, I sent a prayer to heaven. Please, God, ignore the fact that I don’t really believe in you and help us survive this! Please!
God apparently wasn’t feeling very charitable that day. We had just stepped into the shadow of the trees when we heard a shout behind us.
‘Ei! Você aí! Pare!’
‘I guess those aren’t wishes for a happy journey in Portuguese?’ I asked, glancing around to see several soldiers come running from the stables.
‘No! Run!’
Revolting Rebels
We ran straight on into the jungle, the sounds of pursuit on our heels, until we reached a little stream winding between the trees. Then, Mr Ambrose had us turn and follow the stream southwest, concealing our tracks. As soon as we reached a rocky patch of shore where our footprints wouldn’t remain frozen in mud, we left the stream and changed direction again, heading northwest this time.
‘That will throw them off our scent for now.’ Mr Ambrose breathed, supporting himself against a nearby tree. We had been running so hard, even he looked a little less than perfectly cool and composed right now.
‘For now?’ Slumping onto a big rock, I glanced the way we had come. ‘Why should they bother to follow us at all? Surely they have more important things to do. There’s a war on, after all.’
‘Yes. And do you know what both sides in a war always need, desperately?’
‘A decent general? Provisions other than dead rats and rotten cabbage?’
‘That, too. But most of all, Mr Linton, they need gold. More and more gold with every second of the war that passes. War is a monster that devours gold and shits death at the other end.’
‘How poetic, Sir. So what does that have to do with us?’
Mr Ambrose directed his dark, sea-coloured gaze at me.
‘When we picked up our luggage, didn’t you notice anything strange about it?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Because it had been tampered with. The drawstring on your knapsack was loose, and the manuscript wasn’t where we stashed it last.’
‘Blast! You mean they-’
‘Yes. They took a good look at it. Maybe good enough to figure out what it is. I don’t think they believed it was genuine. But that might well change once they learn in what direction we’re going - the same direction in which the manuscript says a great treasure lies waiting.’
I took a deep breath, trying to slow my still-hammering heart. I hadn’t run that hard in years, not since I was nine and Uncle Bufford had caught me painting a smiley face on the bottom of his freshly washed trousers. Right now, in the gloomy jungle, with the birds overhead calling out ominous warnings, I almost wished myself back there.
Then I remembered the glorious adventure ahead, and my bottom remembered the spanking I had received for the smiley incident. Swiftly, I changed my opinion.
