War Cry. Wilbur Smith
longed to put his foot down on the accelerator, for every extra minute spent on the journey lessened Eva’s chances of surviving it. From time to time he would hear her groan or whimper and it struck him that these moments came not when she emitted sound, but when the chaos outside the car had temporarily abated enough for him to catch the audible evidence of her suffering. But as they crawled up and up, the road became steadily more treacherous.
The gushing water was dislodging rocks that hammered against the wheels and the underside of the chassis, and digging out potholes where just hours before the surface had been relatively smooth. Where the gravel had been washed away the earth below was dissolving into a muddy slurry as slippery as ice. More than once Leon felt the car sliding across the road, towards the side of the track, and he had to wrestle with the wheel to control the skid and keep them moving forwards.
Is this it? he asked himself. Is this the disaster that Lusima Mama foretold? But how can it be? She said I would live. She made it sound like a curse. If Eva and I could go together that would almost be a blessing.
And then he caught himself. No! Whatever happens, I have to live. There must be one of us, at the very least, to look after poor Saffy. But, oh God, please let there be two. Please, I beg you, let my darling Eva survive.
Do you believe in God?’ Saffron asked Manyoro, as they drove back to Lusima through the same storm, but on much friendlier roads.
‘Of course. I believe in the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,’ replied Manyoro, whose formal education had all been provided by missionaries.
‘I’ve already prayed to them. I prayed and prayed to make Mummy better. Do you have another God, a Masai one I can pray to as well?’
‘Yes, we have a God we call Ngai. He created all the cattle in the world and gave them all to the Masai. When we drink the blood and milk of our cattle, it is as if we are drinking the blood of Ngai, too.’
‘Christians believe they drink Jesus’s blood, don’t they?’
‘Yes, and that is why I believe in your God. I think he is really Ngai!’
Manyoro burst out laughing at the cunning of his theology. Then he told Saffron, ‘Ngai has a wife called Olapa. She is the goddess of the moon. You can pray to them if you like.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Also we believe that every person on earth has a guardian spirit who has been sent to watch over us and keep us safe. So when you pray, ask that your mother’s guardian spirit is kept strong and wide-awake so that it can protect her now.’
So Saffron prayed to God and Jesus and Ngai and Olapa. She prayed for Mummy and for her guardian spirit. She promised God that she would be good all the time, and never do anything naughty ever again, if only Mummy could get better.
Then she told Manyoro all about her prayers and when she had finished listing them all she asked, ‘Do you think that will make any difference?’
The nurse standing by the main entrance of the European Hospital in Nairobi screwed up her eyes against the glare of the headlights coming towards her. ‘Look out for a big car that has a lady with wings at the front of its bonnet,’ Dr Hartson had told her. But she could not see the front of the car because the lights were so blinding. Then the car turned as it followed the drive round and now she could see it from the side and there, sure enough, was the flying lady. The nurse turned on her feet and burst through the double swing-doors into the hospital. ‘They are here, doctor!’ she called out as she ran down the corridor. ‘They are here!’
Leon saw the nurse disappear into the building as he pulled up under the awning that covered the driveway in front of the entrance. He had not spoken for the final few miles of the journey, for fear of hearing words that would be unbearable. But now, as the engine spluttered and died, he could restrain himself no longer.
‘Is she still breathing?’ he asked.
‘Just,’ Birchinall replied. ‘But her pulse is very faint.’
‘Thank God,’ Leon muttered, grateful that he had delivered Eva to the hospital alive.
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to help lift her out,’ Birchinall said. ‘My leg has pretty well seized up.’
‘Of course.’
Leon got out of the Rolls just as the hospital doors crashed open and an orderly appeared, pushing a wheeled stretcher. Behind him came the nurse and a man in a doctor’s white coat whom Leon recognized as Frank Hartson, the hospital’s sole consultant surgeon. They had met once or twice at social occasions, and so far as Leon could tell, Hartson seemed like a perfectly decent, intelligent fellow, if not the liveliest mind one was ever likely to encounter. Now this man would have Eva’s life in his hands.
Leon ran round to the rear door of the car and opened it wide as the stretcher came to a halt just a few feet away. Then he put one foot into the well in front of the passenger seat, leaned in and placed his arms under Eva’s shoulders, between her body and Birchinall’s.
‘I have the legs, Bwana,’ the orderly said.
‘Lift on three,’ Leon told him. ‘One … two … three!’
The two men lifted Eva’s limp, unresponsive body up off the seat and Leon watched in horror as her head rolled helplessly against his arm. Her eyes were closed. There was crusted spittle at the corners of her mouth. When he looked down at her skirt it was wet and pungent with blood and urine.
‘Oh my poor darling,’ Leon murmured.
He placed her on the stretcher and watched as the orderly strapped her down. Then he took her hand and looked down at the face that had captivated him so utterly for so long. ‘Good luck. God speed. I love you so very, very much,’ Leon said and for a second he thought he saw, or perhaps it was just his longing that made him imagine a flicker of her eyelids and the tiniest fraction of a smile.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Courtney, but we really have to get your wife ready for surgery,’ Hartson said.
‘I understand.’ Leon forced himself to let go of Eva’s fingers.
‘Dr Birchinall is in the car,’ Hartson told the nurse. ‘He needs crutches. Please get some for him and then come straight to the operating theatre.’ He turned to the orderly. ‘Tell Matron I need to operate as soon as possible. So please prepare Mrs Courtney for surgery immediately. Got that?’
‘Yes, doctor.’
‘Off you go then.’
As the orderly pushed the stretcher away towards the heart of the building, Hartson turned to Courtney. ‘I’m sorry we have to meet in such grim circumstances. Look, I don’t know how much Thompson has said to you about your wife’s condition …’
‘Nothing beyond what he said when she first went to see him. We didn’t really stop and chat today, what with the convulsions.’
‘Quite so. Well, here’s the situation. As Birchinall may have told you, we’re pretty certain your wife is suffering from eclampsia, which is what we call a hypertensive disorder. In layman’s terms, she’s got very high blood pressure and excess protein in her blood and urine. The seizures she’s suffered are characteristic of the condition. But I have to warn you that eclampsia can also lead to kidney failure, cardiac arrest, pneumonia and brain haemorrhage. I’m afraid to say that these can, on occasion, prove fatal.’
‘Why in God’s name didn’t Thompson do something about it days ago, if she was so ill?’ Leon asked, failing to keep the anger out of his voice.
‘With the resources available to him he couldn’t have predicted what would happen. The initial symptoms of dizziness, headaches, mild nausea could apply to all manner of conditions, many of them relatively trivial. And your wife is a pregnant woman living at altitude. She could feel sick or have a sore head and there’d be nothing whatever to worry about. The advice he gave was entirely appropriate. It’s just rotten luck that there was