The gorilla was as tall as Godwin had been in his proper form, four
inches over six feet. The Crusader standing on his shoulders was the
tallest of their lot, six feet two. His head came within a hand's
breadth of the roof. Balanced by a palm on the ceiling, he was digging
away at the baked clay with Ramizail's smuggled knife.
The mob was singing. Once a guard had opened the door and bawled at
them to stop that infernal racket before they all had their throats
choked with dirt, but they had cursed at him so impressively that,
sword or no sword, he had retreated hastily and barred the door behind
him. The mob had gone on singing. The Crusaders had sung ditties of
England and home and beauty, with the Saracens humming and beating
time; then the Saracens had taken over with chants of Islam and Bedouin
love tunes, while the Crusaders accompanied them in muted bass choruses
of _hmm-hmm-hmms_.
This din had effectively covered the scraping of the knife, which was
chipping away the old roof at a good clip.
Now a bit of sunny sky showed through. The Crusader grinned, got a firm
purchase with his bare toes on Godwin's hairy shoulders, braced his
left hand above his head, hooked his right into the hole, and tugged
downward. A big chunk of brick fell on his upturned face. He shook his
blond head and chuckled. A trickle of blood ran into his mouth. Nothing
could have tasted sweeter.
Gradually the hole widened, till at last it was the width of a man's
body and more. Godwin, the gorilla, said in Arabic, "Enough! Now onto
the roof, a dozen of you!"
Swiftly they swarmed up over him as though he were a scaling ladder.
Slim Arab fought silently with big-bodied Englishman for the honor of
being in the vanguard. Then Godwin barked again, "Enough!" They drew
back, those who had not gone up through the hole, and he flexed his
knees and gave a tremendous spring. Ape's muscles and man's know-how
carried him straight upward; his paws caught the rim of the hole. Some
clay crumbled beneath his weight, which was more than six hundred
pounds. But sufficient held to give him a moment's grace. He hurled his
bullet head and huge shoulders into the gap, the clay wedged his belly
in for an instant, then he had burst through and was floundering on the
roof, chained legs still dangling within. El Sareuk's tough old hands
took him by the wrists and hauled. He was safe.
* * * * *
Crouching, he led his party to the edge of the flat roof, walking with
legs spread so his tight fetters would not clank. It was the landward
side of the prison, facing the barracks of Mufaddal's soldiery. Before
the barracks paraded two sentries. Below Godwin's gang were two more,
dungeon guards, one posted at each corner. The sun was brilliant on
their steel helmets as they stood silent, foreshortened by the height,
unconscious of any harm.
Godwin singled out two of his men, pointed to their targets, and went
with his colleagues to the wall above the door. From here they could
see two more sentries at the other corners, and four stationed at the
door itself. He allotted Bedouins to the remaining corner guards, gave
a signal, and launched himself into the air with a war-cry that began
in his belly and strangled in his throat, so that for fear of alarming
the barracks guards all that emerged from his mouth was a sibilant
fierce hiss. Behind him his silent henchmen followed him off the roof.
Within the jail, the fifty-one men still prisoner were raising echoes
with a rousing drinking song imported from Germany.
Godwin, as the gorilla, smashed down upon two guards who had been
sleepily cursing together the tyranny of their master Mufaddal. They
never knew what crushed them.
The other guards, inundated by a wave of angry captives, died as
quietly; while the men at the corners did their work with practiced,
pitiless hands. Godwin skipped up to the corner of the jail and looked
toward the barracks, some seventy yards away. As he had hoped, the
two pacing sentries were oblivious of the slaughter. Their turns were
made toward the barracks, so that only by an accidental or inquisitive
turn of the head during their march would they take in the prison. He
glanced behind him. El Sareuk was unbarring the door, while others were
donning the distinctive chest armor and helmets and picking up the
weapons of the dead guards. Three of them shortly went off toward the
garrison building. They were all men who had formerly soldiered for
Mufaddal, and Godwin hoped they could carry through their masquerade
for the few seconds necessary to insure silence.
They did. The sentries died with never an outcry. Two of Godwin's men
took up the pacing rounds. The others dragged the bodies down to the
prison. They were rolled into it, together with those who had preceded
them in death, and the dank stinking place now contained ten naked
corpses, where a scant ten minutes before had lain sixty-two men and a
gorilla.
The gorilla now said to El Sareuk, who was opening shackles with a key
taken from the chief guard, "The biggest mistake Mufaddal ever made
was when he turned me into this monster and then sent me back to the
dungeon to frighten you fellows with his dark powers. We've broken his
jail, and now we'll break his house. And then, by God, I think we may
even break his plague ship!"
"How? How?" asked the old Saracen fiercely.
"No time now, old one. Let's make for the house." He stationed four
of his men at the corners and two before the door; these last two he
regretfully deprived of weapons, for an assault on Mufaddal's own
stronghold demanded at least four scimitars and a knife or so. Then he
led his grim-faced legion across the heated earth toward the palace.