The James Bond Anthology

Bond looked surreptitiously round the cabin. Yes. There it was! The long Jamaican cutlass, this one filed to an inch blade with a deadly point. It was on a rack by the man’s hand. Was this the way he was supposed to go? Bond doubted it. Scaramanga would do the deed in a suitably dramatic fashion and one that would give him an alibi. Second executioner would be Hendriks. Bond looked back over the low coal-tender. Hendriks’s eyes, bland and indifferent, met his. Bond shouted above the iron clang of the engine, ‘Great fun, what?’ Hendriks’s eyes looked away and back again. Bond stooped so that he could see under the top of the Surrey. All the other four men were sitting motionless, their eyes also fixed on Bond. Bond waved a cheerful hand. There was no response. So they had been told! Bond was a spy in their midst and this was his last ride. In mobese, he was ‘going to be hit’. It was an uncomfortable feeling having those ten enemy eyes watching him like ten gun barrels. Bond straightened himself. Now the top half of his body, like the iron ‘man’ in a pistol range, was above the roof of the Surrey and he was looking straight down the flat yellow surface to where Scaramanga sat on his solitary throne, perhaps twenty feet away, with all his body in full view. He also was looking down the little train at Bond – the last mourner in the funeral cortège behind the cadaver that was James Bond. Bond waved a cheery hand and turned back. He opened his coat and got a moment’s reassurance from the cool butt of his gun. He felt in his trouser pocket. Three spare magazines. Ah, well! He’d take as many of them as he could with him. He flipped down the co-driver’s seat and sat on it. No point in offering a target until he had to. The Rasta flicked his cigarette over the side and lit another. The engine was driving herself. He leant against the cabin wall and looked at nothing.

Bond had done his homework on the 1:50,000 Overseas Survey map that Mary had provided and he knew exactly the route the little cane line took. First there would be five miles of the cane fields between whose high green walls they were now travelling. Then came Middle River, followed by the vast expanse of swamplands, now being slowly reclaimed, but still shown on the map as ‘The Great Morass’. Then would come Orange River leading into Orange Bay, and then more sugar and mixed forest and agricultural smallholdings until they came to the little hamlet of Green Island at the head of the excellent anchorage of Green Island Harbour.

A hundred yards ahead, a turkey buzzard rose from beside the line and, after a few heavy flaps, caught the inshore breeze and soared up and away. There came the boom of Scaramanga’s gun. A feather drifted down from the great right-hand wing of the big bird. The turkey buzzard swerved and soared higher. A second shot rang out. The bird gave a jerk and began to tumble untidily down out of the sky. It jerked again as a third bullet hit it before it crashed into the cane. There was applause from under the yellow Surrey. Bond leant out and called to Scaramanga, ‘That’ll cost you five pounds unless you’ve squared the Rasta. That’s the fine for killing a John Crow.’

A shot whistled past Bond’s head. Scaramanga laughed. ‘Sorry. Thought I saw a rat.’ And then, ‘Come on, Mr Hazard. Let’s see some gun play from you. There’s some cattle grazing by the line up there. See if you can hit a cow at ten paces.’

The hoods guffawed. Bond put his head out again. Scaramanga’s gun was on his lap. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Mr Hendriks, perhaps ten feet behind him, had his right hand in his coat pocket. Bond called, ‘I never shoot game that I don’t eat. If you’ll eat the whole cow, I’ll shoot it for you.’

The gun flashed and boomed as Bond jerked his head under cover of the coal-tender. Scaramanga laughed harshly. ‘Watch your lip, limey, or you’ll end up without it.’ The hoods haw-hawed.

Beside Bond, the Rasta gave a curse. He pulled hard on the whistle lanyard. Bond looked down the line. Far ahead, across the rails, something pink showed. Still whistling, the driver pulled on a lever. Steam belched from the train’s exhaust and the engine began to slow. Two shots rang out and the bullets clanged against the iron roof over his head. Scaramanga shouted angrily, ‘Keep steam up, damn you to hell!’

The Rasta quickly pushed up the lever and the speed of the train gathered back to 20 m.p.h. He shrugged. He glanced at Bond. He licked his lips wetly. ‘Dere’s white trash across de line. Guess mebbe it’s some frien’ of de boss.’

Bond strained his eyes. Yes! It was a naked pink body with golden blonde hair! A girl’s body!