Читать книгу Fort in the Jungle - Percival Christopher Wren - Страница 17

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“Well, there you are, S.N.B.D., mon enfant; Sin-bad, le grand pêcheur. Let’s see what sort of a mess you can make of it. Don’t bungle it wholly, as it’s rather important. Your orders are to get him. Alive or dead. Preferably very much alive. Far preferably. Use what brains you’ve got; make your own arrangements; and tell me afterwards exactly what you did and why—and how your plans mis-carried. Take that Annamese, Doi Linh Nghi, and let him take whom else he wants. Leave that to him—so long as he understands it is rather a kidnapping than a raid. I should think half a dozen of you would be ample. Any questions?”

“No, Sir. I think not.... Alive or dead. Preferably alive. If I am successful, well and good. If I fail ...”

“If you fail, I know nothing about you. You are absolutely repudiated,” smiled Deleuze.

“By the way,” he continued, “don’t get caught there. And if you do, don’t squeal. But you won’t do that, I know. Nor would the Doi Linh Nghi. There is absolutely no torture on earth that would get anything out of those chaps, once they have decided that they won’t utter.... And the men he takes with him won’t know anything, and wouldn’t talk if they did.”

That evening I slipped out from Deleuze’s quarters, looking, I flattered myself, an extremely convincing brigand. Just the type of burly ruffian that might have been a mandarin’s kept bully, or leader of a gang of jungle banditti.

Making my way as unobtrusively as possible to Doi Linh Nghi’s hut, I found him awaiting me, the only outward and physical signs of his military profession being his rifle, belt and cartridge pouch. At his left side hung a naked mâchète. For the rest, he looked the part he was about to play, and a regular jungle dacoit.

With a low laugh and a quiet greeting he led the way to where, in the dark shadows of the trees at the end of the row of thatched caignas, lounged a small group of men.

As we approached, these instinctively straightened up; and when we joined them, fell into line, ordered arms, came to attention and stood as rigid as though on parade.

Doi Linh Nghi swore, and I made a mental note to learn the oath, for it sounded good to me.

“Look at them,” he said. “Why, the buffaloes, the crocodiles, the coolies, the women! And I chose them for intelligence and because they are relations of mine. Look at the mud-fish. They look more like policemen than dacoits, don’t they? Dragons tear their entrails!”

“Stand at ease, you worms. Stand easy, you maggots. Stand anyhow, you ticks.”

And in low but definitely persuasive voice, the Doi Linh Nghi bade them forget that they were soldiers—not that they really were what he would call soldiers—and to remember that they were yak, pirates, Black Flags, jungle devils—and act accordingly.

Grinning cheerily, the Gurkha-like tirailleurs endeavoured to obey as we set off, Doi Linh Nghi leading, I behind him, and the rest following, silent as shadows, in single file.

At first, our road lay across miles of narrow ridges, those difficult and heart-breaking paths that run between the endless flooded paddy-fields.

Marching by way of these paddy-bunds is trying enough by daylight, especially if one is not at, or near, the head of the file. For the little low dams are of soft earth, and by the time a few feet have trodden this, it has become softer and softer and quickly turns to mud, and the causeway deteriorates and degenerates into semi-liquid slush. It is almost impossible for a number of men to follow each other quickly along one of these crumbling bunds, as those at the end of the line, endeavouring to keep up, are soon slipping and sliding, when not actually floundering in the water that covers the rice. At night, it is of course ten times as difficult to keep on the narrow ridges serving as paths.

It was both fortunate and unfortunate that the night was pitch dark, for, while it aided concealment, it made progress extremely slow, and increased not only the danger of our losing our way, but of losing each other.

This last danger, however, I obviated by ordering each man to “catch hold of the tail of the monkey in front”, a most feeble jest extremely well received.

Thus, groping blindly through the darkness, we must have covered about a couple of miles every hour.

Personally, I was glad when we reached the jungle, because pitch-black as the night was, it was really no darker than it had been out in the paddy-fields; for there had been no sign whatever of moon or stars, our only help being the occasional flash of lightning which showed Doi Linh Nghi where we were.

Though in no wise, and in no slightest degree, braver than other average people, I am, nevertheless, not what you would call a nervous person; but I freely confess to detesting the jungle at night, particularly on a pitch-black one. Whenever it has been my misfortune to make a night march alone through the jungle, I have always found my imagination far too active, doing its best to persuade me that I am being followed by a silent-footed savage whose knife or sword, spear or arrow, I may, at any moment, receive between my shoulder-blades; that at the next step I shall plunge headlong into the hole dug in the jungle path as a trap for big game; that a tiger or a panther is keeping pace with me close by, stopping when I stop, going on when I go on, and awaiting an inviting opportunity to spring.... That sort of thing.

So that on this occasion, in spite of the slight extra noise inseparable from the company of seven other people, I was very glad that these born jungle men were with me.

As we made better progress, owing to the improvement in the quality of the path, I wondered whether it could be true that Doi Linh Nghi could, as he professed, see in the dark, or, at any rate, see very much better than a European can. It certainly seemed so, for although our pace improved, we never left the path or ran into any obstacle. Before long, the question that had been exercising my mind—as to whether such little noise as we made might be heard by the rebel scouts, pickets or patrols—ceased to trouble me, for the occasional flashes of lightning gave way to a really tremendous thunderstorm.

Suddenly the black veil of night was rent by a most brilliant flash of lightning, which seemed to pass across our immediate front—illuminating the jungle and imprinting upon my mind an unforgettable picture of mighty tree and enormous creeper, lofty palm and graceful bamboo—immediately followed by a crashing earth-shaking peal of thunder that was literally deafening. All to the good, until the torrential rain that followed turned the jungle path to a ditch, and our hot perspiring selves to shivering teeth-chattering miseries.

For at least three hours more we splashed along, our way lit by lightning, our approach unseen, unheard, and unknown.

One thing was certain—no warrior of the rebel army would consider it right or reasonable of his Commanding Officer to expect him to operate on a night like this. It was no part of his military duty to face the fiends and devils, the ghosts and peis which, as anybody knows, arise and disport themselves on occasions of nocturnal thunderstorms, roaring up and down the jungle, seeking whom they may devour, and looking particularly for poor harmless banditti, pirates, and dacoits who have a few odd dozen murders, robberies and torturings to their account.

Yes, this terrific storm, unpleasant as it was, and this torrential rain, chill and fever-inducing as it might be, were all to the good. I only hoped it would last until we were into Yen-Trang and out again, our object accomplished.

Suddenly Doi Linh Nghi halted so abruptly that I bumped into him. By the light of a flash of lightning he had seen something.

“The village,” he whispered, waiting for another lightning flash, and began again to move forward slowly along the path.

After a while, he halted again, turned aside and forced his way into the undergrowth. In a clearer patch of long grass, brushwood, cactus, saplings, and hibiscus shrubs, he stopped.

“We’ll camp here till dawn,” he whispered.

‘Camping’ was a simple process and consisted of squatting, or lying down, in the mud.

With my back against a tree, drenched to the skin, and shivering with cold, I sat; and, in spite of extreme discomfort, in fact, sheer physical misery, I dozed off.

From this doze I suddenly awoke, wondered for a moment where I was, and then realized that I was sitting in the middle of a steaming dripping Annamese jungle, surrounded by half a dozen men as alien to me as human beings could be, about to embark upon a somewhat desperate undertaking, and incidentally serving a foreign power in the Far East; I, who had thought, at one time, to lead a peaceful life as a British sailor; and at another, as an officer in the army of a Moroccan potentate. Seaman, trooper, slave, cavalry instructor, pilgrim to Mecca, French political prisoner. And now a ha’penny-a-day légionnaire. Vogue la galère. What was I doing in this galley? Nodding, for one thing.

In the jungle something stirred. And the Doi Linh Nghi seated himself beside me.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “He’s there. I’ve been into the village. Had a talk with a well-beaten nhaque whom they’ve ‘taxed’ of all he possessed. He doesn’t like them much. He won’t hinder—if he hasn’t the pluck to help. I’ve left the gate unfastened. No risk. No danger. Not the slightest. All drunk on choum-choum, or disgracefully drugged with opium.”

“Shameful,” I observed, and Doi Linh Nghi, opium addict, chuckled.

This was excellent news, and the remarkably fortunate state of affairs would greatly facilitate operations. Not only had Deleuze impressed upon me that this important De-Nha would be much more valuable to him alive than dead, but I had most definite scruples about killing him or encompassing his death. I think I should have felt the same had he been an enemy of England instead of rebel against France, in spite of his horrible record for fiendish cruelty, torture, and murder.

Nor, most definitely, did I want to be killed, much less to fall into the hands of these people.

I shuddered as I thought of some of the revolting soul-shocking sights that I had seen when we had recovered the bodies of our wounded, victims of these fiends.

Doubtless, there again, the tremendous thunderstorm which had lasted with unabated vigour for most of the night, had befriended us, for it was the custom among the yak, Black Flags, river pirates and jungle dacoits, to carouse, drown fear, and give themselves Dutch courage on the occasion of a big storm at night coinciding with some war-like undertaking or predatory excursion.

While probably they would stoutly deny that they were either religious or superstitious, they would be willing to admit that one never knew; that the gods or devils who hurled the thunder-bolts and shook the world with their rumblings and grumblings, their ravings and roarings, might well be inimical, jealous of the prowess of warriors like themselves and of the fame of their leaders.

Anyhow, draughts of potent rice-alcohol and pipes of opium produced not only a joyous and care-free spirit, but a succeeding peace and, eventually, oblivion to din, devildom and danger.

Again I nodded and dozed, and was awakened by Doi Linh Nghi shaking me gently.

“Eat and drink, Nai,” he whispered and, nothing loth, I took my hard-boiled eggs and bread from my haversack, ate them with relish, and took a pull at the cold coffee in my water-bottle. Not a particularly elegant or hearty meal, but how many a time would I not have given all I possessed for such a feast when I was a starving Apprentice in the Valkyrie.

By the time I had finished, there was a suggestion of dawn in the sky, and I rose to my feet.

“Hear and heed me,” whispered I to my followers. “Load rifles,” and each man put a cartridge into the breach of his Gras rifle, carefully licking the bullet with his tongue as he did so—whether for luck or with the idea of facilitating its passage through the barrel and the air, I don’t know, though I have frequently seen légionnaires do the same thing with each cartridge that they used.

“Rifles in the left hand,” I ordered. “Draw mâchètes. No man is to fire unless I do. Understand, if any man fires his rifle before I fire mine, I will kill him—and fine him too. We are going into this village and out again, as quickly and quietly as we can; and we are going to bring a man with us. Don’t forget. We are dacoits and this is a raid, a dah. But without robbery or bloodshed, if we can help it.”

I then bade Doi Linh Nghi repeat my instructions and give them any further details, orders, and information.

“Listen, Yellow-bellies,” he said. “The dogs of brigands are opium-drunk. And if the villagers had the guts of lice they’d cut their throats, for last night the dacoits looted them of everything they couldn’t hide. The lu thuong doesn’t love them any more than he does us. The nhaques won’t interfere. If anyone tries to do so, flick his nose off with a mâchète. No need to be rough, though. But if the people in Yen Trang all wake up, and do want a fight, they can have it. With mâchètes. No shooting, though, until the linhtap lanxa here gives the word. Remember and obey, or the bellies of pythons be your graves. Very suitable too.... Follow me.”

“Yes—and you follow me, Doi,” I added, damping the spreading fires of his importance; and, taking the lead, I crept in the direction of the village, now dimly visible in the growing light.

Moving slowly and silently, we made our way along the path that we had left during the night, and followed it to where it ended at the gate in the stockade surrounding Yen Trang.

As we approached I saw that this stockade was itself surrounded by a quite considerable moat, covered with lily pads or lotus plants. Across it, the path was carried by a bank of earth. Creeping along this, I found that, as Doi Linh Nghi had said, the great ironwood gate was unfastened.

Slowly and gently as I could, I pushed it inward; though, careful as I was, there was a hideous groaning when the clumsily-constructed door moved.

As soon as it was possible, I slipped through the aperture, my heart in my mouth, while I wondered whether I should get a big Snider bullet or a spear in my chest as I did so.

But again the Doi’s information was accurate. The villagers were not astir, and whatever rebel sentries had been posted had evidently taken refuge from the storm and solace from care.

Save for the yelping of pariah curs and the crowing of a rooster, the place was like a village of the dead.

Before me was an inner wall or barricade of bamboo, thick hedge, and earth-backed wattle. In this, opposite the main gate, was a door of the kind that does not open and shut, but is raised and lowered. It was raised. The knocking-away of a bamboo pole that supported this would cause the heavy door to fall, like a portcullis, and close the second entrance to the village.

Glancing through this, I found I was looking down the main street of Yen Trang, the houses appearing well-built of sun-dried mud, and thatched with reeds, some actually having green chicks or blinds of split bamboo hanging down across their doorways.

“Which caigna?” I whispered to the Doi, and he answered my question by again taking the lead.

Swiftly, in single file, we went up the street, glancing anxiously from left to right and—speaking for myself, at any rate—with swiftly beating hearts.

Turning a corner, Doi Linh Nghi glanced back at me, grinned cheerfully, and pointed to where, a few metres further on, was a chick-covered doorway in a high wall.

As, unconcernedly, he raised this for me to enter, I wondered precisely how far this expedition would have penetrated into the village of Yen Trang, but for the great thunderstorm and the consequent orgy of its present garrison. It would have been a very different and more gory story—had any of us lived to tell it.

Stepping under the raised chick, I found myself in a tiled patio or garden court-yard, in the centre of which was a well, over-hung by a blossoming guava tree.

Round three sides of the courtyard were huts and stables. On the other was a superior house whose neat thatch and split bamboo blinds gave it a curiously smug and urban air. To me it was a most unexpected villa to find inside that savage stockade, planted in the heart of the Cambodian jungle.

Even as I glanced round the court-yard and up at the house, a door opened, and a small fat man came, or rather staggered, forth; a shifty-looking person with a weak chinless face from which depended the longest and thinnest moustache and most stringy straggly beard I have ever beheld.

“Toi! Stop!” cried Doi Linh Nghi in a harsh stage whisper. “Adhow di? Where are you off to?”

The sight of seven desperate-looking ruffians, each with a rifle in one hand and a mâchète in the other, appeared to afford this man no surprise whatever.

It was he who afforded the surprise, for, staggering toward me in a drunken fashion, he emitted a piteous groan, collapsed at my feet, grinned amiably, joined his hands, and extended them toward me as though in prayer.

It was not until I observed that one of the extended hands held a cord, which the Doi promptly seized and wound about the man’s wrists, that I realized that this was the lu thuong, the headman, and that the simple villager was acting according to arrangement, playing his artless part in the drama of De-Nha’s capture.

With his mâchète the Doi cut a superfluous end from the cord, and tied together the man’s feet. I then witnessed a small example of the curious matter-of-fact cold-bloodedness with which these people are wont to behave, upon occasion; for, pinching up a considerable portion of the lu thuong’s plump cheek, the Doi drew the edge of his mâchète across it, making quite a nasty cut, which was promptly followed by the considerable effusion of blood.

Upon this gash the Doi pressed his palm and then dabbed it about the man’s face until he was a most sanguinary spectacle. Not content with this, he then pulled up the man’s cotton sleeve and treated his arm in like manner.

Nor did the lu thuong flinch, much less object, when the sharp mâchète was drawn across the flesh of his biceps.

The whole affair had not occupied more than a minute, but by the time the Doi again picked up his rifle, the lu thuong was a mess.

Obviously he was a brave man who had put up a strong resistance and suffered severe wounds in the defence, not only of hearth and home but of the rebel officer and spy, De-Nha, for whose safety he was, for the time being, responsible.

With a surprisingly occidental wink, the lu thuong groaned as the Doi, having admired his handiwork, kicked him in the ribs.

“De-oh! De-oh!” moaned the lu thuong.

“Is he still in the inner room?” hissed the Doi.

“Yes, on the bed, under the mosquito curtain,” whispered the lu thuong between groans.

“De-oh! De-oh!” he wailed. “I am undone.”

“Without doubt,” replied the Doi, adding for his victim’s further comfort, “and I’ll flick your head off as we come back, if anything goes wrong.”

“Hurry up, Doi!” I urged nervously. “Come on....”

Leading the way, again, with my heart in my mouth, I raised the bamboo chick, opened the door through which the lu thuong had come out, and found myself in a big screened verandah.

Opposite was another door. This proved to open into a passage, on the left side of which was a room.

Glancing in, I saw that this was evidently the inner room to which the lu thuong had referred.

Leaving two tirailleurs in the court-yard, two in the verandah, and one in the passage, with orders to give warning of danger and to use only their mâchètes if attacked, I entered the room, followed by the Doi and the other tirailleurs.

On the floor lay a brawny and burly Chinese, dressed in felt-soled boots, black trousers and a thin white linen coat. Beside him was a rifle and cartridge pouch, and in his belt a big knife.

Judging from his size and obvious strength, and the fact that he was sleeping across the doorway, I decided that he was De-Nha’s personal body-guard, and probably a very useful one, when sober.

On a large wooden couch, under a mosquito curtain, lay the man who must be De-Nha, dressed in a black silk sarong and white silk singlet.

His yellow-ivory face was not one that, in any circumstances, would have inspired me with admiration, affection, or confidence.

Beside him lay an opium pipe, and on a little table, close to the bed, the usual lamp, skewer, and silver box.

“De-Nha, the ly-truong,” grunted the Doi ... “Shall I cut this fellow’s head off?” he added, staring contemptuously at the insensible Chinese.

“What were your orders?” I asked coldly. “Are you sure that the man on the bed is De-Nha?”

“Look at his green silk turban. Look how his hair is rolled. Look at his little finger-nail.”

And indeed the nail of the little finger of his left hand was some six inches in length; a revolting sight.

Beside him lay a Winchester repeater and a revolver of the latest American pattern.

“Looks as though we have got to carry him,” I said.

The Doi snorted.

“Let him carry himself.”

“How are you going to wake him?”

“Light a cigarette and stick the red-hot end up his nose. Or I’ll shove the point of a knife under his finger-nail.”

“Nothing of the sort. Try hauling him off the bed.”

And, con amore, the Doi seized De-Nha by one foot, put his own against the side of the couch and hauled.

A moment later the rebel officer was lying beside his faithless body-guard.

“Up, you dog,” growled the Doi and planted a most useful kick in the prostrate man’s ribs.

On the window-sill stood a porous earthenware water-chatti in a state of perspiration.

Seizing this, I inverted it above De-Nha’s head, and a stream of cold water splashed down upon him, to the detriment of his white silk vest, as the earth of the floor turned to mud.

With a deep shuddering sigh De-Nha opened his eyes.

“Kill me,” he said, and closed them again. Obviously there was no need to fear that this drunk would raise an alarm. He was opium-drugged to the point of insensibility.

And again the Doi kicked him heavily in the ribs.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Doi Linh Nghi,” said I.

“What did he do to a dozen of our men after the fight at Cao-Lang?” growled the Doi. “Fed them—on each other’s eyeballs.”

“He did, eh? Well, tell him I’ll feed you on his, unless he gets up and comes quietly.”

This the Doi did. Then, going beyond these instructions, and adding performance to promise, he spat a stream of red betel-nut juice on the man’s throat, laid down his rifle, drew a line with his fore-finger across the bare neck and raised his mâchète.

“Yes, kill me,” smiled De-Nha, and closed his eyes.

This was definitely annoying. The minutes were passing, and I was extremely anxious to go. Also determined to take De-Nha with me, alive.

“We’ll drag him,” said I.

Promptly the Doi seized one of De-Nha’s bare feet and signalled to the tirailleur to take the other.

“Gag him, tie his hands together behind his back, and then drag him.”

The Doi snatched the green turban from the man’s head, turned him over, wrenched his hands behind him, bound his arms tightly together with the long silk turban, cut off a foot from the end of it, forced the man’s mouth open, and stuffed as much of the silk as possible, and apparently more, into his mouth.

A moment later De-Nha was travelling rapidly out of the room, out of the house, and across the court-yard, face downward, and emitting strange muffled sounds.

Across the patio we hurried, down the village street, pursued only by yelping dogs, out through the gates, across the bridge and into the jungle.

Here, panting with haste and exertion, the four men in charge of De-Nha, at a signal from the Doi, flung him down.

“Going to walk?” asked the Doi and was answered by a vigorous nodding of the long-haired head.

“Untie him and take the gag out,” I ordered.

“Let two men go in front as point; one man as connecting file; and you and three men will be in charge of the prisoner. I’ll march ten metres behind you. Drop a man for rear-guard, a hundred metres behind me. If we are followed, he is to shoot. Tie one end of the turban to the prisoner’s right hand and the other end to a tirailleur’s left hand. If he attempts to escape, knock him out with a rifle-butt. But tell him he’ll be cut down with mâchètes and that I’ll shoot him too. Tell your men I’ll shoot them also, if he gets away. Shoot everybody. Shoot you. Shoot myself. Shoot the moon. Come on. We’ll hurry along before it gets hot.”

Definitely I was elated, joyful; and probably nervous and chatty by reason of a rising temperature.

And on, at a jog-trot, we made our way back through the jungle, to the obvious indignation of flocks of white-breasted jays which followed us along, squawking their protests and ribald comments.

Soon the sun came up, a great ball of fire, and in spite of the dense shadow of huge iron-wood trees, areca and macaw palms, bamboo and wild plantain, it grew quickly hotter, so that our soaking clothing dried, and, sweat as we might, dry it remained.

Hours later, we emerged from the jungle and began our weary crossing of the long paddy-bunds, until at long last we reached the Fort, where, on a chair in the shadow of the gateway, sat Captain Deleuze watching and waiting.

He rose to his feet and came to meet us, as our ruffianly mud-bespattered party approached.

“Got him, eh? Well done, mon enfant. Let the Doi and his men dismiss, but tell him to parade here at Retreat. I’d like him to be present when I question De-Nha. He’s bound to have some bright ideas, especially if De-Nha won’t utter. You’ll come too, and take down question and answer, verbatim, in French. Can do? Good. Dismiss.”