Читать книгу Beau Geste - Percival Christopher Wren - Страница 10

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And as the train rumbled on through the sweltering coastlands toward Lagos, Major de Beaujolais, highly pleased with the success of his neat and clever little coup, continued his story.

“Well, my George, figure me there, with this new astoundment, this extraordinary accompaniment to the sinister and bewildering mystery of an inexplicable murder and an inexplicable disappearance....

And then, ‘What is in the paper, might one respectfully enquire, mon Commandant,’ asked the Sergeant-Major.

‘The confession of a thief—that he stole a famous jewel,’ I replied.

‘Which was the thief?’ said he.

‘Oh, ask me some questions, my good imbecile!’ said I. ‘Ask me where the trumpeter is, and whose is this bayonet, and who disposed these dead men as defenders, and who fired two shots, and whether I am mad or dreaming,’ I answered—and then pulled myself together. ‘Now come with me,’ I bade him. ‘We will make one more search below, and then déjeuner, and a quiet, sensible, reasonable discussion of the facts, before we bury these brave fellows, detail an escouade of our men as garrison, and return to Tokotu. I shall leave you in command here until we get orders and reliefs.’

The Sergeant-Major looked distinctly dubious at this. ‘Here—for weeks!’ he said softly.

We made our tour below, and, as before, nothing unusual met the eye, and there was no sign of the trumpeter, alive or dead. We had seen him climb on to that parapet and apparently no living eye had beheld him again.

I was past wonder. I accepted things.

Very well, this was a place where Commandants are murdered by non-existent people; soldiers vanish like a whiff of smoke; and English letters concerning one’s friends are found in the hands of dead Frenchmen. Very good. Be it so. We would ‘carry on’ as you say, and do our duty.

‘Think hard—and be prepared to pick holes in the theories I shall propound an hour hence,’ said I to the Sergeant-Major, as we passed out of the gate, and I proceeded to the oasis where my excellent Achmet had prepared my soup and coffee....

You do not want to hear my theories, George, and there was no need for the Sergeant-Major to point out the impossibilities and absurdities in them. They leapt to the eye immediately.

It all came back to the bald facts that there must be a soldier of the garrison missing, that he must have taken his rifle and left his bayonet in the sous-officier, instead of shooting him and awaiting praise and reward; that my trumpeter had vanished; that the dead sous-officier had been in possession of a confession, real or bogus, to the effect that Michael Geste had stolen his aunt’s famous sapphire.

There it was—and nothing but lunacy could result from theory-making about the sous-officier’s murder, the trumpeter’s disappearance, or Michael Geste’s confession and how it got there.

No—you do not want to hear those perfectly futile theories—those explanations that explained nothing. But it may interest you to hear that I was faced that evening, on top of the rest of my little pleasures, with a military mutiny.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Lawrence, turning to the speaker.

“Yes. At four o’clock I ordered the Sergeant-Major to fall the men in, and I would tell off the new garrison for Zinderneuf.

In a most unusual manner the Sergeant-Major hung fire, so to speak, instead of stepping smartly off about his duty.

‘Well?’ said I sharply.

‘There is going to be trouble, mon Commandant,’ he faltered.

‘Mon Dieu, there is!’ I snapped, ‘and I am going to make it, if I have any nonsense. What do you mean?’

‘Sergeant Lebaudy says that Corporal Brille says that the men say ...’

‘Name of the Name of the Name of Ten Thousand Thundering Tin Devils,’ I shouted.... ‘You say that he says that they say that she says,’ I mocked. ‘Va t’en, grand babbilard!’ I roared at him. ‘I’ll be on parade outside those gates in ten seconds, and if you and your gibbering chatterboxes are not awaiting me there at attention ...’ and my poor Sergeant-Major fled.

I was the more angry at his news, for I had subconsciously expected something of the sort.

What else, with these ignorant, superstitious clods, who were the bravest of the brave against human foes? None like them. Every man a hero in battle.... But what of that House of Death with its Watchers? That place into which their comrade had boldly climbed—and never come forth again.

Rastignac had begun it. And they had seen him face instant death rather than enter it—Rastignac, the fearless reckless devil, whose bravery alone had prevented his escapades from bringing him to a court-martial and the Zephyrs. He, of all men, was afraid of the place. There is nothing so infectious as that sort of panic....

Well! One more fact to accept.

If the men would not enter the fort of Zinderneuf, they would not enter the fort of Zinderneuf—and that was that.

But if the will of these scoundrels was coming into conflict with the will of Henri de Beaujolais, there were exciting times ahead. Since they sought sorrow they should certainly find it—and as I put on my belt and boots again, I felt a certain elation.

‘Action is always action, mon Henri,’ said I to myself, ‘and it will be a change from these thrice-accursed theories and attempts to explain the inexplicable and reconcile the irreconcilable.’

Bah! I would teach my little dogs to show their teeth, and I rode, on a mule, over to the fort. There I bade Dufour and Lebaudy select an escouade of the worst men, all mauvais sujets of that Company. They should garrison either Zinderneuf fort, or else the grave that had been dug for those brave ‘fallen who had not been allowed to fall.’ ...

As I rode up, the Sergeant-Major Dufour called the men to attention, and they stood like graven images, the selected escouade on the right, while I made an eloquent speech, the funeral oration of that brave band to whom we were about to give a military funeral with all the last honours that France could render to the worthy defenders of her honour and her Flag.

Tears stood in my eyes and my voice broke as I concluded by quoting:—

‘Soldats de la Légion,

De la Légion Étrangère,

N’ayant pas de nation,

La France est votre mère.’

Then, when the selected new garrison got the order, ‘Par files de quatre. En avant. Marche,’ that they might march into the fort and begin their new duties by bringing the dead out for burial—they did something quite otherwise.

Taking the time from the right, with smartness and precision they stooped as one man, laid their rifles on the ground, rose as one man and stood at attention!

The right-hand man, a grizzled veteran of Madagascar, Tonquin, and Dahomey, took a pace forward, saluted, and with wooden face, said, ‘We prefer to die with Rastignac.’

This was flat disobedience and rank mutiny. I had hardly expected quite this.

‘But Rastignac is not going to die. He is going to live—long years, I hope—in the Joyeux. You, however, who are but cowardly sheep, led astray by him, shall have the better fate. You shall die now, or enter Zinderneuf fort and do your duty. ... Sergeant-Major, have those rifles collected. Let the remainder of the Company right form, and on the order ‘Attention pour les feux de salve,’ the front rank will kneel, and on the order, “Feu,” every man will do his duty.’

But I knew better, George. That was precisely what they wouldn’t do; and I felt that this was my last parade. That accursed fort was still exerting its horrible influence. These fools feared that it would kill them if they entered it, and I feared it would kill them if they did not. For let me but handle them wrongly now, and they would shoot me and the non-commissioned officers and march off into the desert to certain death, as they weakened from thirst and starvation. They would be harried and hunted and herded along by the Arabs, and daily reduced in numbers until a sudden rush swept over them and nothing remained for the survivors but horrible tortures.

Mutinous dogs they might be, and fools they were—but no less would the responsibility for their sufferings and deaths be mine if I mishandled the situation. I thought of other desert-mutinies in the Legion.

It was an awkward dilemma, George. If I ordered the Company to fire upon the squad, they would refuse and would thereby become mutineers themselves. They would then feel that they might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and, having shot me, take their chance of escape and freedom.

If, on the other hand, I condoned this refusal of the escouade—what of military discipline? Duty to my country came before my duty to these fellows, and I must not allow any pity for their probable fate to come between me and my duty as a French officer.

I decided that if they would die, then die they must—but I at least could do my best to save them. Without deviating from the path of duty, I would hold out a hand to them.

If the escouade would not enter the fort they must expiate their military crime. If the company would not carry out my orders and fire on the mutineers, they must expiate their crime.

If I were to be shot, I should at least be saved the unpleasantness of reporting that my men had mutinied, and I should die in the knowledge that I had done my duty.

Yes—I would make it clear that disobedience to my orders would be death. Swift and sudden for some, lingering and horrible for many, sure and certain for all. Then I would ‘carry on’ as you say. Was I right, George?”

“I think you were quite right, Jolly,” agreed Lawrence.

“As I was deciding thus, all in the space of a few seconds, with every eye upon me and a terrible tension drawing every face,” continued de Beaujolais, “the Sergeant-Major approached and saluted. I eyed him coldly. With his back to the men, he whispered:

‘They won’t do it, mon Commandant. For God’s sake do not give the order. They are rotten with cafard and over-fatigue. That Rastignac is their hero and leader. They will shoot you and desert en masse.... A night’s rest will work wonders. ... Besides, Lieutenant St. André and the Senegalese will be here by midnight. It is full moon to-night.’

‘And shall we sit and wait for the Senegalese, Dufour?’ I whispered back. ‘Would you like to ask these fellows to spare us till they come?’

And looking from him to the men I said loudly:

‘You are too merciful, Sergeant-Major. We don’t do things thus in the Spahis. But these are not Spahis. However, in consideration of the most excellent march the men have made, I will do as you beg and give these cafard-stricken fools till moon-rise. It gives me no pleasure to inflict punishment, and I hope no man will insist on being punished. We are all tired, and since you intercede for your men I grant a four-hour holiday. At moon-rise, our motto is “Work or die.” Till then, all may rest. After then, the dead will be buried and the fort garrisoned. I hope there will be no more dead to be buried to-night.’

And I rode back to the oasis, hearing as I did so the voice of the Sergeant-Major, exhorting the men and concluding with the order, ‘Rompez.’

He joined me a few minutes later.

‘They’ll never do it, mon Commandant,’ said he. ‘They’ll fear the place worse than ever by moonlight. In the morning we could call for volunteers to accompany us. And then the Senegalese ...’

‘That will do, Dufour,’ said I. ‘They will render instant obedience at moon-rise, or take the consequences. I have strained my military conscience already to satisfy my private conscience. If, after four hours’ rest and reflection, they still decide to mutiny—on their heads be it! No responsibility rests on me. If they mutiny, they do it in cold blood. If they obey orders before the Senegalese arrive, no great harm has been done, and discipline has been maintained. That is the very utmost length to which I can go in my desire to save them.’

‘To save them, mon Commandant! It is you I am trying to save,’ stammered the good fellow.

Patting him on the shoulder as he turned to go, I bade him send me a couple of the most influential men of the escouade and two or three of the best of the remainder—leaders of different cliques, if there were any.

I would point out to them the inevitable and awful results to the men themselves, of disobedience and mutiny. I would speak of the heroism, discipline, and dutifulness of the dead. I would point out to them that in the event of mutiny, they themselves would either be loyal and die at the hands of the mutineers, or become deserters and die at the hands of the Arabs. I would then send them back among their fellows—and abide the issue....

It was while I awaited their arrival that I wished our army more resembled yours in one particular—the relationship between officers and men. Our fellows get too much non-commissioned officer and too little officer. We are too remote from them. We do not play games with them, get to know them, interest ourselves in them as fellow human beings, in the way that your officers do. Too often it is a case with us of hated non-coms. and stranger-officers. Particularly is this so in the Legion. The non-coms. are all-powerful and tyrannical; the officers are utterly uninterested in the men as individuals, and do not even know their names.

And I was not one of their own officers of the Legion. I was a Spahi officer, superintending the organising of mule-cavalry out of infantry; or rather, making ordinary infantry into mounted infantry, that the Legion might hope to compete with the Touaregs in mobility. We wanted mounted riflemen down there just as you did in the Boer War, or else the Arabs served us as the Boers did you at first.

I certainly had not been unduly harsh or oppressive during the time I had been with this particular lot; but, on the other hand, I certainly had no personal influence with them. I did not know them, nor they me, and all our lives seemed likely to be forfeit in consequence....

However, I talked to the men whom Dufour brought, and did my best under the heavy handicap of not so much as knowing their names. Finally, I dismissed them with the words:

‘For your lives, influence your friends wisely and well, and get it into their heads that at moon-rise we will have obedience with honour and safety, or disobedience with dishonour, misery, and death. For at moon-rise, the chosen escouade will enter the fort and bring out the dead, or the company will fire upon them.... Au ’voir, mes enfants.’

Of course, I knew the danger of making any reference to what would happen if the company refused to fire on the escouade—but it was foolish to pretend to ignore the possibility of such a thing. But I made no allusion to the Senegalese, and the coercion or punishment of white men by black.

It might be that the company would obey orders, if the escouade remained mutinous, and it might be that all would reflect upon the coming of the Senegalese.

Anyhow, I was on a knife-edge, and all depended upon the effect on these rascals of a four-hour rest and the words of the men to whom I had talked. There was just a chance that St. André and his Senegalese might arrive in time to influence the course of affairs—but I most certainly could not bring myself to postpone the issue until his arrival, and then take shelter behind the blacks. With the full moon well up in the sky—by its beautiful soft light—we should see what we should see ...

And then, just as the men turned to go, I had an idea. Suppose some of them would volunteer to go over the fort with me; see for themselves that there was nothing to be afraid of; and then report to their fellows that all was well.

Their statement and the inevitable airs of superiority which they would give themselves, might well counteract Rastignac’s influence and their superstitious fears. If some of these men, selected for character and influence, went back in the spirit of, ‘Well, cowards, we have been in there and it is much the same as any other such cursed hole—except that somebody had a great idea for diddling the Arabs,’ the others would probably take the line, ‘Well, where you can go, we can. Who are you to swagger?’

Yes—I would try it. Not as though I were really persuading or beseeching, and anxious to prove that the escouade had nothing to fear if sent to garrison the place. No—merely as offering them, superior soldiers, an opportunity of seeing the fort before its remarkable dispositions were disturbed.

‘Wait a moment,’ said I, as they saluted and turned to go. ‘Is there a man of courage among you—a man, par exemple such as the trumpeter, brave enough to enter an empty fort with me?’

They looked sheepish for a moment. Someone murmured, ‘And where is Jean the Trumpeter?’ and then I heard a curious whispered remark:

‘Gee! I sure would like to see a ghost, Buddy,’ and the whispered reply:

‘Sure thing, Hank, and I’d like to see ole Brown some more.’

Two men stepped forward as one, and saluted.

They were in extraordinary contrast in body, and some similarity in face, for one was a giant and the other not more than five feet in height, while both had clean-shaven leathery countenances, somewhat of the bold Red Indian type.

You know what I mean—lean hatchet faces, biggish noses, mouths like a straight gash, and big chins. By their grey eyes they were Northerners, and by their speech Americans.

‘You would like to see the fort and how it was manned to the last by heroes—victorious in death?’ I asked.

‘Oui, mon Commandant,’ they replied together.

‘Isn’t there a Frenchman among you?’ I asked the rest.

Another man, a big sturdy Gascon he looked, saluted and joined the Americans. Then what they now call ‘the herd instinct’ and ‘mob-psychology’ came into play, and the others did the same.

Good! I had got the lot. I would take them round the fort as though doing honour to the dead and showing them as an example—and then I suddenly remembered ...”

“The murdered sous-officier,” said George Lawrence.

“Exactly, George! These fellows must not see him lying there with a French bayonet through him! I must go in first, alone, and give myself the pleasant task of removing the bayonet. I would cover his face, and it would be assumed that he had been shot and had fallen where he lay. Yes, that was it....

‘Good! You shall come with me then,’ said I, ‘and have the privilege of treading holy ground and seeing a sight of which to talk to your grandchildren when you are old men. You can also tell your comrades of what you have seen, and give them a fresh pride in their glorious Regiment,’ and I bade the Sergeant-Major march them over to the fort.

Mounting my mule, which had not been unsaddled, I rode quickly across to the gate. The sentry had been withdrawn.

Dismounting, I hurried up to the roof, to perform the distasteful duty I could not very well have delegated to the Sergeant-Major. I emerged from the darkness of the staircase on to the roof.

And there I stood and stared and stared and rubbed my eyes—and then for a moment felt just a little faint and just a little in sympathy with those poor superstitious fools of the escouade.... For, my dear George, the body of the sous-officier was no longer there! Nor was that of the bareheaded recumbent man!”

“Good God!” ejaculated Lawrence, raising himself on his elbow and turning to de Beaujolais.

“Yes, that is what I said,” continued the other. “What else was there to say? Were there djinns, afrites, evil spirits in this cursed desert, even as the inhabitants declared? Was the whole thing a nightmare? Had I dreamt that the body of a French sous-officier had lain here, with a French bayonet through it? Or was I dreaming now?

And then I think my temperature went up two or three degrees from the mere hundred and two that one disregards; for I remember entertaining the wild idea that perhaps a living man was shamming dead among these corpses. Moreover, I remember going round from corpse to corpse and questioning them. One or two that seemed extra lifelike I took by the arm, and as I shouted at them, I shook them and pulled at them until they fell to the ground, their rifles clattering down with them.

Suddenly I heard the feet of men upon the stair, and pulled myself together. The Sergeant-Major and the half-dozen or so of legionaries came out on to the roof.

I managed to make my little speech as they stared round in amazement, the most amazed of all being the Sergeant-Major, who gazed at the smeared pool of blood where the body of the sous-officier had lain.

The two Americans seemed particularly interested, and appeared to be looking for comrades among the dead.

When would one of the men salute and ask respectfully the first of the hundred questions that must be puzzling them: ‘Where is their officer?’

And what should I reply? They could see for themselves that the Arabs had not entered and carried him off. Perhaps their minds were too full of the question: ‘Where is Jean the Trumpeter?’ for the other question to formulate itself.

I had made no reference to the disappearance of the trumpeter; but I knew that they had seen him enter the fort and had waited, as I did, for an astounding quarter of an hour, to see him come out again. They had watched me go in alone, at the end of that time, and had seen me emerge alone. What could I say?

It seemed to me to be best to say nothing on that subject, so I said it.

After a few minutes that seemed like a few hours, I bade Dufour take the men round the outbuildings, and then march them back to the oasis.

As he disappeared, last, down the stair, I called him back and we were alone together. Simultaneously we said the same words: ‘Did you move it?’—and each of us knew that the other knew nothing about it!

I laughed loudly, if not merrily, and the Sergeant-Major produced the oath of a lifetime; in length and originality, remarkable even for the Legion.

‘Quite so, Chef’ said I.... ‘Life grows a little complicated.’

‘I’ll give a complicated death to this farceur, when I find ...’ growled he as I motioned him to be off. ‘Blood of the devil, I will!’

He clattered down the stairs, and, soon after, I heard his voice below, as he led the group of men across the courtyard.

‘Not much here to terrify the great Rastignac, hein?’ he jeered.

‘But there is certainly something here to terrify me, my friend,’ I observed to myself, and made my way back to my mule and the oasis.... In fact, I fled....

Well, George, mon vieux, what do you think happened? Did the escouade obey and enter the fort like lambs, or did they refuse and successfully defy me, secure in the knowledge that the others would not fire on them?”

“You are alive to tell the tale, Jolly,” was the reply. “That’s the main thing.”

“On account of the importance of a part of it to you, my George, eh?” smiled the Frenchman.

“Oh, not at all, old chap,” Lawrence hastened to say, with a somewhat guilty smile. “Simply on account of the fact that you are spared to France and to your friends.”

“I thank you, my little George. Almost might you be a Frenchman,” said de Beaujolais, with an ironical bow. “But tell me, what do you think happened? Did they obey and enter, or did they refuse?”

“Give it up, Jolly. I can only feel sure that one of the two happened,” replied Lawrence.

“And that is where you are wrong, my friend, for neither happened,” continued de Beaujolais. “They neither obeyed and entered, nor disobeyed and stayed out!”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Lawrence. “What then?”

And this time it was the Frenchman who suggested a little refreshment.