Читать книгу Beau Geste - Percival Christopher Wren - Страница 11

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“Well, this is the last ‘event’ on that remarkable programme, mon cher Georges,” resumed de Beaujolais a little later. “A very appropriate and suitable one too.... ‘A delightful open-air entertainment concluded with fireworks,’ as the reporters of fêtes champêtres say.”

“Fireworks? Rifle-fire works do you mean?” asked Lawrence.

“No, my George, nothing to speak of. Just fireworks. Works of fire.... I will tell you....

I let the moon get well up, and then sent my servant, Achmet, for the Sergeant-Major, and bade that good fellow to parade the men as before, with the fort a hundred paces in their rear, the garrison escouade on the right of the line.

This party would either march into the fort or not. If not—then the remainder would be ordered to right-form and shoot them where they stood, for disobedience in the field, practically in the presence of the enemy.

The remainder would either obey or not. If not—then I would at once give the order to ‘pile arms.’ If they did this, as they might, from force of habit, they would immediately be marched off to the oasis and would be ‘arrested’ by the non-commissioned officers and marched back to Tokotu, under escort of the Senegalese, to await court martial. If they did not pile arms, the non-commissioned officers were to come at once to me, and we would prepare to sell our lives dearly—for the men would mutiny and desert. Possibly a few of the men would join us, and there was a ghost of a chance that we might fight our way into the fort and hold it, but it was infinitely more probable that we should be riddled where we stood.

‘Bien, mon Commandant,’ said Dufour, as he saluted, and then, hesitatingly, ‘Might I presume to make a request and a suggestion. May I stand by you, and Rastignac stand by me—with the muzzle of my revolver against his liver—it being clear that, at the slightest threat to you, Rastignac’s digestion is impaired? If he knows that just this will happen, he also may give good advice to his friends....’

‘Nothing of the sort, Dufour,’ I replied. ‘Everything will proceed normally and properly, until the men themselves behave abnormally and improperly. We shall lead and command soldiers of France until we have to fight and kill, or be killed by, mutineers against the officers of France in the execution of their duty. Proceed.’

Would you have said the same, George? It seemed to me that this idea of the Sergeant-Major’s was not much better than that of waiting for the Senegalese. Would you have done the same in my place?”

“I can only hope I should have had the courage to act as bravely and as wisely as you did, Jolly,” was the reply.

“Oh, I am no hero, my friend,” smiled de Beaujolais, “but it seemed the right thing to do. I had not in any way provoked a mutiny—indeed, I had stretched a point to avert it—and it was my business to go straight ahead, do my duty, and abide the result.

But it was with an anxious heart that I mounted the mule again and cantered over to the fort.

I had thought of going on a camel, for, it is a strange psychological fact, that if your hearers have to look up to you physically, they also have to look up to you metaphysically as it were. If a leader speaks with more authority from a mule than from the ground, and with more weight and power from a horse than from a mule, would he not speak with still more from a camel?

Perhaps—but I felt that I could do more, somehow, in case of trouble, if I could dash at assailants with sword and revolver. I am a cavalry man and the arme blanche is my weapon. Cold steel and cut and thrust, for me, if I had to go down fighting. You can’t charge and use your sword on a camel, so I compromised on the mule—but how I longed for my Arab charger and a few of my Spahis behind me! It would be a fight then, instead of a murder....

It was a weird and not unimpressive scene. That sinister fort, silver and black; the frozen waves of the ocean of sand, an illimitable silver sea; the oasis a big, dark island upon it; the men, statues, inscrutable and still.

What would they do? Would my next words be my last? Would a double line of rifles rise and level themselves at my breast, or would that escouade, upon whom everything depended, move off like a machine and enter the fort?

As I faced the men, I was acutely interested, and yet felt like a spectator, impersonal and unafraid. I was about to witness a thrilling drama, depicting the fate of one Henri de Beaujolais, quite probably his death. I hoped he would play a worthy part on this moonlit stage. I hoped that, even more than I hoped to see him survive the play. I was calm. I was detached....”

George Lawrence sighed and struck a match.

“I cast one more look at the glorious moon and took a deep breath. If this was my last order on parade, it should be worthily given, in a voice deep, clear, and firm. Above all firm. And as my mouth opened, and my lower jaw moved in the act of speech—I believe it dropped, George, and my mouth remained open.

For, from that enigmatical, brooding, fatal fort—there shot up a tongue of flame!

‘Mon Dieu! Regardez!’ cried the Sergeant-Major, and pointed. I believe every head turned, and in the perfect silence I heard him whisper, ‘Spirits, ghosts, devils!’

That brought me to myself sharply. ‘Yes, imbecile!’ I said. ‘They carry matches and indulge in arson! Quite noted incendiaries! Where is Rastignac?’

I asked that because it was perfectly obvious that someone was in the fort and had set fire to something highly inflammable. I had been in the place an hour or two before. There was certainly no sign of fire then, and this was a sudden rush of flame.

As I watched, another column of smoke and fire burst forth in a different place.

‘He is tied up back there, mon Commandant,’ replied Dufour.

‘The forbidden crapaudine?’ I asked.

‘I told Corporal Brille to tie him to a tree,’ was the reply.

Anyhow it could not be Rastignac’s work, for he would not have entered the place, even had he been left at liberty and had an opportunity to do so.

‘Send and see if he is still there—and make sure that everyone else is accounted for,’ I ordered.

It was useless to detail a pompier squad to put the fire out. We don’t have hose and hydrants in the desert, as you know. When a place burns, it burns. And, mon Dieu, how it burns in the dry heat of that rainless desert! The place would be gone, even if the men would enter it, by the time we had got our teaspoonfuls of water from the oasis. And, to tell you the truth, I did not care how soon, or how completely it did go!

This fire would be the funeral pyre of those brave men. It would keep my fools from their suicidal mutiny. It would purge the place of mystery. Incidentally it would save my life and military reputation, and the new fort that would arise in its place would not be the haunted, hated prison that this place would henceforth have been for those who had to garrison it.

I gave the order to face about, and then to stand at ease. The men should watch it burn, since nothing could be done to save it. Perhaps even they would realise that human agency is required for setting a building on fire—and, moreover, whoever was in there had got to come out or be cremated. They should see him come.... But who? Who? The words Who? and Why? filled my mind....

All stood absolutely silent, spellbound.

Suddenly the spell was broken and back we came to earth, at an old familiar sound.

A rifle cracked, again and again. From the sound the firing was towards us.

The Arabs were upon us!

Far to the right and to the left, more shots were fired.

The fort blazing and the Arabs upon us!

Bullets whistled overhead and I saw one or two flashes from a distant sand-hill.

No one was hit, the fort being between us and the enemy. In less time than it takes to tell I had the men turned about and making for the oasis—au pas gymnastique—‘at the double,’ as you call it. There we should have cover and water, and if we could only hold the devils until they were nicely between us and St. André’s Senegalese, we would avenge the garrison of that blazing fort.

They are grand soldiers, those Légionnaires, George. No better troops in our army. They are to other infantry what my Spahis are to other cavalry. It warmed one’s heart to see them double, steady as on parade, back to the darkness of the oasis, every man select his cover and go to ground, his rifle loaded and levelled as he did so.

Our camel vedettes rode in soon after. Two of them had had a desperate fight, and two of them had seen rifle-flashes and fired at them, before returning to the oasis, thinking the Arabs had rushed the fort and burnt it.

In a few minutes from the first burst of fire, the whole place was still, silent, and apparently deserted. Nothing for an enemy to see but a burning fort, and a black brooding oasis, where nothing moved.

How I hoped they would swarm yelling round the fort, thinking to get us like bolted rabbits as we rushed out of it! It is not like the Arabs to make a night attack, but doubtless they had been hovering near, and the fire had brought them down on us.

Had they seen us outside the fort? If so, they would attack the oasis in the morning. If they had not seen us, anything might happen, and the oasis prove a guet-apens, with the burning or burnt-out fort in the bait of the trap.

What were they doing now? The firing had ceased entirely. Probably making their dispositions to rush us suddenly at dawn, from behind the nearest sand-hills. Their game would be to lull us into a sense of security throughout a peaceful night and come down upon us at daybreak, like a whirlwind, as we slept.

And what if our waiting rifles caught them at fifty yards, and the survivors turned to flee—on to the muzzles of those of the Senegalese? ...

It was another impressive scene in that weird drama, George. A big fire, by moonlight, in the heart of the Sahara, a fire watched by silent, motionless men, breathlessly awaiting the arrival of other players on the stage.

After gazing into the moonlit distance until my eyes ached, expecting to see a great band of the blue-veiled mysterious Silent Ones suddenly swarm over a range of sand-hills, I bethought me of getting into communication with St. André.

I had ordered him to follow by a forced march, leaving a suitable garrison at Tokotu, when I dashed off with the ‘always ready’ emergency-detachment on camels, preceding by an hour or so the ‘support’ emergency-detachment on mules, with water, rations, and ammunition.

These two detachments are more than twice as fast as the best infantry, but I reckoned that St. André would soon be drawing near.

It was quite possible that he might run into the Arabs, while the latter were watching the oasis—if they had seen us enter it, or their skirmishers established the fact of our presence.

So far, we had not fired a shot from the oasis, and it was possible that our presence was unsuspected.

This might, or might not, be the same band that had attacked the place. If they were the same, they might be hanging about in the hope of ambushing a relieving force. If St. André arrived while the fort was burning, they would have no chance of catching him unawares. If he came after the flames had died down, he might march straight into a trap. There would certainly be a Targui scout or two out in the direction of Tokotu, while the main body did business at Zinderneuf.

Anyhow, I must communicate with St. André if possible. It would be a good man that would undertake the job successfully—for both skill and courage would be required. There was the track to find and follow, and there were the Arabs to face.

To lose the former was to die of thirst and starvation; to find the latter was to die of tortures indescribable.

On the whole it might be better to send two. Twice the chance of my message reaching St. André. Possibly more than twice the chance, really, as two men are braver than one, because they hearten each other.

I went round the oasis until I found the Sergeant-Major, who was going from man to man, prohibiting any firing without orders, any smoking or the making of any noise. This was quite sound and I commended him, and then asked for a couple of men of the right stamp for my job.

I was not surprised when he suggested two of the men who had been into the fort with me, and passed the word for the two Americans. He recommended them as men who could use the stars, good scouts, brave, resourceful, and very determined.

They would, at any rate, stand a chance of getting through the Arabs and giving St. André the information that would turn him from their victim into their scourge, if we had any luck.

When the big slow giant and the little quick man appeared and silently saluted, I asked them if they would like to undertake this duty. They were more than ready, and as I explained my plans for trapping the Arabs between two fires, I found them of quick intelligence. Both were able to repeat to me, with perfect lucidity, what I wanted them to say to St. André, that he might be able to attack the attackers at dawn, just when they were attacking me.

The two left the oasis on camels, from the side opposite to the fort, and after they had disappeared over a sand-hill, you may imagine with what anxiety I listened for firing. But all was silent, and the silence of the grave prevailed until morning.

After two or three hours of this unbroken, soundless stillness, the fire having died down in the fort, I felt perfectly certain there would be no attack until dawn.

All who were not on the duty of outposts-by-night slept, and I strolled silently round and round the oasis, waiting for the first hint of sunrise and thinking over the incredible events of that marvellous day—certainly unique in my fairly wide experience of hectic days.

I went over it all again from the moment when I first sighted the accursed fort with its flag flying over its unsealed walls and their dead defenders, to the moment when my eyes refused to believe that the place was on fire and blazing merrily.

At length, leaning against the trunk of a palm tree and longing for a cigarette and some hot coffee to help me keep awake, I faced the east and watched for the paling of the stars. As I did so, my mind grew clearer as my body grew weaker, and I decided to decide that all this was the work of a madman, concealed in the fort, and now burnt to death.

He had, for some reason, murdered the sous-officier with a bayonet (certainly he must be mad or he would have shot him); and he had, for some reason, silently killed the trumpeter and hidden his body—all in the few minutes that elapsed before I followed the trumpeter in. (Had the murderer used another bayonet for this silent job?) He had for some reason removed the sous-officier’s, and the other man’s, body and concealed those too, and, finally, he had set fire to the fort and perished in the flames.

But where was he while I searched the place, and why had he not killed me also when I entered the fort alone?

The lunacy theory must account for these hopelessly lunatic proceedings—but it hardly accounts for the murdered sous-officier having in his hand a confession signed, ‘Michael Geste,’ to the effect that he had stolen a jewel, does it, my old one?”

“It does not, my son, and that, to me, is the most interesting and remarkable fact in your most interesting and remarkable story,” replied Lawrence.

“Well, I decided, as I say, to leave it at that—just the mad doings of a madman, garnished by the weird coincidence of the paper,” continued de Beaujolais, “and soon afterwards the sky grew grey in the east.

Before a rosy streak could herald the dawn we silently stood to arms, and when the sun peeped over the horizon he beheld St. André’s Senegalese skirmishing beautifully towards us!

There wasn’t so much as the smell of an Arab for miles.... No, St. André had not seen a living thing—not even the two scouts I had sent out to meet him. Nor did anyone else ever see those two brave fellows. I have often wondered what their fate was—Arabs or thirst....

I soon learnt that one of St. André’s mule-scouts had ridden back to him, early in the night, to say that he had heard rifle-shots in the direction of Zinderneuf. St. André had increased his pace, alternating the quick march and the pas gymnastique until he knew he must be near his goal. All being then perfectly silent he decided to beware of an ambush, to halt for the rest of the night, and to feel his way forward, in attack formation, at dawn.

He had done well, and my one regret was that the Arabs who had caused the destruction of Zinderneuf were not between me and him as he closed upon the oasis.

While the weary troops rested, I told St. André all that had happened, and asked for a theory—reserving mine about the madman. He is a man with a brain, this St. André, ambitious and a real soldier. Although he has private means, he serves France where duty is hardest, and life least attractive. A little dark pocket-Hercules of energy and force.

‘What about this, Major?’ said he, when I had finished my account, and, having fed, we were sitting, leaning our weary backs against a fallen palm trunk, with coffee and cigarettes at hand.

‘Suppose your trumpeter killed the sous-officier himself and deserted there and then?’

‘Mon Dieu!’ said I; ‘that never occurred to me. But why should he, and why use his bayonet and leave it in the body?’

‘Well—as to why he should,’ replied St. André, ‘it might have been revenge. This may have been the first time he had ever been alone with the sous-officier, whom he may have sworn to kill at the first opportunity.... Some fancied or real injustice, when he was under this man at Sidi-bel-Abbès or elsewhere. The sight of his enemy, the sole survivor, alone, rejoicing in his hour of victory and triumph, may have further maddened a brain already mad with cafard, brooding, lust of vengeance, I know not what of desperation.’

‘Possible,’ I said, and thought over this idea. ‘But no, impossible, my friend. Why had not the sous-officier rushed to the wall, or up to the look-out platform when I approached? I fired my revolver six times to attract attention and let them know that relief had come, and two answering rifle-shots were fired! Why was he not waving his képi and shouting for joy? Why did he not rush down to the gates and throw them open?’

‘Wounded and lying down,’ suggested St. André.

‘He was not wounded, my friend,’ said I. ‘He was killed. That bayonet, and nothing else, had done his business.’

‘Asleep,’ suggested the Lieutenant, ‘absolutely worn out. Sleeping like the dead—and thus his enemy, the trumpeter, found him, and drove the bayonet through his heart as he slept. He was going to blow the sleeper’s brains out, when he remembered that the shot would be heard and would have to be explained. Therefore he used the bayonet, drove it through the man, and then, and not till then, he realised that the bayonet would betray him. It would leap to the eye, instantly, that murder had been committed—and not by one of the garrison. So he fled.’

‘And the revolver, with one chamber fired?’ I asked.

‘Oh—fired during the battle, at some daring Arab who rode round the fort, reconnoitring, and came suddenly into view.’

‘And the paper in the left hand?’

‘I do not know.’

‘And who fired the two welcoming shots?’

‘I do not know.’

‘And how did the trumpeter vanish across the desert—as conspicuous as a negro’s head on a pillow—before the eyes of my Company?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Nor do I,’ I said.

And then St. André sat up suddenly.

‘Mon Commandant,’ said he, ‘the trumpeter did not escape, of course. He murdered the sous-officier and then hid himself. It was he who removed the two bodies when he again found himself alone in the fort. He may have had some idea of removing the bayonet and turning the stab into a bullet-wound. He then meant to return to the Company with some tale of cock and bull. But remembering that you had already seen the body, and might have noticed the bayonet, he determined to set fire to the fort, burn all evidence, and rejoin in the confusion caused by the fire.

He could swear that he had been knocked on the head from behind, and only recovered consciousness in time to escape from the flames kindled by whoever it was who clubbed him. This is all feasible—and if improbable it is no more improbable than the actual facts of the case, is it?’

‘Quite so, mon Lieutenant,’ I agreed. ‘And why did he not rejoin in the confusion, with his tale of cock and bull?’

‘Well—here’s a theory. Suppose the sous-officier did shoot at him with the revolver and wounded him so severely that by the time he had completed his little job of arson he was too weak to walk. He fainted from loss of blood and perished miserably in the flames that he himself had kindled. Truly a splendid example of poetic justice.’

‘Magnificent,’ I agreed. ‘The Greek Irony, in effect. Hoist by his own petard. Victim of the mocking Fates, and so forth. The only flaw in the beautiful theory is that we should have heard the shot—just as we should have heard a rifle-shot had the trumpeter used his rifle for the murder. In that brooding heavy silence a revolver fired on that open roof would have sounded like a seventy-five.’

‘True,’ agreed St. André, a little crestfallen. ‘The man was mad then. He did everything that was done, and then committed suicide or was burnt alive.’

‘Ah, my friend,’ said I, ‘you have come to the madman theory, eh? So had I. It is the only one. But now I will tell you something. The trumpeter did not do all this. He did not murder the sous-officier, for that unfortunate had been dead for hours, and the trumpeter had not been in the place ten minutes!’

‘And that’s that,’ said St. André. ‘Let’s try again.’ And he tried again—very ingeniously too. But he could put forward no theory that he himself did not at once ridicule.

We were both, of course, weary to death and more in need of twenty-four hours’ sleep than twenty-four conundrums—but I do not know that I have done much better since.

And as I rode back to Tokotu, with my record go of fever, my head opened with a tearing wrench and closed with a shattering bang, at every stride of my camel, to the tune of, ‘Who killed the Commandant, and why, why, why?’ till I found I was saying it aloud.

I am saying it still, George.” ...