Читать книгу Valiant Dust - Percival Christopher Wren - Страница 13

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Standing “properly at ease” on his sentry-post, and thinking how much more properly at ease he would feel if he could but crouch in the shadow of the low wall, or of one of those great rocks and boulders on the hill-side, le Légionnaire Otho Bellême was suddenly aware of a burly Arab who approached him.

Otho eyed him suspiciously and stood tensely ready.

One of the numerous scoundrels who daily brought small eggs, skinny chickens, parched grain, dirty honey, cakes of brown bread, full of the grit of the grind-stone—and opened a small market outside the gates of the little roughly constructed outpost which les légionnaires had hastily built for their protection—not so much a labour of bricks without straw as of walls without bricks; the whole post, perimeter walls and caserne-buildings consisting solely of piled, unhewn, unmortared stones.

Yes, scoundrels who were hucksters in the light of the sun and snipers by the light of the moon; peaceful pedlars one day and warlike warriors the next; their market but a cover and a chance for spying, for learning the strength—or the weakness—of the garrison, and studying its habits, dispositions and routine; its risings up and its lyings down.

It was not for le Légionnaire Otho Bellême to criticize the tactics, dispositions, or methods of his superior officer, Sergeant-Major Vittorelli, much less those of his infinitely more superior officer, Major Riccoli, who commanded the whole column, and rode over frequently from one of the other postes. He must know all about it, for, not only did he occasionally spend the whole day at the poste, but sometimes stayed the night ... Seemed very fond of Sergeant-Major Vittorelli—doubtless because the good Sergeant-Major was a brother Corsican.

The Corsican Brothers, in fact.

“Hi, you!” bawled Otho suddenly, to the burly Arab. “Bung off. Hop it. Vamoose. Allez. Imshi, in fact, you ...”

Slightly changing direction, as the speaker threateningly raised his rifle and brought his bayonet to the charge, the Arab crossed the front of the sentry-post and, as he passed, glanced at Otho and uttered a single word.

“Yelverbury,” said the big, bearded Arab.

Indubitably and unmistakably, the Arab had said “Yelverbury,” although the pronunciation had not been that of a man of Kent.

Mechanically the astounded Otho resumed the position of attention, and then stood himself properly at ease.

“Yelverbury!”—with just that peculiar pronunciation and intonation.

By Jove! Of course! ... The interview with the officer ... The Parade-ground at Mellerat ... The first day that he was able to go on duty again after his fight with M’Bongu, the fight that had left him with closed eyes, almost immovable jaw, and an almost unbearable ache that extended from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet ... The messenger who had bidden him come with him forthwith, to where Monsieur le Colonel and a strange officer—another Colonel—demanded his immediate attendance.

He remembered every incident, every word of the interview that had followed.

Saluting and standing smartly at attention in that little room ... speculating regarding the officer, a big powerful man, strong-faced and iron-jawed, who sat at the table and stared at him with hard appraising eyes ...

“Le Légionnaire Otho Bellême?”

“Oui, mon Commandant.”

“Your real name?”

“Oui, mon Commandant.”

“You are English?”

“Oui, mon Commandant.”

“The name is French.”

“Norman. A thousand years in England.”

The officer smiled.

“Educated?”

“Oui, mon Commandant.”

“Where?”

“At home, at Yelverbury Grammar School, and at Oxford.”

“Profession?”

“Pugilist.”

The officer smiled. He had watched the defeat of M’Bongu the Invincible.

“Father’s profession?”

“Gentilhomme.”

The officer raised his eyebrows.

“Sir Bellême, en effet?”

“Sir Otho Robert Mandeville-Bellême.”

“Ah!”

The officer reflected, as he scrutinized Otho’s strong and handsome, if somewhat disfigured face. Yes, this was his man ... a tool to his hand ... Obviously—in view of that awful fight—as brave as a lion, strong as an ox, determined and tenacious as one of his own British bull-dogs ... Well born, too; well educated; probably quite clever; and, by report, amenable to discipline and of excellent character.

Character? Then what should such a man be doing in the Foreign Legion? A woman, no doubt—cherchez la femme. Or perhaps merely one of those mad romantics who live for adventure, warming their brave hearts in the glow of glamorous dreams. Yes, this man would do.

“How would you like to leave the ranks and come with me?” asked the strange Colonel suddenly.

“Pardon, mon Commandant?” replied Otho, in some bewilderment.

“Do you speak Arabic as well as you do French and English?”

“As badly as I do French, but not as well as I do English, mon Commandant,” smiled Otho.

“How would you like to be seconded and come with me ... Study Arabic ... dress as an Arab ... live like an Arab ... become an Arab, in fact; until I can use you as one.... How, in short, would you like to join the Secret Service, if you satisfied me during your apprenticeship, and passed my tests? ... A hard and dangerous life—for a brave man; with a brave man’s rewards, if he succeeded.”

“I should love it, mon Commandant. Better than anything on earth ... But I cannot leave my escouade.”

“Why not?”

“My friends ... They came with me ... They joined the Legion because I did. I couldn’t ...”

“What type of men are these, your friends? Englishmen? Educated men? Gentlemen?”

“Two of them are pugilists like myself, mon Commandant. All three were sailors ... Two, matelots in the British Navy; one, a Merchant Service sailor before the mast, a re-joined légionnaire.”

“Not educated?”

“No, mon Commandant.”

“Any of them naturally clever? Good at disguise ... good linguists ... good actors?”

Otho shook his head.

“No, mon Commandant. Splendid soldiers and fighting men, but no use to you in that way.”

“And you would not leave them?”

Again Otho shook his head.

“No, mon Commandant. Never. Absolutely not.”

“You are loyal and faithful, one perceives.”

Another useful trait! What a fool was this young man, to stand thus in his own light and, with his abilities and opportunity, to remain in the ranks of the Legion.

“But look you, mon enfant,” he continued, “there are three of them, you say, these friends of yours. It is not like your leaving one friend; leaving him forlorn. It is merely that your English party, instead of being four, will be three. Each will have the company and society of two other Englishmen. Surely it is enough. They would not grudge you your promotion—for that is what it would certainly amount to ... See now—either they do not grudge it, and all is well; or they do grudge it, and they are no true friends.”

Otho smiled.

“They would urge me to accept your offer, mon Commandant.”

“Then why not do so?”

“Partly because they would urge it. Do you not see, mon Commandant, they are my friends ... How can I clear off and leave them? They followed me here. I am the cause and the reason of their being in the Foreign Legion. How could I desert them—to profit myself? Would you, sir, in my place?”

The officer smiled a little wryly.

The Secret Service is an exacting mistress and recks little of personal feelings and of such trifles as personal friendships.

The Colonel, head upon hand, reflectively regarding that foolish young man, aired his admirable English.

“You’re their leader, eh? And don’t intend to be their lost leader.

“‘Just for a handful of silver he left us,

Just for a riband to stick in his coat—

Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,

Lost all the others she lets us devote.’

“Well, mon enfant, you are a fool.”

“Oui, mon Commandant.”

“A silly fool.”

“Oui, mon Commandant.”

“A damned silly fool.”

“Oui, mon Commandant.”

“An Englishman, in fact.”

“Oui, mon Commandant.”

“I’m very fond of the English,” said the officer, and rising to his feet, extended a huge hand, the grip of which caused poignant but agreeable pain to Otho’s damaged fist.

“Now listen, and pay close attention. Give me some word—we’ll have an English word, I think—that will instantly recall me to you, should I utter it in your hearing ... A kind of pass-word, in effect, that will be private and peculiar to you and me.”

“Oh, I should never forget you, mon Commandant, especially after your kindness.”

“Perhaps not, mon enfant, but I trust that, although you may not forget me, you won’t know me the next time we meet ... A little humiliating for me, you know, if I accosted you in the guise of a starving leper, and instead of giving me a sou, you saluted me and stood to attention ... I sincerely hope a pass-word will be necessary before you recognize me.”

Otho smiled.

“I beg your pardon, mon Commandant. I did not understand ... What about ‘Yelverbury’ where my home is?”

“Excellent. It is hardly likely that any Arab, Moor, Bedouin, Touareg or other Berber will introduce himself to you with that particular word,” smiled the officer as, with a friendly hand upon Otho’s shoulder, he bade him think well upon what he had heard, while remembering that a still tongue runs in a wise head.

And now, long after the curious little incident had faded from his mind, a typical hill Arab, bearded, brown and dirty, with dingy haik and burnous, turban, sandals, and staff complete, had quietly, but distinctly and unmistakably, uttered the word “Yelverbury” as he passed.

That officer! ... The strange Colonel, disguised as a Moor of the Southern Atlas, and so completely disguised that, but for the pass-word, Otho would never have dreamed that the Arab was other than he seemed.

Wheeling about, as though changing his mind and deciding to return to the little extra-mural market, the Arab approached the sentry, confident that the word which he had uttered guaranteed him against prohibitive challenge.

“Yelverbury!” he said again. “I must see Major Riccoli before he leaves this poste. Don’t recognize me. Know nothing.”

Yes, this was certainly the Secret Service Colonel, and Otho’s superior officer. But what was going to happen to the sentry who allowed an Arab to hang about the gate of the poste?

Would the Colonel exculpate him when he was put under arrest for so grave a dereliction of duty, an action so flatly contravening his clear instructions? Any Arab, attempting to behave like this, would be regarded as a spy, and a complacent sentry as his bribed accomplice.

However, orders were orders and—luckily—any Colonel was certainly senior to Major Riccoli, and was it not French military law that, in any circumstances, any member of the French naval or military forces must obey the order of the senior officer on the spot, no matter to what branch of the Service he might belong?

As those thoughts flashed through Otho’s mind, the Arab produced from beneath his acnish, the brown goat-hair cloak of the mountaineer, a folded piece of coarse paper, thumbed and filthy, on which was scrawled

“Monsieur le Commandant le Major Riccoli.”

“Get this to Major Riccoli somehow,” he said. “If the Sergeant of the Guard refuses, speak to your Officer yourself ... If nothing happens, come and look for me in the market there, selling almonds.”

And the speaker, retiring a few paces, squatted beside the road or track that led from the gate of the poste.

Otho perpended.

Clearly he must let Major Riccoli know, as soon as possible, that a tribesman demanded speech with him. Would Sergeant-Major Vittorelli take the message and the scrap of paper, or curse him for a fool and punish him for allowing an Arab to approach so close that he might have stabbed the sentry, snatched his rifle and fled; or have dashed into the fort and died slaying—perhaps succeeding in killing the Commandant himself, or even Sergeant-Major Vittorelli?

Had he better march boldly into the stone hut that was the Commandant’s quarters, trusting that the scrap of paper would be his passport to forgiveness for such presumption?

Sergeant-Major Vittorelli wouldn’t forgive him, anyway, if he did—and on the whole the effects of the anger and enmity of a Sergeant-Major were apt to be more generally deplorable and distressful than those of a General.

Would it be better to report the incident, and produce the paper to the Corporal who relieved him or ...

Suddenly, at a clank of hoofs, a jingle of steel, and a creak of leather, Otho sprang to attention, presented arms and returned to the position of attention, and then held out the paper to Major Riccoli as that officer, followed by his orderly, Bombelli, rode out of the gate and, glancing at the sentry, returned his salute by raising two fingers to his cap.

“What’s this?” he asked, reining up.

“A letter for you, mon Commandant. That Arab just brought it. I told him to wait there until I was relieved.”

“Bien.”

Taking the paper from the sentry, the officer scrutinized the hieroglyphics scrawled beneath his name, and then unfolding it, studied its contents. From time to time he glanced from the paper to the messenger who, squatting on his heels, his rigid arms resting on his knees, his hands dangling flaccid and inert, contemplated Infinity with closed eyes and open mouth, his mind apparently as vacant as his face ...

Having frowned his way through the document, Major Riccoli, his handsome face otherwise devoid of expression, again read it, and again thoughtfully regarded the messenger.

“Hi, you, rekass!” he called, and beckoning to the Arab, wheeled about and rode back into the little fort.

Dismounting and giving his reins to the orderly, “See that I am not disturbed and that no one comes near here,” he said.

Then, bidding the Arab follow him, he entered the little stone room that was at once his office and his quarters, and shut the door.

Having closed the door, Major Riccoli seated himself at the rough wooden table, placed his revolver upon it and, with a wave of his hand, gave his visitor permission to be seated.

The Moor, respectfully touching his head and his chest, bowed and, squatting cross-legged on the floor of the hut, drew his feet beneath his cloak.

The French officer, head on hand, for some moments silently regarded the dusky, bearded and somewhat dirty face of the man who, from beneath over-hanging bushy eyebrows, watched him intently with unwinking gaze.

Yes, a typical Moor. A fat-faced, bushy-bearded hill-man who might be own cousin to Abd-el-Krim, Raisuli, or any other Moorish chieftain—robber, brigand, rebel, patriot or whatever one liked to call him.

Why didn’t the fellow speak? One loses prestige and takes the lower ground if, in dealing with these people, one pays the first visit or makes the first remark.

In silence, Major Riccoli endeavoured to out-stare the Moor. To his great annoyance he found himself compelled, at length, to blink, and almost to withdraw his gaze from that of the visitor, as a fencer disengages his sword.

“Well?” he said sharply and received in reply another bow and salutation, respectful if not humble.

“Why have you come here?” he asked in his all but perfect Moorish Arabic.

“To bring that letter, Sidi.”

“Do you know what’s in it?”

“I do, Sidi.”

“You know that it is an answer to my message to the Kaid?”

“I do, Sidi.”

“Why didn’t you go when you had given the letter to the sentry?”

“I have to take an answer, Sidi.”

“Why could not my messenger to the Kaid have brought this letter and taken back my answer?”

“My master, the Kaid, is the most trusting of men, but only in the Faithful has he any faith—and not much in them ... He once trusted the word of the Sultan, publicly pledged on the K’ran.”

“So he sent you to find out whether the messenger and the message were genuine ... and incidentally to find out anything else that you could, and generally to spy out the land, hein?”

The Moor smiled.

“The Kaid, my master, on whom be peace, sent me to find out whether the messenger and the message were genuine,” he replied. “... And also to be his ear into which your Excellency might whisper any further words that may now be said—provided your Excellency is convinced that I am what I appear to be, the secret messenger and ambassador of my master, the Kaid ... And to discuss these proposals that give my master, the Kaid the greatest gratification—as well as to assure your Excellency of my master’s absolute good faith.”

“One thing at a time,” replied Major Riccoli, again endeavouring to out-stare the Moor. “First of all, as to your being what you pretend to be ... If I said to you, ‘Algo ó nada’ ... for example, what would you reply?”

“‘Dádivas quebrantan peñas’ ... perchance,” replied the other instantly.

“And if I said ‘Donde hay gana hay maña,’ to that?”

“‘Dios va abriends su mano,’ Sidi,” was the immediate reply.

“So far so good,” observed the French officer. “My messenger evidently reached your master. Now as to your being the ear of the Kaid ... Hearken ... for I am about to whisper ... Hearken, I say ... If your master, the Kaid, and I, can come face to face and talk, I can lay bare my mind to him and speak with single tongue ... I can promise him such things as he has not dreamed of—such power, such wealth, such greatness, such munitions of war and ... and ...”

Words appeared to fail the speaker as he contemplated the picture that he drew.

“Promise!” he continued after a brief interval of silence in which the Moor continued to gaze at him with unwavering, unwinking, almost disconcerting stare. “I can promise him ...”

“Promise ...” he continued, “promise and perform—and give him proof and guarantee of my good faith.”

“Ah! Proof and guarantee of good faith, Sidi. What proof? And what guarantee?”

“Of that I will talk with the Kaid, your master, as I said in my letter, and as I bade my messenger tell him.”

“Doubtless, Sidi. You must meet the Kaid, my master, face to face, and talk with him. But I also have to face him and talk with him on my return. What can I say of proofs and guarantees that promises can, and will, be performed?”

“Say that I will bring him what most he needs—men and munitions. Every man worth a hundred as a fighting-man; worth a thousand as a trainer of fighting-men ... Proof and guarantee? Did I not offer in my letter to put myself completely in his power—to walk into the lion’s den? What further proof of good faith could your master have or want? Is it not rather I, who need proof and guarantee of the Kaid’s good faith?”

The Moor smiled with a flash of white teeth.

“You will not enter the lion’s den unarmed, Sidi,” he said.

“And has the lion neither teeth nor claws?” was the reply. “Let us speak plainly. I will visit the Kaid of Mekazzen accompanied by a handful of men, a mere escort, a bodyguard. How many men could the Kaid have in the Citadel of Mekazzen? How many in the City? How many encamped on the plains about it? Is the Kaid afraid? Who would be in danger from treachery, the Kaid or I?”

“And when you have spoken with the Kaid, my master, with single mind and simple speech, pure, clear and limpid as the waters of the rivers of Paradise, and you and the Kaid, my master, understand each the mind of the other, see eye to eye, and clasp hands of friendship—what then, Sidi?”

“Then I will bring more men, and yet more, until the whole of my command—men and munitions—foot, horse and guns are at the Kaid’s disposal under my command ... Then indeed may he raise his banner in the certainty that the tribesmen will flock to it. Then indeed may he hope for victory over the Sultan. Hope, do I say? Nay, be as certain of victory as the Faithful are certain of Paradise.”

Again the Moor smiled.

“And you can answer for your men, Sidi ... They will fight beneath that banner?”

“Are they not soldiers? Have they any duty—or desire—but to obey?” asked Riccoli, spreading eloquent hands, with a shrug of mobile shoulders. “Where I lead they will follow.”

“And your Government, Sidi? The Franzawi maghzen. Will they not also ‘follow’? Follow with a yet bigger army, and inquire what the Sidi and his troops are doing beneath the banner of the Kaid of Mekazzen?”

“Ah!” replied Riccoli. “It is concerning what will happen then, that I must talk with the Kaid, your master. Not another word will I say now ... Not one.”

The Moor rose to his feet.

“I will carry your words to the Kaid, Sidi,” he said, touching his heart and head as he bowed. “Meanwhile, speak not of me and my visit to any other messenger, for no man knoweth the mind of the Kaid. His will is, that his right hand shall not know what his left hand doeth: and his spies spy upon all his spies.”

Sergeant-Major Vittorelli himself thereafter entertained the messenger, who seemed deeply interested in the men and ways of the poste, and, after sunset, lantern in hand, escorted him to the gate, and saw him out into the night.

As the Moor swung down the hill-side to where his camels were tethered, a mile or so from the fort, he frowned in deep thought.

“It might be a genuine coup,” he mused. “It might ... And then again ... If I know my Riccoli ... my budding Napoleon ...? Nous verrons.”

With a ragged tough-looking man, clad in a goat-hair acnish cloak, whom he addressed as Pierrepont, but who appeared to be but a dirty Arab camel-driver, he discussed the matter at some length, and in the French tongue, as they drank coffee together.

“Wonder if Langeac will have any difficulty in joining us to-night?” mused the dirty camel-driver, changing the subject.

“Not he, my dear Pierrepont. Or if he has any difficulty, he’ll overcome it.”

Both men laughed.

“He saw you all right to-day?”

“He did.”

“And you’re sure he recognized you?”

“Quite. We fairly exchanged glances—after I’d made the sign....

“Yes ... Langeac will be with us by-and-bye,” he continued, “and then we’ll get off as soon as possible.”

“Mon Dieu, but Langeac’s the clever one,” smiled the dirty camel-man.

“Clever as the Devil,” agreed the other.

The two sipped their coffee in silence for a while.

“What are you laughing at?” inquired the camel-driver.

“Thinking of Riccoli’s face when I confront him with Langeac.”

“May I be there to see,” breathed the camel-man fervently.