Читать книгу Valiant Dust - Percival Christopher Wren - Страница 8

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“On in the snow—on in the snow—

Blinded and numbed, the soldiers go.”

Major Napoleon Riccoli rode at their head, looking, according to his wont, as Napoleonic as possible. Thus, he reflected, must his great ancestor—well, no, perhaps not exactly ancestor—his great namesake, prototype, forerunner, exemplar, what you will, have looked on the Retreat from Moscow.

Not that this Napoleon was retreating, of course. Au contraire, advancing. Very much so. Advancing a good deal farther than some people proposed, expected or intended.

Ho, ho! Advancing indeed ... And with an independent command. An independent command at last; the chance for which this Man of Destiny had waited so long; worked and waited, plotted and schemed.

And actually on the very borders of Mekazzen!

Now the world should hear something; hear of a newer—and a greater—Napoleon.

A new Napoleon.

New worlds to conquer ...

A new Jerusalem.

Napoleon Buonaparte—a back number.

Napoleon Riccoli—a new Man of Destiny.

Emperor Napoleon Buonaparte—Emperor of France.

Emperor Napoleon Riccoli—Emperor of the Sahara. Emperor of Northern Africa.

Emperor of Africa. Emperor of Africa and France.

Emperor of Africa and Europe.

Emperor of the World!

And meanwhile it was extremely cold, and the future Emperor had no handkerchief.

At the heels of the weary and half-starved horse that had the honour to carry Major Napoleon Riccoli—a horse named Marengo after another famous charger—strode Major Napoleon Riccoli’s humble relative, henchman, and fervent admirer, the excellent Sergeant-Major Vittorelli.

Excellent indeed from the point of view of his superior officers, though the soldiers of his Section used other, many other, adjectives when describing Sergeant-Major Vittorelli.

In justice it must be admitted that soldiers rarely apply the term “excellent” to their Sergeant-Major, and it is probable that one so described would be a man of unusual and peculiar traits, if not virtues.

What his men knew of Sergeant-Major Vittorelli was his harshness, brutality, love of fault-finding, merciless cruelty when provoked, his injustice; and, be it admitted, his ability, hardihood, and high courage.

What Major Napoleon Riccoli knew of Sergeant-Major Vittorelli was his absolute unswerving fidelity to, and burning faith in, Major Napoleon Riccoli. Where Riccoli led, Vittorelli would follow. What Riccoli ordered, Vittorelli would do.

“Thought you said this Africa was a ’ot country,” grumbled le Légionnaire William Bossum to his comrade Sailor Harris, marching on his right, near the head of the little column led by Major Napoleon Riccoli.

“So it is ’ot in the ’ot parts—and the ’ot times,” was the cold reply. “You’ll be grumblin’ because it’s too ’ot, soon.”

“Roll on, the ’ot,” observed le Légionnaire William Bossum, and, bent almost double against the bitter chill of the icy blast and beneath the weight of his snow-laden pack and sodden clothing, he breathed hard upon numbed fingers.

“Cor!” he said, in general comprehensive comment and condemnation.

“’Tain’t no worse for you than what it isn’t for nobody else, is it?” expostulated Sailor Harris.

“That don’t make it no better for me, do it?”

“Not ’arf it don’t. Course it do.”

“’Ow?”

“Well, don’t it make you feel no better to know ’ow bad I feel?”

“Ar,” agreed le Légionnaire William Bossum. “There’s somethink in that, as the monkey said when he sat on the bee-’ive.”

“Besides,” continued Sailor Harris, “ain’t you never ’ad it worse than this? Reefin’ sails in the middle of the night and a ’owlin’ blizzard abaft the beam, fit to blow you off the yard-arm; with the sail froze ’ard as wood and the ropes and spars an inch thick in ice? Eh? Ain’t you ever laid out along the bowsprit, twenty below zero, snowin’ thicker than this, foot-ropes under the sea ’arf the time, with a jib-sail broke adrift, and flappin’ over the knightheads—and you findin’ yerself knocked off by a bloomin’ great wave as the bowsprit dives down, and then ’angin’ by one frozen ’and to the jackstay as it shoots up to the sky? ’Aven’t you?”

“No. I ’aven’t,” replied William Bossum. “I bin in the Navy; a gentleman’s life.”

“Ho!” observed Sailor Harris and fell silent.

“Give us your bundook, William Bossum, you miserable flat-footed mouldy matlow,” said le Légionnaire Joe Mummery, marching on complainant’s left hand. “I haven’t got no smelling-salts to offer you.”

“I don’t want no smellin’-salts, Joe, and I don’t want no one to carry me gun. I could carry yours as well as mine, and yer pack too. I wasn’t grumblin’, was I? I only said it was cold, didn’t I? So it is, ain’t it? You don’t expect me to sing, do yer?”

“Gord, no!” ejaculated Sailor Harris.

“All I wants,” continued le Légionnaire William Bossum, “is a cosy, warm little pub, with red blinds and a blazin’ fire and a nice good-’earted gal ’andin’ you a drop o’ somethink ’ot acrost the bar, and you lightin’ up a pipe o’ real tobaccer ... Down Gosport way! Ar!”

“Goin’ strong, boy?” said le Légionnaire Joe Mummery to his left-hand man.

“Eh? What? ’Pon my word, I believe I was asleep,” replied le Légionnaire Otho Bellême.

“Well, turn over and have another snooze, mate, and don’t pinch all the clothes,” said le Légionnaire Sailor Harris, and the four Englishmen laughed, causing a crapulous and liverish old légionnaire, known as Tant de Soif, to growl that, by the Name of a Name, the sacred dogs of Englishmen grew madder every day.

On in the snow ...

Trudging on dead feet through snow and slush and mud and water; through little sudden mountain torrents; over boulders; up wet and slippery precipitous slopes; at times almost leaning against the howling biting wind; starving, ragged, with outworn, burst and sodden boots, the soldiers go ...

Nor are their sufferings lessened, their courage stiffened, by the knowledge that they are approaching barracks, a fort, an outpost, nor even a native village, for they have left civilization far behind, and are daily penetrating farther and farther into the mountains.

They know that when they halt they will lie down as they are; lie down on the wet ground beneath the pitiless rain, the stinging sleet, or the driving snow; unfed, unwarmed, unsheltered. It will be impossible to light fires, to cook food, to boil water, and make coffee.

However, que voulez-vous? C’est la Légion! À la guerre comme à la guerre ... They are soldiers, and take life—and death—as it comes. But a few days agone, men suffered sunstroke. To-night they suffer cold, exposure. Heat-stroke then; frost-bite now.

Some may die of ...

Bang!

What is that?

Automatically the little column staggers to a standstill. Major Napoleon Riccoli halts, wheels about, and rides back.

There is confusion in the ragged straggling ranks.

What is it?

An attack? ... When frozen, starving men can scarcely stand; when numbed, dead hands can scarcely feel the ice-coated rifle; can scarcely open stiff, ice-coated cartridge-cases?

What dirty dogs to attack when ...

No, only a single shot.

Only young Ramononez, it appears, has had enough.

Suddenly he has lurched from the ranks, placed the butt of his rifle upon the ground, its muzzle beneath his chin and, bending over, has pressed the trigger with his thumb.

The Legion shrugs its shoulders. Chacun à son goût. Le Légionnaire Ramononez will not suffer from the cold to-night.

“Au contraire, it may be of heat that he will complain,” suggests old Tant de Soif, rubbing the end of his blue nose with the back of his shrivelled hand.

“It will be of heat that we shall all be complaining in a day or two, look you,” observed old Tant de Soif’s copain, another old man, veteran of Cochin-China, Madagascar, Senegal, and the Western Sahara in general.

“... Those of us who do not die of cold up here ... When we’ve crossed these mountains and get down into the valleys and the plains, we shall be in the hottest place in the world. I know, I who speak. I have soldiered there before. The Sultan of Mekazzen hunted us and hounded us and cut off stragglers, but it was the heat that killed us. Yes, had young Ramononez been a sensible Frenchman instead of an excitable Spaniard, he could have found plenty of warmth without going to Hell for it ... Yes ... He could have died like a soldier at his post on active service, beloved of his officers, cherished by his non-commissioned officers, and admired by his comrades ... He could have had a military funeral, and a nice grave with a wooden cross and his name on it, decipherable for at least a year, and everybody quite pleased about it, including himself ...

“He should have consulted me before ...”

“Hold your tongue, my grandchild,” interrupted Tant de Soif. “You talk too much, like all young people.”

As the beard of “Père Poussin” was not quite so long, nor quite so light a grey as that of Tant de Soif, nor his years of service probably quite as many, it was the custom of Tant de Soif to treat his fellow ancien as a boy, indiscreet, rash and voluble, a person whose ignorance, inexperience and immaturity should keep him silent and respectful in the presence of his elders and betters, or rather of that elder and better soldier, Tant de Soif.

A garrulous old gentleman, especially when under the influence of alcohol—his normal condition—he suffered sorely, though not in silence, from Tant de Soif’s sense of duty, the duty of keeping his junior in his place, and in a sense of his unworthiness.

“Am I, then, a child that ...”

“Yes. In intellect,” interrupted Tant de Soif, “though your never still tongue runs in an unwise old head.”

Père Poussin fell silent.

It was hard, very hard, that he who had soldiered all over the world, been in twenty-three engagements, wounded seven times and thrice decorated, should not be allowed to give, and give generously, of his garnered stores of wisdom, knowledge and experience ... Well, one of these days old Tant de Soif would die. No, old soldiers never die. He would be killed in battle, and then Père Poussin would be Father of the Battalion. But as he would indubitably himself die of grief within twenty-four hours of the death of his comrade, there was not much consolation in that.

There was, however, in neat rum—and once again he hitched his “water-bottle” forward.

“You drink too much, you know,” observed Tant de Soif. “Far too much.”

“What?” ejaculated Père Poussin.

“Too much. Too fast, and too often,” continued Tant de Soif. “The next thing will be that I shall find that your water-bottle is empty when I want a drink.”

“Oh, pardon. I understand,” replied Père Poussin. “Might one suggest that you husband the rum in your own bottle?”

“I have no rum in my bottle,” was the cold reply. “I have red wine. And when I have drunk that miserable pint or so of pinard, I shall be glad of some rum.”

“I will save you some, mon vieux.”

“Do so. Rum is bad for boys. It stunts their growth and fuddles their intellects.”

“If any,” he added.

“Christ! It’s cold!” cried a voice with a ring of protesting, shivering agony.

“For God’s sake let’s march—or lie down and die,” growled a big German.

A bigger Russian, bearded, bear-like, enormous, laughed.

“Cold!” he said. “I wish I had got you all back in Siberia with me, in the world-famous Preobrazhensky Regiment, of which I was once Regimental Sergeant-Major ...”

“En avant! Marche!”

And once more the little column staggers forward, Major Riccoli rides back to his place at its head, thrusts his right hand inside his capôte and broods Napoleonicly.

Napoleon the Fourth?

But why be Fourth to anybody? Why not Riccoli the First?

No, better keep to the name Napoleon; and many of the greatest Kings and Emperors had not been the First of their name.

Louis the Fourteenth ... Charles the Fifth ... Henry of Navarre, who became Henry the Fourth of France.

Or perhaps just Napoleon Riccoli, like Gustavus Adolphus, Ghengis Khan or Attila the Hun.

William the Conqueror.... What about Riccoli the Conqueror?

Alexander the Great.... What about Riccoli the Great?

But, after all, the world would choose for itself. These names are given, not chosen. Look at Pedro the Cruel; Philip the Beautiful; Louis the Good; Peter the Great. Obviously these men did not choose their names.

It would be for History to name him Napoleon the Fourth, Riccoli the Redeemer—or just plain simple Napoleon Riccoli like plain simple Julius Cæsar—greatness unadorned.

Meanwhile the first step. C’est le premier pas qui coûte.

The first step—the capture of the impregnable stronghold, perhaps in these days the last truly impregnable stronghold, the great citadel of Mekazzen.

If a barbarous uncivilized bandit like the Kaid of Mekazzen could defy and defeat a Great Power—not only a Great Power but a combination of Great Powers—what could not a highly trained, widely experienced, and brilliantly clever modern soldier do? And not only soldier, but diplomat, statesman, and born leader of men.

Why, suppose he embraced Islam and became a leader in Islam—organized, co-ordinated, and united, the greatest force in the world to-day?

Kaid of Mekazzen ... Sultan of Morocco ... Algeria ... Tunisia ... Tripoli ... Egypt ... Arabia ... Persia ... Afghanistan ... India ... half the world, for a start.

Might and power and glory.

Power ...

The things one could do to one’s enemies!

That fellow Le Sage, rival and enemy, the only man who had ever made Napoleon Riccoli feel small and look ridiculous ... Le Sage and his empty revolver! ... A damned rascally trick to play on a gentleman.

What should Napoleon the Fourth do to Le Sage?

Something with a revolver—and show Le Sage that he was not the only one who could play tricks.

An idea! Offer a big reward and capture him, some time, when he was running about in one of his fool disguises playing at Secret Service mysteries. Capture him, put him in a cell, and go in with a revolver ... Give him the revolver and say,

“Look here, le Sage—that bright and clever duel-idea of yours, in which you ran no danger, because it was a rascally trick! We’re going to fight that duel now, and fight it properly, for there is a cartridge in the revolver, this time. I give you my word of honour there is. And as the brilliant idea was yours, you shall have the first turn.”

And, banking on his luck, the good Le Sage would grin and take the revolver, and put it to his thick head and pull the trigger.

And that would be the end of the good Le Sage, for there would be, as he told him, a cartridge in the revolver—and it would have five companions. In fact, the pistol would be fully loaded! Ha, ha, ce bon Le Sage. Such a clever man. Such a rising star in the Secret Service.

And his wife, the beautiful Madame Le Sage, also brilliantly clever, who helped him play his foul trick upon Napoleon Riccoli, the man who had honoured her by his notice. What of Madame Le Sage—after she had witnessed the beginning (and end!) of the second “duel” between her husband and Napoleon Riccoli?

One wondered if she were aware that there are still perfectly good slave-markets south of Morocco, where negroes and negresses are brought from the interior and bought and sold like other cattle—and where a white woman would be an interesting novelty.

Yes, that would do. That would dispose of the Le Sages.

And meanwhile how to dispose of oneself now for the night? The other Napoleon had a carriage in which to sleep....