BEAU GESTE--Complete Collection, page 118
Tant de Soif shuddered.
"Hush!" he begged. "Do not utter such horrible words—even in jest! ... It is a land of blasphemy," and he drank deeply from his mug.
"Horrible language," he grumbled, wiping his bearded lips with the back of his hand. "Never heard anything like it in all my forty years of soldiering—and I've heard some awful language, too, in the Marsouins[1] and the Legion.... And so I must faire Suisse at last—after fifty years of soldiering! ..."
[1] Colonial Infantry.
"Once again, faire what you like, only don't faire nuisance. That's just what you are when you're drunk—'a fair nuisance.'"
"Eh? ... Mon Dieu! ... To me! ... After sixty years of soldiering! ... What did you say? A nuisance? ... Say it again...."
And, with drunken gravity, old Tant de Soif rose to his feet, drew his sword-bayonet, and advanced upon the admired comrade whom he loved as a son.
"Say it—hic—again if you please," he re-requested.
"Vous êtes une peste pour tout le monde," repeated Digby slowly. "Understand? A nuisance to everybody, when you're drunk."
And, seizing the bayonet with his left hand, he gave the aged gentleman a shove with his right. The bayonet and its owner parted company.
"A nuisance when I'm drunk?" murmured Tant de Soif incredulously, as he sat suddenly down. "And am I to hear that said of me, after seventy years of soldiering! ... Why, I was born drunk—I've lived drunk, and shall die drunk! and be a loved and respected centenarian soldier.... Yes.... The Government will give me a tomb like that of Fräulein Eberhardt, the Spahi Sergeant, at Figuig.... On it they will write the dignified and simple epitaph, 'One hundred years a soldier.'"
A tear trickled from the eye of Tant de Soif as he contemplated his apotheosis.
"More likely 'One hundred years drunk,' you old lunatic," laughed Digby Geste. "That's what you are—the original and authentic Lunatic among the Tombs."
"Undeniably we are in a tomb," replied Tant de Soif, nodding his head thoughtfully, "but it is not I who am the lunatic.... It is not I who am refusing good liquor.... No, indeed! ... Nor have I, in eighty years of soldiering, met a man who did.... No, not until this night.... And now I am in a tomb with him. I, Tant de Soif, with a lunatic in the Tomb."
In a tomb they undoubtedly were, and in a place of tombs, built none knew how many centuries before—perhaps on the site of some battlefield, where great men had fallen and received princely sepulture. Or possibly some holy and far-famed marabout had dwelt at this tiny oasis, had been buried here by the sorrowing devout; and around his tomb had been laid those of the pious who had wished to sleep near him in death, as they had dwelt near him in life.
In the largest of these tombs the two légionnaires had taken up a strategic position for the night. Fastening the still practicable heavy door, and using the two horizontal tombstones as beds, they had converted the mosque-like taj into a barrack-room and a fort.
The two graves were extraordinarily reminiscent of a pair of crusader, princely, or episcopal tombs in a European cathedral—save that no recumbent effigy adorned the large, flat, oblong stone that formed the top of each. Ideal beds—if a little hard—roomy, level three feet from the ground, and thus well above the sphere of operations of scorpion, serpent, and objectionable insect left by pariah dog or wandering beggar.
As though in their heat-warped and horrible caserne at Tokotu, whence they had come on this patrol, the two soldiers made ready for the night, and, having cleaned their accoutrements and folded the clothing they had removed, laid themselves down upon their cold and silent tombs—their temporary graves, as Digby Geste described them. The "night attire" of the latter consisted of white canvas shoes, belted canvas trousers, and a short-sleeved white shirt. Tant de Soif, for reasons best known to himself, wore only his képi and his boots. He explained, with convincing clarity, that, in the case of emergency, he was thus protected against the sun (or moon) at the one end and against sharp stones and thorns at the other; while, if no emergency arose, all was still well, as it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that if the head and the feet were kept hot, the intervening and adjacent tracts must inevitably be benefited and remain in a satisfactory condition.
"So you always sleep in your képi to keep your tummy warm, eh?" observed Digby, as he settled his head upon his knapsack.
"And my boots to keep the lumbar regions protected," was the reply. "I have suffered from lumbago, and one cannot be too careful ... especially when one has no blood in one's veins.... I have no blood at all, and, when wounded, I bleed absinthe."
"Valuable gift," murmured his companion sleepily. "Good idea. Every man his own canteen. Like the pelican in the wilderness, or the camel feeding on its own hump.... G'night, Gran'pa, and don't you dare speak another word till daylight doth appear...."
Ere he fell asleep the thoughts of Digby Geste wandered. First, to Brandon Abbas, where dwelt the girl who had been his life's sunshine, the sound of whose voice had been his life's music, for a brief sight of whose face he would now have given almost anything—certainly a year of his life.
"Darling Isobel," he murmured. "Darling, Faithful Hound," and smiled. Next he thought of his brothers, Michael and John, at the Fort of Zinderneuf.
"Dear old Beau.... Dear old John.... Hope all's well with them.... Wish to God I could get transferred there. They must be having a thin time with Lejaune.... Wonder if de Beaujolais would listen to me if I asked to be sent there....
"Glad old St. André and Maris, and Cordier are there too. Decent chaps.... Wish Hank and Buddy were—much as I should miss them at Tokotu.
"Wonder if I and old Tant de Soif ought to keep watch and watch? ... No point in doing so, really. If a raiding-party come, they come—and they get us, anyhow.... And it wouldn't be till dawn.... I shall be awake by then...."
But Digby Geste was awakened before dawn.
Silence....
Outside the tomb a world of silence—a Universe of Silence, broken only by the occasional sound of a soft, light footstep, almost inaudible.
Silence and stillness, upon which the great full moon looked down ... upon the illimitable desert, all patined with fine silver, over which the shadows thrown by the few scattered palms and by the ancient domed and minareted mosques lay black as ink.
Into one of these mosques the great moon peeped, and by the light of her own rays beheld, through a narrow unglazed window, two faces—the one innocent, calm, peacefully happy, the other debased, scarred, haunted, contorted in the agony of some miserable nightmare.
The moon watched....
Suddenly at the opposite aperture, appeared the face of another watcher—a horrible face, a terrible face—long, gaunt, bearded, with the shallow, soulless eyes of a beast.
Within the tomb, silence, broken only by the sound of breathing, and an occasional sigh from Digby; from Tant de Soif a groan.
§ 2
An unusually loud groan from the restless veteran awoke his young comrade from a deep dream of peace. The latter raised his head from the knapsack on which it rested.
"What's up, Daddy?" he said, and yawned.
The old man murmured something concerning a courant d'air, and the extreme unwholesomeness of ventilation.
With a laugh the boy sat up, stretched and yawned hugely, and, with a remark to the effect that, in his own callow and uninstructed mind, he regarded absinthe as even more unwholesome than fresh air, he spread Tant de Soif's capote over him and bade him be of good cheer, for he couldn't much longer survive the troubles of this vale of woe.
Returning to his stony couch, Digby gazed around the moonlit chamber, so chapel-like with its high, narrow "windows," its pair of tombs, high, vaulted roof, and stone-flagged floor. In the moonlight the figure of old Tant de Soif might well have been a stone effigy, as he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him.
The boy closed his eyes.
Darling Isobel....
What was she doing now? ...
Sleeping, of course.... Sleeping in her moonlit, panelled room at Brandon Abbas....
Same jolly old moon that was looking into this mosque was peeping through the leaded panes of her casement. Funny if she were awake, too, and wondering whether he were looking at the moon at that moment....
Darling Isobel! When would he see her again? Not till his five years were up, anyhow; unless, of course, they were sent back to Sidi-bel-Abbès and she came there.... Even when their time had expired they couldn't go back to Brandon Abbas until that astounding business was cleared up.... Beau running off in that extraordinary way....
And young John, the silly young ass! ... Daring to run away from home, too, like his elders and betters—a child like that.... A good year junior to the twins.... Frightful little ass.... That's what happens when the young are released from proper, repressive discipline.... Very 'cute of him, though, to guess that they had joined the Legion.... Pretty mess he'd have found himself in if he'd been wrong.... Dear old Johnny.... How ghastly if anything happened to him.... Thank God he was with Beau.... Beau would look after him all right.... Yes, Beau would look after him.
Yawns....
Digby Geste slept.
And was awakened later by a blood-curdling yell—a terrible scream, like that of a wounded horse. In almost one movement he was on his feet, crouching between the tombs, his rifle in his hands, his head turning swiftly from window to window at the opposite sides of the chamber—the one idea on his mind being of an Arab raid.
Nothing at either window.
No rifles thrust through the ten-inch aperture, between the stone sides of the high, narrow openings. No heavy blows upon the door....
And then he was aware that Tant de Soif was pointing with trembling hand to the window nearest to him—the one through which the moon did not shed her soft light. Bringing his rifle swiftly round, he "covered" the aperture and waited.
Strange! ... Why hadn't the devils shot at them from both windows as they slept? And why hadn't old Tant de Soif made one jump for his gun? Why had he screamed like a tortured woman, and why was he still lying there, trembling from head to foot? Old Tant de Soif, with his Médaille Militaire, brave as a lion?
"Arabs?" whispered Digby.
"No, no," groaned the old soldier. "Oh, my God! ... God forgive me ... forgive me all my wickedness.... Oh, mon Général le bon Dieu, have mercy on an old soldier.... premiere classe..."
"What is it, you old fool?" urged Digby, breaking upon the prayer. "God helps those who help themselves. What is it, if it isn't Arabs? A lion, or a ... rabbit, or what?"
"Hush! Don't blaspheme," whispered Tant de Soif, turning from the window, flinging his arms about Digby, and crushing his bearded face against the boy's breast.
There was no doubt that the old man had had a terrible fright, and, indeed, a terrible shock. He was sober enough now, and in a state of absolute, utter terror.
There is nothing more infectious than panic, terror, fear—and particularly fear of the utterly unknown.
Perfect love casteth out fear. So doth perfect anger—and a good deal more quickly. Digby's anger was certainly perfect—at being awakened; at being made to jump and take cover; at being—well—frightened or at any rate threatened with fright—by this old drunkard.
"What is it?" he repeated. "What did you see—or think you saw?" And his free hand was upon Tant de Soif heavily laid, though not in the way of kindness.
But Tant de Soif could say nothing. His teeth were chattering with fright.
It was useless to be angry with the old man. He was most obviously terrified almost to death.
"What is it, old chap? What did you see?" Digby asked again, without taking his eyes from the narrow aperture, of which the base or window-sill was some three feet from the ground. "What did you see?"
"The Devil himself!" whispered Tant de Soif, and, with a hollow groan, let his head fall heavily back upon the stone.
"Oh—the Devil?" replied the incensed Digby. "Is that all! ... I'll show you something worse than the Devil if you wake me up again with your nightmares—you walking whisky-flask; you woolly-witted wine-cask; you bibulous brandy-bottle, you..."
"Oh, God!" moaned the old soldier. "Oh, Jesus Christ! Oh, Holy Virgin! Guard me this night. It was the Devil himself. The Devil has come for me—at last! ..."
"Well, he hasn't got you yet, has he?" expostulated Digby. "And he won't.... But I will. I'll get you all right, old son, if you wake me up again."
"The Devil has come for me, and I am dying," groaned the old soldier as he turned his face again toward the window. "We were mad to come in here.... It is a sepulchre.... This tomb is my bed, and this bed will be my tomb."
"It'll be all that," replied Digby, "if you don't shut up. Go to sleep, you silly old ass. Do you think the Devil's a fool, that he should want you in...."
An awful scream interrupted the speaker as the lower part of the unglazed "window" was filled by a truly appalling face.
Tant de Soif again flung himself upon his comrade, effectually pinning his arms to his sides.
Digby Geste was a brave man—young, strong, healthy, and devoid of nerves. He felt his blood run cold, his knees weaken, his heart pound furiously, and the cold perspiration start forth upon his skin.
Not one of these symptoms would have been evoked by the sight of the most evil face of any human being, Negro or Arab, looking at him from behind a levelled gun. Rather would Digby Geste's pulse have tingled with the joy of battle as he jerked his rifle forward, and tried to shoot ere he was shot.
But this was face neither of Arab nor of Negro.... Nor of any human being.
Tant de Soif looked again, and shrieked again—the dreadful, agonized shriek of a madman.
It was not a human face. It was the face of a ... the face of a devil.... The face of the Devil!
Yes ... merciful God ... from the forehead that overhung the glowing luminiscent eyes—the dreadful, shallow, bestial, devilish eyes—to the bearded chin, the face was fiendish...
The hideous mouth, with its great strong white teeth, opened to speak, and closed again in silence. The hideous lips twitched in a sneering smile, and the whole awful face, long, gaunt, and hairy, leered with a hellish malignity, triumphant, terrible, cruel beyond expression.
But Digby Geste was more afraid of fear than of the Devil. Wrenching himself free from the frenzied clutch of Tant de Soif, he threw his rifle to his shoulder—only to find it torn almost from his hands as Tant de Soif seized it, and scrambling to his knees, fell upon him.
"Don't! Don't!" he screamed. "It is the Devil.... You cannot shoot the Devil."
"Watch me," laughed Digby, his own man again, and with a strong thrust sent Tant de Soif sprawling on the ground, instantly raising his rifle as he did so.
But the Devil had gone.
Nothing was to be seen, but the silvered sand-hills, and some distant palms.
Digby lowered his rifle and stared aghast. Was this a nightmare? No, he was awake, and here was Tant de Soif clasping him round the knees, and praying to God and to the Devil impartially.
Was it hypnotism ... auto-suggestion ... hetero-suggestion? Was he, for some reason, seeing with his own eyes what this poor drunken old sot, in an attack of delirium tremens, thought he saw with his? Was there something in the physical or psychic atmosphere of this ancient mausoleum that was supernatural or, at any rate, super-normal? Were there djinns in these lone desert places?
"Kneel down and pray! ... Kneel down and pray!" gabbled Tant de Soif.
"Stand up and watch, more sense," replied Digby. "There's a time for everything.... Get up and get your rifle."
"You can't fight the Devil," groaned Tant de Soif.
"There isn't any devil," affirmed Digby.
"Haven't we just seen him, you fool?" replied the drunkard.
"And if we can see him we can shoot him.... Pull yourself together, you old coward," growled Digby.
"I'm not a coward. I fear nothing human, nothing solid...."
"Pity you don't fear nothing liquid, too.... Absinthe, for example...."
Yes, that was all very well, but he, Digby Geste, had never tasted absinthe in his life, and most undoubtedly he had seen what Tant de Soif saw.... Seen it clearly and unmistakably, and for at least a minute.... Had seen the dreadful eyes move, the ghastly mouth smile horribly.
Stooping, he pulled Tant de Soif to his feet.
"Now, then," he said. "Pull yourself together, you wretched old woman. Put on your overcoat, and pick up your rifle. Cover that other window, while I cover this one.... If nothing happens I'm going outside for a scout round.... If it's the Devil, I want to see a bit more of him.... Cloven hoof, and all that..."
But Tant de Soif was past self-help.
"For the love of God don't open that door," he stuttered. "Don't leave me.... For the love of Christ don't leave me. I..."
"Look!" he shrieked, and collapsed. The Face had reappeared at the window.... Terrible, gleaming, yellow eyes.... Inhuman, sub-human, devilish, shallow eyes.... Terrible, inhuman mouth with twitching lips and gleaming teeth.... A gargoyle face, the face of the Devil as portrayed in ancient books, wood-carvings and gargoyles.
Digby Geste raised his rifle, and the lips parted in a brutish smile.
Digby Geste stood firm and steady, the fore-sight of his weapon pointing between the gleaming eyes—eyes that shone as though each contained a glowing core of fire—his forefinger curled about the trigger—and did not fire.
Undoubtedly he had been frightened. He was not frightened now, and he refused to panic. He was not going to blow a hole in the middle of a face simply because he didn't like the look of it. That was not the sort of thing that Beau would do. To shoot first and ask after was to exhibit the fear of which he was afraid....
Stalemate....
The devilish Face watched him, and he covered the devilish Face.
Stalemate....
His arms were growing tired....
Why didn't the Thing do something? Did it calmly await his futile shot, secure in the knowledge of its immunity? ... Was it a devil? ... The devil?
