BEAU GESTE--Complete Collection, page 2
Perhaps I began composing my Report then and there, doing modest justice to the readiness, promptitude, and dispatch of my little force, which had maintained the glorious traditions of the Nineteenth African Division; giving due praise to the sous-officier commanding Zinderneuf, and not forgetting Paul Revere and his Roland. . . . Meanwhile, they should know that relief was at hand, and that, be the Touaregs near or be they far, the danger was over and the Flag safe. I, Henri de Beaujolais of the Spahis, had brought relief. I fired my revolver half a dozen times in the air. And then I was aware of a small but remarkable fact. The high look-out platform at the top of its long ladder was empty.
Strange! Very strange! Incredibly strange, at the very moment when great marauding bands of Touaregs were known to be about--and one of them had only just been beaten off, and might attack again at any moment. I must offer the sous-officier my congratulations upon the excellence of his look-out, as soon as I had embraced and commended him! New as he might be to independent command, this should never have happened. One would have thought he could as soon have forgotten his boots as his sentry on the look-out platform.
A pretty state of affairs, bon Dieu, in time of actual war! Here was I approaching the fort in broad light of day, firing my revolver--and not the slightest notice taken! I might have been the entire Touareg nation or the whole German army. . . .
No, there must be something wrong, in spite of the peaceful look of things and the safety of the Flag--and I pulled out my field-glasses to see if they would reveal anything missed by the naked eye.
As I halted and waited for my camel to steady himself, that I might bring the glasses to bear, I wondered if it were possible that this was an ambush.
Could the Arabs have captured the place, put the defenders to the sword, put on their uniforms, cleaned up the mess, closed the gates, left the Flag flying, and now be waiting for a relieving force to ride, in trustful innocence and close formation, up to the muzzles of their rifles? Possible--but quite unlike brother Touareg! You know what his way is, when he has rushed a post or broken a square. A dirty fighter, if ever there was one! And as I focussed my glasses on the walls, I rejected the idea.
Moreover, yes, there were the good European faces of the men at the embrasures, bronzed and bearded, but unmistakably not Arab. . . .
And yet, that again was strange. At every embrasure of the breast-high parapet round the flat roof stood a soldier, staring out across the desert, and most of them staring along their levelled rifles too; some of them straight at me. Why? There was no enemy about. Why were they not sleeping the sleep of tired victors, below on their cots in the caserne, while double sentries watched from the high look-out platform? Why no man up there, and yet a man at every embrasure that I could see from where I sat on my camel, a thousand metres distant?
And why did no man move; no man turn to call out to a sergeant that a French officer approached; no man walk to the door leading down from the roof, to inform the Commandant of the fort?
Anyhow, the little force had been extraordinarily lucky, or the shooting of the Arabs extraordinarily bad, that they should still be numerous enough to man the walls in that fashion--'all present and correct,' as you say in your army--and able to stand to arms thus, after two or three days of it, more or less.
As I lowered my glasses and urged my camel forward, I came to the conclusion that I was expected, and that the officer in charge was indulging in a little natural and excusable fantaisie, showing off--what you call 'putting on the dog,' eh?
He was going to let me find everything as the Arabs found it when they made their foolish attack--every man at his post and everything klim-bim. Yes, that must be it. . . . Ah, it was! Even as I watched, a couple of shots were fired from the wall. They had seen me. . . . The fellow, in his joy, was almost shooting at me, in fact!
And yet--nobody on the look-out platform! How I would prick that good fellow's little bubble of swank! And I smiled to myself as I rode under the trees of the oasis to approach the gates of the fort.
It was the last time I smiled for quite a little while.
Among the palm trees were little pools of dried and blackened blood where men had fallen, or wounded men had been laid, showing that, however intact the garrison of the fort might be, their assailants had paid toll to the good Lebel rifles of my friends.
And then I rode out from the shade of the oasis and up to the gate.
Here half a dozen or so kept watch, looking out over the wall above, as they leant in the embrasures of the parapet. The nearest was a huge fellow, with a great bushy grey moustache, from beneath which protruded a short wooden pipe. His képi was cocked rakishly over one eye, as he stared hard at me with the other, half closed and leering, while he kept his rifle pointed straight at my head.
I was glad to feel certain that he at least was no Arab, but a tough old legionary, a typical vieille moustache, and rough soldier of fortune. But I thought his joke a poor one and over-personal, as I looked up into the muzzle of his unwavering rifle. . . .
'Congratulations, my children,' I cried. 'France and I are proud to salute you,' and raised my képi in homage to their courage and their victory.
Not one of them saluted. Not one of them answered. Not one of them stirred. Neither a finger nor an eyelid moved. I was annoyed. If this was 'making fantaisie' as they call it in the Legion, it was making it at the wrong moment and in the wrong manner.
'Have you of the Foreign Legion no manners?' I shouted. 'Go, one of you, at once, and call your officer.' Not a finger nor an eyelid moved.
I then addressed myself particularly to old Grey-Moustache. 'You,' I said, pointing up straight at his face, 'go at once and tell your Commandant that Major de Beaujolais of the Spahis has arrived from Tokotu with a relieving force--and take that pipe out of your face and step smartly, do you hear?'
And then, my friend, I grew a little uncomfortable, though the impossible truth did not dawn upon me. Why did the fellow remain like a graven image, silent, motionless, remote--like an Egyptian god on a temple wall, looking with stony and unseeing eye into my puny human face?
Why were they all like stone statues? Why was the fort so utterly and horribly silent? Why did nothing move, there in the fierce sunlight of the dawn? Why this tomb-like, charnel-house, inhuman silence and immobility?
Where were the usual sounds and stir of an occupied post? Why had no sentry seen me from afar and cried the news aloud? Why had there been no clang and clatter at the gate? Why had the gate not been opened? Why no voice, no footstep in all the place? Why did these men ignore me as though I were a beetle on the sand? Where was their officer? . . .
Was this a nightmare in which I seemed for ever doomed to ride voiceless and invisible, round endless walls, trying to attract the attention of those who could never be aware of me?
When, as in a dream, I rode right round the place, and beheld more and more of those motionless silent forms, with their fixed, unwinking eyes, I clearly saw that one of them, whose képi had fallen from his head, had a hole in the centre of his forehead and was dead--although at his post, with chest and elbows leaning on the parapet, and looking as though about to fire his rifle!
I am rather near-sighted, as you know, but then the truth dawned upon me--they were all dead!
'Why were they not sleeping the sleep of tired victors?' I had asked myself a few minutes before. They were. . . .
Yes, all of them. Mort sur le champ d'honneur! . . .
My friend, I rode back to where Grey-Moustache kept his last watch, and, baring my head, I made my apologies to him, and the tears came into my eyes. Yes, and I, Henri de Beaujolais of the Spahis, admit it without shame.
I said, 'Forgive me, my friend.' What would you, an Englishman, have said?"
"What about a spot of tea?" quoth Mr. George Lawrence, reaching beneath the seat for his tiffin-basket.
§4.
After a dusty meal, impatiently swallowed by Major de Beaujolais, that gentleman resumed his story, with serious earnestness and some gesticulation, while, on the opposite side of the carriage, George Lawrence lay upon his back, his clasped hands beneath his head, idly watching the smoke that curled up from his cheroot. But he was paying closer attention to the Frenchman's tale.
"But, of course, it soon occurred to me," continued that gentleman, "that someone must be alive. . . . Shots had been fired to welcome me. . . . Those corpses had not of themselves taken up those incredibly life-like attitudes. Whoever had propped them up and arranged them and their rifles in position, must be alive.
For, naturally, not all had been struck by Arab bullets and remained standing in the embrasures. Nine times out of ten, as you know, a man staggers back and falls, when shot standing.
Besides, what about the wounded? There is always a far bigger percentage of wounded than of killed in any engagement. Yes, there must be survivors, possibly all more or less wounded, below in the caserne.
But surely one of them might have kept a look-out. Probably the Commandant and all the non-commissioned officers were killed.
Even then, though, one would have expected the senior man--even if the survivors were all soldats deuxième classe--to have taken that much ordinary military precaution! . . .
Well, I would soon solve the problem, for my troop was approaching, my trumpeter with them. I was glad to note that my Sergeant-Major had evidently had a similar idea to mine, for, on coming in sight of the fort, he had opened out and skirmished up in extended order--in spite of the bravely-flying Flag.
When my men arrived, I had the 'rouse,' the 'alarm,' the Regimental Call, sounded by the trumpeter--fully expecting, after each blast, that the gates would open, or at least that someone would come running up from below on to the roof.
Not a sound nor a movement! . . . Again and again; call after call. . . . Not a sound nor a movement!
'Perhaps the last one or two are badly wounded,' thought I. 'There may not be a man able to crawl from his bed. The fellow who propped those corpses up may have been shot in the act, and be lying up there, or on his cot,' and I bade the trumpeter cease. Sending for the Chef, as we call the Sergeant-Major, I ordered him to knot camel-cords, sashes, girths, reins, anything, make a rope, and set an active fellow to climb from the back of a camel, into an embrasure, and give me a hoist up.
That Sergeant-Major is one of the bravest and coolest men I have ever known, and his collection of ferblanterie includes the Croix and the Medaille given on the field, for valour.
'It is a trap, mon Commandant,' said he. 'Do not walk into it. Let me go.' Brave words--but he looked queer, and I knew that though he feared nothing living, he was afraid.
'The dead keep good watch, Chef,' said I, and I think he shivered.
'They would warn us, mon Commandant,' said he. 'Let me go.'
'We will neither of us go,' said I. 'We will have the courage to remain in our proper place, with our men. It may be a trap, though I doubt it. We will send a man in, and if it is a trap, we shall know--and without losing an officer unnecessarily. If it is not a trap, the gates will be opened in two minutes.'
'The Dead are watching and listening,' said the Chef, glancing up, and he crossed himself, averting his eyes.
'Send me that drunken mauvais sujet, Rastignac,' said I, and the Sergeant-Major rode away.
'May I go, mon Commandant?' said the trumpeter, saluting.
'Silence,' said I. My nerves were getting a little on edge, under that silent, mocking scrutiny of the watching Dead. When the Sergeant-Major returned with a rope, and the rascal Rastignac--whose proper place was in the Joyeux, the terrible Penal Battalions of convicted criminals--I ordered him to climb from his camel on to the roof.
'Not I, mon Officier,' replied he promptly. 'Let me go to Hell dead, not living. I don't mind joining corpses as a corpse. You can shoot me.'
'That can I, of a surety,' I agreed, and drew my revolver. 'Ride your camel under that projecting water-spout,' said I. 'Stand on its back, and spring to the spout. Climb into the embrasure, and then go down and open the gates.'
'Not I, mon Officier,' said Rastignac again. I raised my revolver, and the Sergeant-Major snatched the man's rifle.
'Have you le cafard?' I asked, referring to the desert-madness that, bred of monotony, boredom, misery, and hardship, attacks European soldiers in these outposts--especially absinthe-drinkers--and makes them do strange things, varying from mutiny, murder, and suicide to dancing about naked, or thinking they are lizards or emperors or clock-pendulums.
'I have a dislike for intruding upon a dead Company that stands to arms and keeps watch,' replied the fellow.
'For the last time--go,' said I, aiming between his eyes.
'Go yourself, Monsieur le Majeur,' replied Rastignac, and I pulled the trigger. . . . Was I right, my friend?"
"Dunno," replied Lawrence, yawning.
"There was a click, and Rastignac smiled. I had emptied my revolver when approaching the fort, as I have told you.
'You can live--to be court-martialled and join the Batt d'Af,' said I. 'You will be well placed among the Joyeux.'
'Better among those than the Watchers above, mon Officier,' said my beauty, and I bade the Sergeant-Major take his bayonet and put him under arrest.
'You may show this coward the way,' said I to the trumpeter, and, in a minute, that one had sprung at the spout, clutched it, and was scrambling on to the wall. He was un brave.
'We will proceed as though the place were held by an enemy--until the gates are opened,' said I to the Sergeant-Major, and we rode back to the troop and handed Rastignac over to the Corporal, who clearly welcomed him in the rôle of prisoner.
'Vous--pour la boîte,' smiled the Corporal, licking his lips. And then we watched and waited. I could see that the men were immensely puzzled and intrigued. Not an eye wandered. I would have given something to have known what each man thought concerning this unique experience. A perfectly silent fort, the walls fully manned, the Flag flying--and the gates shut. No vestige of a sign from that motionless garrison staring out into the desert, aiming their rifles at nothing--and at us. . . .
We watched and waited. Two minutes passed; five; six; seven. What could it mean? Was it a trap after all?
'That one won't return!' said Rastignac loudly, and gave an eerie jarring laugh. The Corporal smote him on the mouth, and I heard him growl, 'What about a little crapaudine1 and a mouthful of sand, my friend? . . . You speak again!' . . .
At the end of ten minutes, a very mauvais quart d'heure, I beckoned the Sergeant-Major. I could stand the strain no longer.
'I am going in,' said I. 'I cannot send another man, although I ought to do so. Take command. . . . If you do not see me within ten minutes, and nothing happens, assault the place. Burn down the gates and let a party climb the walls, while another charges in. Keep a half-troop, under the Corporal, in reserve.'
'Let me go, mon Commandant,' begged the Chef, 'if you will not send another soldier. Or call for a volunteer to go. Suppose you . . .'
'Silence, Chef,' I replied, 'I am going,' and I rode back to the fort. Was I right, George?"
"Dunno," replied George Lawrence.
"I remember thinking, as I rode back, what a pernicious fool I should look if, under the eyes of all--the living and the dead--I failed to accomplish that, by no means easy, scramble, and had ignominiously to admit my inability to climb up where the trumpeter had gone. It is sad when one's vile body falls below the standard set by the aspiring soul, when the strength of the muscles is inadequate to the courage of the heart. . . .
However, all went well, and, after an undignified dangling from the spout, and wild groping with the raised foot, I got a leg over the ledge, scrambled up and crawled into an embrasure.
And there I stood astounded and dumbfounded, tout bouleversé, unable to believe my eyes.
There, as in life, stood the garrison, their backs to me, their faces to the foe whom they had driven off, their feet in dried pools of their own blood--watching, watching. . . . And soon I forgot what might be awaiting me below, I forgot my vanished trumpeter, I forgot my troop waiting without--for there was something else.
Lying on his back, his sightless eyes out-staring the sun--lay the Commandant, and through his heart, a bayonet, one of our long, thin French sword-bayonets with its single-curved hilt! No--he had not been shot, he was absolutely untouched elsewhere, and there he lay with a French bayonet through his heart. What do you say to that, my friend?"
"Suicide," replied Lawrence.
"And so did I, until I realised that he had a loaded revolver in one hand, one chamber fired, and a crushed letter in the other! Does a man drive a bayonet through his heart, and then take a revolver in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other? I think not.
Have you ever seen a man drive a bayonet through his heart, my friend? Believe me, he does not fumble for letters, nor draw a revolver and fire it, after he has done that. No. He gasps, stares, staggers. He grips the handle and the forte of the blade with both hands, totters, stretches convulsively, and collapses, crashing to the ground. . . . In any case, does a man commit suicide with a bayonet when he has a loaded revolver? . . . Suicide? Pouf.
Was it any wonder that my jaw dropped and I forgot all else, as I stared and stared. . . . Voyez donc! A French fort in the Sahara, besieged by Arabs. Every man killed at his post. The Arabs beaten off. The fort inviolate, untrodden by Arab foot. The gates closed. Within--the dead, and one of them slain by a French bayonet while he held a loaded revolver in his hand! . . .
But was the fort inviolate and untrodden by Arab foot? If so, what had become of my trumpeter? Might not the Arabs be hiding below, waiting their opportunity to catch the relieving force unawares? Might not there be an Arab eye at every rifle-slit? Might not the caserne, rooms, offices, sheds, be packed with them?
