John Robb - I Shall Avenge!

Pete saw an Arab girl feel for a jawbone that was no longer there, and he thought: “God… I did it… I did it.” The knowledge that he could not be blamed, that there was no time to take selective aim, was no consolation.

That single volley was the only one the legionnaires fired.

Before the bolts could be whipped back, before new rounds could be thrust into barrels, the mob was upon them.

It was like a hungry sea submerging a few tiny islands.

Each legionnaire was swept with the mob. Each, in fact, became an unwilling part of the mob.

At first, there was no direct attack on them. The Arabs, dazed, frightened and pressed by those at their backs, merely flooded into the centre of Rue St. Jean from both ends.

Rex, after almost falling under the first onslaught, realised that his only chance lay in allowing himself to be carried about by the seething mass of humanity. Most of the others realised that, too.

The shifting pressures against his body were enormous. At one moment Rex thought that an arm was going to be broken. At the next, that a rib would crack inwards. He was dimly aware of a hell of voices in his ears, of a stink of unwashed bodies in his nostrils. Several times he had to fight against a desire to panic—to struggle against the massed movements.

Then, quite suddenly, the pressure eased. The Arabs, haying filled the street, had stopped and were looking stupidly around them.

Rex knew that this was only a very temporary respite. In a few moments they would collect their wits. They would remember the carnage. And they would seek vengeance upon those few legionnaires who were sprinkled in their midst…

Because he was well above average height, Rex could see over the turbaned heads.

He caught a glimpse of Monclaire. He was pressed against the low wall outside Adaa’s house. He seemed to be struggling with someone. Then he saw Fete. Pete was edging towards Monclaire, a look of desperate intensity on his face.

It was the sight of the Englishman that decided Rex. If they were going to be torn to bits, they might as well share their last few moments together.

He pushed in Pete’s direction. The distance between them was less than a dozen yards He covered half of it without difficulty. Then the mob around him came to violent life.

It began with a crackling scream that emerged from the throat of an ancient and diseased Touareg woman. The wrinkled hag—whose present misfortunes were entirely her own fault—raised aloft a filthy hand from which a finger had been shot away. Brandishing the blooded stump, she waved m the general direction of Rex.

Other Arabs followed her line of vision. Rex heard a sullen, ugly series of curses. He sensed, rather than saw, that several Arabs were feeling for their knives.

He remembered that he was still holding his rifle. By some chance, it had not been torn from his grasp.

But the first feeling of relief was almost immediately cancelled by the realisation that under such circumstances any rifle would be of little value—and a Lebel of no value at all. For, as every legionnaire knew, the Lebel had many drawbacks as well as advantages. On the credit side, it was accurate, and did not have too much recoil. But on the other hand, it was long and cumbersome. And it took three times as long to load as the British Lee Enfield or the German Mauser. In short, it performed exactly as one would expect of a rifle designed in 1886, and slightly improved in 1893.

And so far as Rex was concerned, at that moment it was as useful as a bow and arrow.

He needed a weapon which would enable him to strike fast and hard at close quarters. The bayonet was the answer.

In a single swift movement he slung the Lebel onto his shoulder and detached the bayonet from the barrel.

He was only Just in time.

The Arab who advanced on him was obviously an expert with the knife. He held the short blade low, at waist level, in preparation for the correct upward cutting movement. And it seemed that his reputation was well established, for the others in the immediate vicinity were content to watch while he attempted the killing

He was not a big man, that Arab. He was slim, almost slender. But he moved with cat-like grace and speed.

Immediately, Rex knew that if he allowed the Arab to use his speed and skill he would be ripped open within seconds. So he took the only possible course. Instead of waiting for the Arab to get within striking distance, Rex rushed at him.

Rex had a momentary impression of a lean face, of bared teeth, of fluttering robes. Then he thrust forward with the bayonet.

It met no resistance. It pierced only the air.

And the Arab was now standing still—casually, insolently. He had swayed his body only an inch. But it was enough. And he did not bother to make an immediate counter-thrust. Obviously, he intended to enjoy himself with this legionnaire. He intended to demonstrate his mastery before killing at leaisure.

Meantime, by some instinct, the mob had formed a rough circle round them. What had started as a localised incident was attracting general interest. The spectacle of a bayonet versus knife duel between an Arab and a legionnaire was not a thing that any Arab there would want to miss.

In a dim, disconnected way, Rex realised this. He realised, too, that the duel was detracting attention from the other legionnaires. If he could keep going long enough, the rest of the section might survive…

Rex jerked at the Lebel sling and let the rifle slip from his shoulder to the ground. It had been a serious encumbrance. He felt a lot better without it.

The Arab had not moved since Rex’s first, futile attack. He was obviously awaiting another—and confident of the outcome.

Rex advanced more slowly this time, but fear was not the reason. He knew that even if, by some miracle, his opponent did not kill him, the mob would surely do so. But he wanted to keep the duel going, to keep the mob’s interest centred upon it. If he were to die now, the others would have no chance. If he could delay his death for perhaps a few minutes, then help might arrive from the barracks…

Rex gauged the distance. He knew that his extra height, plus the superior length of the bayonet, gave him more than a foot advantage in reach. And that, it seemed, was his only asset.

He tried to make use of it. He made his next thrust when the Arab was barely within distance. The result was ludicrously ineffective. The blade, aimed at the brown throat, passed harmlessly over the robed shoulder.

The Arab smiled. And a guffaw of sadistic amusement rose from the mob. For them, this was indeed rich entertainment. A scene that would bear telling and retelling to those unfortunate enough to miss it.

Then the Arab made his attack.

He began it by moving like a skilled boxer—gliding sideways as well as forward, so that his position was difficult to judge. He made a swift, narrowing circle round Rex, and Rex had to swivel to keep him within vision.

His nine-inch knife was of slender Toledo steel. It seemed to emerge from the folds of his burnous and make a slivering upward streak towards the lower part of Rex’s stomach.

Rex tried to jump back. But as he flexed his leg muscles he knew he would be too late. He knew, in an oddly disinterested way, that the blade would enter his vitals within an infinitesimal fraction of a second.

Instead, it penetrated the left sleeve of his tunic. He felt it sliding down the outside of his forearm, shaving away the hair. And he saw the Arab stumble and stagger.

It was his rifle that had saved him. His discarded Lebel. The Arab had put a sandalled foot on it and lost balance at the vital moment.

It was a purely reflex action, which caused Rex to throw down the bayonet and grab the Arab’s knife wrist. It was not an act that was in any sense considered or analysed—even momentarily. Yet, like most instinctive actions, it was the correct one. The Arab’s transitory mishap had given Rex the opportunity to use the weapon with which he was familiar—his bare hands.