P. C. Wren - The Collected Works of P. C. Wren - Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories

My big Soudanese, Private Djikki, grinning all over his hideous face, brought the horse from the huge stables in the big compound, reserved for camels, asses, mules, well-bullocks, milch-cows and goats, and I once again gave him the strictest orders to have everything absolutely ready for a desert journey, at ten minutes' notice.

"It always is, Sidi," he grinned. "On my head and my life be it."

There are times when I love these huge, fierce, staunch Soudanese, childish and lazy as they are. (I had particular reason to love this one.) They are like coal-black English bull-dogs--if there are such things. . . .

I again told him where to take the camels and baggage, by way of the other gate, if the mob attacked the house.

The ancient returning with the bundle of clothing, I bade Djikki run with it to my quarters and give it to his old pal Achmet, and to come back at once.

I then mounted and rode off through the strangely silent town, to where Colonel Levasseur was holding his futile parade in the vast market-square--a poor handful consisting of his 3rd Zouaves, a company of Tirailleurs Algériens --possibly none too loyal when the Cry of the Faith went up and the Mullahs poured forth from the mosques to head a Holy War--and a half-squadron of Chasseurs d'Afrique . What were these against a hundred thousand fanatics, each anxious to attain remission of sins, and Paradise, by the slaying of an Infidel, a giaour , a meleccha , a dog whose mere existence was an affront and an offence to the One God?

There should have been a strong brigade and a battery of artillery in the place. . . .

The old story of the work of the soldier ruined by the hand of the politician--not to mention the subject of mere lives of men. . . .

* * *

A dense and silent throng watched the review, every house-top crowded, every balcony filled, though no women were visible, and you could have walked on the heads of the people in the Square and in every street and lane leading to the Square, save four, at the ends of which Levasseur had placed pickets--for the easier scattering of his little force after the parade finished!

By one of these empty streets I rode, and, through an ocean of sullen faces, to where the Governor sat his horse, his officier d'ordonnance behind him, with a bugler and a four of Zouave drummers.

The band of the 3rd Zouaves was playing the Marseillaise , and I wondered if its wild strains bore any message to the silent thousands who watched motionless, save when their eyes turned expectantly to the minaret of the principal mosque. . . . To the minaret. . . . Expectantly? . . . Of course!

It was from there that the signal would come. On to that high-perched balcony, like a swallow's nest on that lofty tower, the muezzin would step at sunset. The deep diapason of his wonderful voice would boom forth the shehada , the Moslem profession of faith, " Ash hadu illa illaha ill Allah, wa ash hadu inna Mohammed an rasul Allah "; he would recite the mogh'reb prayer, and then --then he would raise his arms to Allah and call curses on the Infidel; his voice would break into a scream of " Kill! Kill! " and from beneath every dirty jellabia would come sword and knife, from every house-top a blast of musketry. . . . I could see it all. . . .

"You are late, Major," growled the Governor, accusingly and offensively, as I rode up.

"I am, Colonel," I agreed, "but I am alive. Which none of us will be in a few hours unless you'll take my advice and expect to be attacked at odds of a hundred to one, in an hour's time." And I told him of Miss Vanbrugh's experience.

"Oh, you Intelligence people and your mares'-nests! A gang of rude little street-boys I expect!" laughed this wise man; and ten minutes later he dismissed the parade--the men marching off in five detachments, to the four chief gate of the city and to the Colonel's own headquarters respectively.

As the troops left the Square, the mob, still silent, closed in, and every eye was turned unwaveringly to the minaret of the mosque . . . .

§ 7

I rode back towards my quarters, cudgelling my brains as to the best thing to do with the two girls. The Governor's house would be in the thick of the fighting, and it was more than probable that Ibrahim Maghruf's house would be looted and burnt. . . .

Yes, they would perhaps be safest in my quarters, in Arab dress, with Achmet to defend them with tongue and weapons. . . . I had better send for Otis Vanbrugh too, and give him a chance to save himself--if he'd listen to reason--and to look after his sister. . . . But my house was known as the habitation of a Franzawi officer. . . .

And I myself would be in an awkward dilemma, for it was no part of my duty to get killed in the gutters of Zaguig when my uncle was relying on me to be setting off on the job of my life--that should crown the work of his . Nor was it any part of my inclination to sit cowering in an upper back room with two women and a civilian, while my comrades fought their last fight. . . . Hell! . . .

As I swung myself down from my horse, by the door in the lane at the back of my house, I was conscious of a very filthy and ragged Arab, squatting against the wall on a piece of foul old horse-blanket, his staff, begging-bowl, and rosary beside him. He begged and held out his hand, quavering for alms in the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate--" Bismillah arahman arahmim! " in Arabic--and in French, " Start at once! " . . .

The creature's eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, his mangily-bearded cheeks were gaunt and hollow, his ribs showed separate and ridged through the rents in his foul jellaba , and a wisp of rag failed to cover his dusty shaggy hair. And at the third stare I saw that it was my friend, the beautiful and smart Captain Raoul d'Auray de Bedon.

I winked at him, led my horse to the stable on the other side of the courtyard, and ran up the wooden stair at the back of the house. . . . So it had come! I thought of my uncle's letter and the underlined words--" begone in the same hour ."

I tore off my uniform, pulled on my Arab kit, the dress of a good-class Bedouin, complete from agal -bound kafiyeh to red-leather fil-fil boots--and, as I did this and rubbed dye into my face and hands, I thought of a dozen things at once--and chiefly of the fate of the girls.

I could not leave them alone in this empty house, and it would be delivering them to death to take them back to the Governor's villa. . . .

I shouted for Achmet and learned that he had given the Arab clothing to Miss Vanbrugh.

"Run to the house of His Excellency the Governor, and tell the Roumi Americani lord, Vanbrugh, the brother of the Sitt Miriyam Vanbrugh, to come here in greatest haste. Tell him the Sitt is in danger here. Go on the horse that is below, and give it to the Americani. . . ."

This was ghastly! I should be escaping in disguise from Zaguig, at the very time my brothers-in-arms were fighting for their lives. . . . I should be leaving Mary Vanbrugh to death or worse than death. . . .

I ran down the stairs again and glanced round the courtyard, beckoning to Raoul who was now sitting just inside the gate. Turning back, I snatched up a cold chicken and a loaf from my larder and, followed by Raoul, hurried back to my room to make a bundle of my uniform. Wringing Raoul's hand, I told him to talk while he ate and I worked. He told me all about the Emir upstart and about the guide, as he drew a route on my map.

"The tribes are up, all round the north-west of here," he said later, "and hurrying in. It's for sunset this evening--as I suppose you have found out. . . ."