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

"De Beaujolais--what can I say--I implore you . . ." began Vanbrugh.

"Very well," I said. "On the distinct understanding that I take no responsibility for Miss Vanbrugh, that she realizes what she is doing, and that I shall not deviate a hair's breadth from what I consider my duty. . . . Not to save her from death or torture. . . ."

There could be no harm in my taking her out of the massacre--but neither was I a de Lannec!

"Oh, Major! you are so pressing. . . . Come on, Maudie, we're going from certain death to sure destruction, so cheer up, child, and let's get busy . . ." said the girl.

I turned away as Vanbrugh crushed his sister to his breast, and with a last look round my room, I led the way down the stairs, and out into the deserted silent street, my ears tingling for the first mob-howl, the first rifle-shot.

* * *

That poor unworthy fool, de Lannec! . . .

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"Somewhere upon that trackless wide, it may be we shall meet

The Ancient Prophet's caravan, and glimpse his camel fleet."

We were quite an ordinary party. Two sturdy desert Bedouins, Dufour and I, followed by two heavily shrouded females and trailed by a whining beggar--Raoul.

I had refused to let Vanbrugh come to Ibrahim Maghruf's house with us, partly because his only chance of not being torn to pieces in the streets was to get quickly back to the Governor's, where he could use a rifle with the rest; partly because I wanted him to take a last message and appeal to the Governor; and partly because I did not want a European to be seen going into Ibrahim's, should the place be watched.

I had taken farewell of him in the compound of my quarters, repeating my regrets that I could take no responsibility for his sister, and feeling that I was saying good-bye to a heroic man, already as good as dead.

He would not listen to a word about escaping from the town and taking his chance with my party until we were well away, and then shifting for himself.

He didn't desert friends in danger, he said; and with a silent hand-grip and nod, we parted, he to hurry to his death, and I to take his sister out into the savage desert and the power of more savage fanatics--if she were not killed or captured on the way. . . .

All was ordered confusion and swift achievement at Ibrahim Maghruf's house, as the splendid riding-camels were saddled and the special trotting baggage-camels were loaded with the long-prepared necessities of the journey.

Here Raoul presented to me a big, powerful and surly Arab, apparently named "Suleiman the Strong," who was to be my guide. He was the man who had escaped from one of this new Mahdi's slaughters, and been picked up by the caravan in which Raoul had been carrying on his work, disguised as a camel-driver. . . .

This Suleiman the Strong actually knew the Mahdi, having had the honour of being tortured by him personally; and apparently he only lived for his revenge. I thought he should be an extremely useful person, as he knew the wells and water-holes on the route, though I did not like his face and did not intend to trust him an inch farther than was necessary. Anyhow, he would lead me to the Great Oasis all right, for he had much to gain in the French Service--pay, promotion and pension--and nothing to lose.

Luckily there were spare camels, left behind by Ibrahim Maghruf, as well as my own: and Djikki and Achmet soon had a bassourab (a striped hooped tent--shaped something like a balloon) on to a riding-camel for the girls, and another baggage-camel loaded with extra sacks of dates, girbas of water, and bags of rice, tea, coffee, sugar and salt, as well as tinned provisions.

* * *

As I was helping the girls into the bassourab , showing them how to sit most comfortably--or least uncomfortably--and giving them strictest injunctions against parting the curtains until I gave permission, Raoul touched my arm.

"Better go, Major," he said. " It's begun --hark! . . ."

As he spoke, a growing murmur, of which I had been subconsciously aware for some minutes--a murmur like the sound of a distant sea breaking on a pebble beach--rose swiftly to a roar, menacing and dreadful, a roar above which individual yells leapt clear like leaping spray above the waves. Rifles banged irregularly and then came crash after crash of steady volley-firing. . . .

" En avant--marche! " said I; the old mummy opened the compound gate; and I rode out first, on my giant camel, followed by Djikki leading the one that bore the two girls. After them rode Suleiman, in charge of the baggage-camels, behind which came Achmet. Last of all rode Dufour.

For a minute, Raoul ran along the narrow lane in front of us. As we turned into the street that led to the south-eastern gate--luckily not one of the four at which poor Levasseur had stationed detachments--a mob of country-dwelling tribesmen came running along it, waving swords, spears, long guns and good rifles above their heads, and yelling " Kill! Kill! "

" Halt! . . . Back! . . ." I shouted to Djikki, and brought my little caravan to a stand-still at the mouth of the lane, wondering if our journey was to end here in Zaguig. I had my rifle ready, and Dufour, Djikki, Achmet and Suleiman pushed up beside me with theirs. . . .

The mob drew level.

" Good-bye, Henri ," said a voice from below me, and out in front of them bounded Captain Raoul d'Auray de Redon--a filthy dancing-dervish--span round and round, and then, with his great staff raised in one hand and his rosary in the other, yelled:

" The Faith! The Faith! The Faith! . . . Kill! Kill! . . . This way, my brothers! . . . Quick! Quick! . . . I can show you where there are infidel dogs! . . . White women! . . . Loot! " and he dashed off, followed by the mob, down a turning opposite to ours, across the main street.

That was the last I ever saw of Raoul.

* * *

It was the last ever seen of him in life by any Frenchman, save for the glimpses that Levasseur and his comrades got, by the light of burning houses, of a wild dervish that harangued the mob just when it was about to charge--or led great sections of it off from where it could do most harm to where it could do least.

One cannot blame poor Levasseur that he supposed the man to be a blood-mad fanatical ring-leader of the mob--and himself ordered and directed the volley that riddled the breast of my heroic friend and stilled for ever the noblest heart that ever beat for France.

§ 2

As the mob streamed off after their self-constituted leader, I gave the word to resume the order of march, and led the way at a fast camel-trot toward and through the gate, and out into the open country.

I breathed more freely outside that accursed City of the Plain. . . . Another small mob came running along the road, and I swerved off across some irrigated market-gardens to make a chord across the arc of the winding road.

A few scoundrels detached themselves from the mob and ran towards us, headed by a big brute with a six-foot gun in one hand and a great sword in the other. I did not see how he could use both. He showed me.

As they drew nearer, I raised my rifle.

"Get your own loot," I snarled. "There's plenty more in Zaguig. . . ." There was a laugh, and half of them turned back.

The leader however stuck his sword in the ground, knelt, and aimed his long gun at my camel. Evidently his simple system was to shoot the beasts of mounted men and then hack the head off the rider as he came to earth.

However, rifles are quicker than jezails , blunderbusses, snap-haunces or arquebusses, and without reluctance I shot the gentleman through the head.