GREATER LOVE...
At the bottom of the alley, le bon Legionnaire Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat
encountered Sergeant Legros.... A bright idea! ... Stepping up to the
worthy Sergeant, he saluted, and informed him that, passing the
notorious Cafe de la Legion, a minute since, he had heard a terrible
_tohuwabohu_ and, looking in, had seen a crowd of excited Legionaries
fighting with knives and side-arms. He had not entered, but from the
door had seen at least one dead man upon the ground.
The worthy Sergeant's face lit up as he smacked his lips with joy. Ah,
ha! here were punishments.... Here were crimes.... Here were victims
for _salle de police_ and _cellules_.... Fodder for the _peloton des
hommes punis_ and the Zephyrs.... Here was distinction for that keen
disciplinarian, Sergeant Legros.
"_V'la quelqu'un pour la boite_," quoth he, and betook himself to the
Cafe at the _pas gymastique_.
Sec.2
At the sight of the knife buried in the broad naked back of the Italian,
the silence of horror fell upon the stupefied crowd.
_Nombril de Belzebuth_! How had it happened?
_Sacre nom de nom de bon Dieu de Dieu de Dieu de sort_! Who had done
it? Certainly not le Legionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau. Never for one
second had the Legionnaire Rivoli's back been toward him. Never for one
instant had there been a knife in the American's hand. Yet there lay
the great Luigi Rivoli stabbed to the heart. There was the knife in his
back. _Dame_!
Men's mouths hung open stupidly, as they stared wide-eyed. Gradually it
grew clear and obvious. Of course--he had been knocked backwards into
that group of his jackals, Malvin, Borges, Hirsch and Bauer, and one of
them, who hated him, had been so excited and uplifted by the sight of
his defeat that he had turned upon him. Yes, he had been stabbed by one
of those four.
"Malvin did it. I saw him," ejaculated Tant-de-Soif. He honestly
thought he had--or thought he thought so. "God bless him," he added
solemnly.
He had many a score to settle with M. Malvin, but he could afford to
give him generous praise--since he was booked for the firing-party
beside the open grave, or five years _rabiau_ in Biribi. It is not
every day that one's most hated enemies destroy each other....
"Wal! I allow thet's torn it," opined the Bucking Bronco as he surveyed
his dead enemy.
Carmelita came from behind the bar and down the room. What was
happening? Why had the fight stopped? She saw the huddled heap that
had been Rivoli.... She saw the knife--and thought she understood.
This was as things should be. This was how justice and vengeance were
executed in her own beloved Naples. Il Signor Americano was worthy to
be a Neapolitan, worthy to inherit and transmit _vendetta_. How cruelly
she had misjudged him in thinking him a barbarian....
"_Paye_," she cried, turning in disgust from the body, and threw her
arms round the Bucking Bronco's neck, as the Sergeant burst in at the
door. Sergeant Legros was in his element. Not only was there here a
grand harvest of military criminals for his reaping, but here was
vengeance--and vengeance and cruelty were the favourite food of the soul
of Sergeant Legros. Here was a grand opportunity for vengeance on the
Italian trollop who had, when he was a private Legionary, not only
rejected his importunities with scorn, but had soundly smacked his face
withal. Striding forward, as soon as he had roared, "_Attention!_" he
seized Carmelita roughly by the arm and shook her violently, with a
shout of: "To your kennel, _prostituee_." Whereupon the Bucking Bronco
felled his superior officer to the ground with a smashing blow upon the
jaw, thereby establishing an indisputable claim to life-servitude in the
terrible Penal Battalions.
Among the vices of vile Sergeant Legros, physical cowardice found no
place. Staggering to his feet, he spat out a tooth, wiped the blood
from his face, drew his sword-bayonet, and rushed at the American
intending to kill him forthwith, in "self-defence." At the best of times
Sergeant Legros looked, and was, a dangerous person--but the blow had
made him a savage, homicidal maniac. The Bucking Bronco was dazed and
astonished at what he had done. Circumstances had been too strong for
him. He had naturally been in an abnormal state at the end of such a
fight, and in no condition to think and act calmly when his adored
Carmelita was insulted and assaulted.... What had he done? This meant
death or penal servitude from the General Court Martial at Oran. He had
lost her in the moment of winning her, and he dropped his hands as the
Sergeant flew at him with the sword-bayonet poised to strike. No--he
would fight.... He would make his get-away.... He would skin out and
Carmelita should join him.... He would fight... Too late! ... The
bayonet was at his throat.... Crash! ... Good old Johnny! ... That had
been a near call. As the maddened Legros was in the act to thrust,
Legionary John Bull had struck him on the side of the head with all his
strength, sending him staggering, and had leapt upon him to secure the
bayonet as they went crashing to the ground. As they struggled,
Legionary Rupert set his foot heavily on the Sergeant's wrist and
wrenched the bayonet from his hand.
The problem of Sir Montague Merline's future was settled and the hour
for Reginald Rupert's desertion had struck.
An ominous growl had rumbled round the room at the brutal words and
action of the detested Legros, and an audible gasp of consternation had
followed the Bucking Bronco's blow. Sacre Dieu! Here were doings of
which ignorance would be bliss--and there was a rush to the door, headed
by Messieurs Malvin, Borges, Hirsch and Bauer.
Several Legionaries, as though rooted to the spot by a fearful
fascination, or by the hope of seeing Legros share the fate of Rivoli,
had stood their ground until John Bull struck him and Rupert snatched
the bayonet as though to kill him. Then, with two exceptions, this
remainder fled. These two were Tant-de-Soif and the Dutchman, Hans
Djoolte; the former, absolutely unable to think of flight and the
establishment of an _alibi_ while the man who had made his life a hell
was fighting for his own life; the latter, clear of conscience, honestly
innocent and wholly unafraid. Staring round-eyed, they saw Sergeant
Legros mightily heave his body upward, his head pinned to the ground by
'Erb 'Iggins, his throat clutched by Legionnaire Jean Boule, his right
hand held down by Legionnaire Rupert. Again he made a tremendous
effort, emitted a hideous bellowing sound and then collapsed and lay
curiously still. Meanwhile, Carmelita had closed and fastened the doors
and shutters of the Cafe and was turning out the lamps. Within half a
minute of the entrance of the Sergeant, the Cafe was closed and in
semi-darkness.
"The bloomin' ol' fox is shammin' dead," panted 'Erb, and removed his
own belt. "'Eave 'im up and shove this rahnd 'is elbers while 'e's
a-playin' 'possum. Shove yourn rahnd 'is legs, Buck," he added.
While still lying perfectly supine, the Sergeant was trussed like a
fowl.
"Naow we gotter hit the high places. We gotter vamoose some," opined
the Bucking Bronco, as the four arose, their task completed. They
looked at each other in consternation. Circumstances had been too much
for them. Fate and forces outside themselves had whirled them along in
a spate of mischance, and cast them up, stranded and gasping. Entering
the place with every innocent and praiseworthy intention, they now stood
under the shadow of the gallows and the gaol. With them in that room
was a murdered man, and an assaulted, battered and outraged superior....
The croaking voice of Tant-de-Soif broke the silence. "_Pour vous_,"
quoth he, "_il n'y a plus que l'Enfer_."
"Shut up, you ugly old crow," replied Reginald Rupert, "and clear
out.... Look here, what are you going to do about it? What are you
going to say?"
"I?" enquired Tant-de-Soif. "Le Legionnaire Djoolte and I have seen
each other in the Bar de Madagascar off the Rue de Daya the whole
evening. We have been here _peaudezebie_. Is it not, my Djoolte? Eh,
_mon salop_?"
But the sturdy Dutch boy was of a different moral fibre.
"I have not been in the Bar de Madagascar," replied he, in halting
Legion French. "I have been in le Cafe de la Legion the whole evening
and seen all that happened."
"'E's a-seekin' sorrer. 'E wants a fick ear," put in 'Erb in his own
vernacular.
"If my evidence is demanded, I saw a fair fight between the Legionnaire
Bouckaing Bronceau and le Legionnaire Luigi Rivoli. I then saw le
Legionnaire Luigi Rivoli fall dead, having been stabbed by either le
Legionnaire Malvin or le Legionnaire Bauer, if it were not le
Legionnaire Hirsch, or le Legionnaire Borges. I believe Malvin stabbed
him while these three held him, but I do not know. I then saw le
Sergent Legros enter and assault and abuse Mam'zelle Carmelita. I then
saw him fall as though someone had struck him and he then attempted to
murder le Legionnaire Bronco with his Rosalie. I then saw some
Legionnaires tie him up.... That is the evidence that I shall give if I
give any at all. I may refuse to answer, but I shall tell no lies."
"That is all right," said the Bucking Bronco. "Naow yew git up an' yew
git--an' yew too, Tant-de-Soif, and tell the b'ys ter help Carmelita any
they can, ef Legros gits 'er inter trouble an' gits 'er Caffy shut....
An' when yew gits the Gospel truth orf yure chest, Fatty, yew kin say,
honest Injun, as haow I tol' yew, thet me an' John Bull was a-goin' on
pump ter Merocker, an' Mounseers Rupert an' 'Erb was a-goin' fer ter do
likewise ter Toonis. Naow git," and the two were hustled out of the
Cafe.
"Now," said John Bull, taking command, "we've got to be quick, as it's
just possible the news of what's happened may reach the picket and you
may be looked for before you're missing. First thing is Carmelita,
second thing's money, and third thing's plan of campaign.... Is
Carmelita in any danger over this?"
"Don't see why she should be," said Rupert. "It's not her fault that
there was a fight in her Cafe. It has never been in any sense a
'disorderly house,' and what happened, merely happened here."
"Yep," agreed the Bucking Bronco. "But I'm plum' anxious. I'm sure
tellin' yew, I don't like ter make my gitaway an' leave her hyar. But
we can't take a gal on pump."
"Arx the young lidy," suggested 'Erb, and with one consent they went to
the bar, leaning on which Carmelita was sobbing painfully. The strain
and agony of the last twenty-four hours had been too much and she had
broken down. As they passed the two silent bodies, 'Erb stopped and
bent over Sergeant Legros, remarking: "Knows 'ow ter lie doggo, don't
'e--the ol' cunnin'-chops?" He fell silent a moment, and then in a very
different voice ejaculated, "Gawds-treuth 'e's _mort_, 'e is. 'E's
_tue_."
John Bull and Reginald Rupert looked at each other, and then turned back
quietly to where the Sergeant was lying.
"Cerebral hemorrhage," suggested John Bull. "I struck him on the side
of the head."
"'Eart failure," suggested 'Erb. "I set on 'is 'ead till 'is 'eart
stopped, blimey!"
"Apple Plexy, I opine," put in the Bucking Bronco. "All comes o' gittin'
excited, don't it?"
"He certainly made himself perfectly miserable when I took his bayonet
away," admitted Legionary Rupert.
"Anyhow, it's a fair swingin' job nah, wotever it was afore," said 'Erb.
Whatever the cause and whosesoever the hand, Sergeant Legros was
undoubtedly dead. They removed the belts, straightened his limbs,
closed his eyes and 'Erb placed the dead man's kepi over the face,
bursting as he did so into semi-hysterical song--
"Ours is a 'appy little 'ome,
I wisht I was a kipper on the foam,
There's no carpet on the door,
There's no knocker on the floor,
Oo! Ours is a 'appy little 'ome."
"Shut that damned row," said Legionary Rupert.
"Carmelita, honey," said the Bucking Bronco, stroking the hair of the
weeping girl. "Yew got the brains. Wot'll we do? Shall we stop an'
look arter ye? Will yew come on pump with us? Will yew ketch the
nine-fifteen ter Oran? Yew could light out fer the railroad _de_-pot
right now--or will yew stick it out here, an' see ef they takes away
yure licence? They couldn't do nuthin' more.... Give it a name, little
gal--we've gotter hike quick, ef we ain't a-goin' ter stay."
Carmelita controlled herself with an effort and dried her eyes. Not for
nothing had her life been what it had.
"You must all go at once," she said unhesitatingly. "Take Signor
Rupert's money and make for Mendoza's in the Ghetto. He'll sell you
mufti and food. Change, and then run, all night, along the railway.
Lie up all day, and then run all night again. Then take different
trains at different wayside stations, one by one, and avoid each other
like poison in Oran; and leave by different boats on different days. I
shall stay here. After trying for some hours to revive Legros, I shall
send for the picket. You will be far from Sidi then. I shall give the
Police all information as to the fight, and as to the murder of _that_,
by Malvin; and shall conceal nothing of Legros' murderous attempt upon
the Legionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau and of his death by _apoplessia_....
They will see he has no wound.... This will give weight and truth to my
evidence to the effect that it was a fair, clean fight and that no blame
attaches to le Legionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau.... Where am I to blame?
... No, you can leave me without fear. Also will I give evidence to
having heard you plotting to make the promenade in different directions
and to avoid the railway and Oran...."
The Bucking Bronco was overcome with admiration.
"Ain't that horse-sense?" he ejaculated.
Laying her hands upon his shoulders, Carmelita looked him in the eyes.
"And when you write to me to join you also, dear Americano, I will
come," she said. "I, Carmelita, have said it.... Now that _that_ is
dead, I shall be able to save some money. Write to me when you are
safe, and I will join you wherever you are--whether it be Napoli or
Inghilterra or America."
"God bless ye, little gal," growled the American, folding her in his
arms, and for the first time of his life being on the verge of an
exhibition of weakness. "We'll make our gitaway all right, an' we
couldn't be no use ter yew in prison hyar.... I'll earn or steal some
money ter send yer, Carmelita, honey."
"I can help you there," put in Legionary Rupert.
"You and your loose cash are the _deus ex machina_, Rupert, my boy,"
said John Bull.... "But for you, the Russians would hardly have got
away so easily, and now a few pounds will make all the difference
between life and death to Buck and Carmelita, not to mention yourself
and 'Erb."
"I am very fortunate," said Rupert, gracefully. "By the way, how much
have we left Carmelita?" he added.
"Exactly seven hundred francs, Monsieur," she replied. "Monsieur drew
one thousand, he will remember, and the Russians after all, needed only
three hundred in addition to their own roubles."
"What are you going to do, 'Erb?" asked John Bull. "You haven't
committed yourself very deeply you know. Legros can't give evidence
against you and I doubt whether Tant-de-Soif or Djoolte will.... I don't
suppose any of the others noticed you, but there's a risk--and ten years
of Dartmoor would be preferable to six months in the Penal Battalions.
What shall you do?"
"Bung orf," replied 'Erb. "I'm fair fed full wiv Hafrica. Wot price
the Ol' Kent Road on a Sat'day night!"
"Then seven hundred francs will be most ample for three of you, to get
mufti, railway tickets and tramp-steamer passages from Oran to Hamburg."
"Why three?" asked Rupert.
"You, Buck and 'Erb," replied John Bull.
"Oh, I see. You have money for your own needs?" observed Rupert in some
surprise.
"I'm not going," announced John Bull.
"_What?_" exclaimed four voices simultaneously, three in English and one
in French.
"I'm not going," he reiterated, "for several reasons.... To begin with,
I've nowhere to go. Secondly, I don't want to go. Thirdly, I did not
kill Legros," and, as an inducement to the Bucking Bronco to agree with
his wishes, he added, "and fourthly, I may be able to be of some service
to Carmelita if only by supporting her testimony with my evidence at the
trial--supposing that I am arrested."
"Come off it, old chap," said Rupert. "There are a hundred men whose
testimony will support Carmelita's."
"Wot's bitin' yew naow, John?" asked the Bucking Bronco. "Yew know it's
a plum' sure thing as haow it'll come out thet yew slugged Legros in the
year-'ole when we man-handled him. Won't that be enuff ter give yew
five-spot in Biribi?"
"Yus. Wot cher givin' us, Ole Cock?" expostulated 'Erb. "Wot price
them blokes Malvin, an' Bower, an' Borjis, an' 'Ersh? Fink they'll shut
their 'eads? An' wot price that bloomin' psalm-smitin', Bible-puncher
of a George Washington of a Joolt? Wot price ole Tarntderswoff? Git 'im
in front of a court martial an' 'e wouldn't jabber, would 'e? Not arf,
'e wouldn't. I _don't_ fink."
"And don't talk tosh, my dear chap, about having nowhere to go, please,"
said Rupert. "You're coming home with me of course. My mother will
love to have you."
"Thanks awfully, but I'm afraid I can't go to England," was the reply.
"I must..."
"_Garn_," interrupted 'Erb. "I'm wanted meself, but I'm a-goin' ter
chawnst it. No need ter 'ang abaht Scotland Yard.... I knows lots o'
quiet juggers. 'Sides, better go where it's a risk o' bein' pinched
than stop where it's a dead cert.... Nuvver fing. You ain't goin' ter
be put away fer wot you done, Gawd-knows-'ow-many years ago. That's all
blowed over, long ago. Why you've bin 'ere pretty nigh fifteen year,
ain't yer? Talk sinse, Ole Cock--ain't yer jest said yer'd raver do a
ten stretch in Portland than 'arf a one in Biribi?"
John Bull and Reginald Rupert smiled at each other.
"Thanks awfully, Rupert," said the former, "but I can't go to England."
Turning to the Cockney he added, "You're a good sort, Herbert, my
laddie--but I'm staying here."
"Shucks," observed the American with an air of finality, and turning to
Carmelita requested her to fetch the nuggets, the spondulicks, the
dope--in short, the wad. Carmelita disappeared into her little room and
returned in a few moments with a roll of notes.
"Well, good-bye, my dear old chap," said John Bull, taking the
American's hand. "You understand all I can't say, don't you? ...
Good-bye."
"Nuthin' doin', John," was the answer.
"Hurry him off, Carmelita, we've wasted quite time enough," said John
Bull, turning to the girl. "If he doesn't go now and do his best for
himself, he doesn't love you. Do clear him out. It's death or penal
servitude if he's caught. He struck Legros before Legros even
threatened him--and Legros is dead."
"You hear what Signor Jean Boule says. Are you going?" said Carmelita,
turning to the American.
"No, my gal. I ain't," was the prompt reply. "How can I, Carmelita? ...
I'm his pal.... Hev' I got ter choose between yew an' him?"
"Of course you have," put in John Bull. "Stay here and you will never
see her again. It won't be a choice between me and her then; it'll be
between death and penal servitude."
The Bucking Bronco took Carmelita's face between his hands.
"Little gal," he said, "I didn't reckon there was no such thing as
'love,' outside books, ontil I saw yew. Life wasn't worth a red cent
ontil yew came hyar. Then every time I gits inter my bunk, I thinks
over agin every word I'd said ter yew thet night, an' every word yew'd
said ter me. An' every mornin' when I gits up, I ses, 'I shall see
Carmelita ter-night,' an' nuthin' didn't jar me so long as that was all
right. An' when I knowed yew wasn't fer mine, because yew loved Loojey
Rivoli, then I ses, '_Hell!_' An' I didn't shoot 'im up because I see
how much yew loved him. An' I put up with him when he uster git fresh,
because ef I'd beat 'im up yew'd hev druv me away from the Caffy, an'
life was jest Hell, 'cause I knowed 'e was a low-lifer reptile an' yew'd
never believe it.... An' now yew've found 'im out, an' he's gorn, an'
yure mine--an' it's too late.... Will yew think I don't love yew,
little gal? ... Don't tell me ter go or I might sneak off an' leave John
in the lurch."
"You can't help me, Buck," put in John Bull. "I shall be all right.
Who'll you benefit by walking into gaol?"
The American looked appealingly at the girl, and his face was more
haggard and anxious than when he was fighting for his life.
"This is my answer, Signor Bouckaing Bronceau," spake Carmelita. "Had
you gone without Signor Jean Boule, I should not have followed you. Now
I have heard you speak, I trust you for ever. Had you deserted your
friend in trouble, you would have deserted me in trouble. If Signor
Jean Boule will not go, then you must stay, for he struck Legros to save
your life, as you struck him to avenge me. Would _I_ run away while you
paid for that blow?..."
Carmelita then turned with feminine wiles upon John Bull.
"Since Signor Jean Boule will not go on pump," she continued, "you must
stay and be shot, or sent to penal servitude, and I must be left to
starve in the gutter."
Sir Montague Merline came to the conclusion that after all the problem
of his immediate future was not settled.
"Very well," said he, "come on. We'll cut over to Mendoza's and go to
earth. As soon as he has rigged us out, we'll get clear of Sidi."
(He could always give himself up when they had to separate and he could
help them no more. Yes, that was it. He would pretend that he had
changed his mind and when they had to separate he would pretend that he
was going to continue his journey. He would return and give himself up.
Having told the exact truth with regard to his share in the matter, he
would take his chance and face whatever followed.)
"_A rivederci_, Carmelita," said he and kissed her.
"_Mille grazie_, Signor," replied Carmelita. "_Buon viaggio_," and wept
afresh.
"So-long, Miss," said 'Erb. "Are we dahn'arted? _Naow!_"
Carmelita smiled through her tears at the quaint English _ribaldo_, and
brought confusion on Reginald Rupert by the warmth of her thanks for his
actual and promised financial help....
"We'd better go separately to Mendoza's," said John Bull. "Buck had
better come last. I'll go first and bargain with the old devil. We
shan't be missed until the morning, but we needn't exactly obtrude
ourselves on people."
He went out, followed a few minutes later by Rupert and 'Erb.
Left alone with Carmelita, the Bucking Bronco picked her up in his arms
and held her like a baby, as with haggard face and hoarse voice he tried
to tell her of his love and of his misery in having to choose between
losing her and leaving her. Having arranged with her that he should
write to her in the name of Jules Lebrun from an address which would not
be in France or any of her colonies, the Bucking Bronco allowed himself
to be driven from the back door of the Cafe. Carmelita's last words
were--
"Good-bye, _amato_. When you send for me I shall come, and you need not
wait until you can send me money."
Sec.3
The good Monsieur Mendoza, discovered in a dirty unsavoury room, at the
top of a broken winding staircase of a modestly unobtrusive, windowless
house, in a dirty unsavoury slum of the Ghetto, was exceedingly
surprised to learn that le Legionnaire Jean Boule had come to _him_, of
all people in the world, for assistance in deserting.
The surprise of le bon Monsieur Mendoza was in itself surprising, in
view of the fact that the facilitation of desertion was his profession.
Still, there it was, manifest upon his expressive and filthy
countenance, not to mention his expressive and filthy hands, which
waggled, palms upward, beside his shrugged shoulders, as he gave vent to
his pained astonishment, not to say indignation, at the Legionary's
suggestion.... He was not that sort of man.... Besides, how did he
know that Monsieur le Legionnaire had enough?...
John Bull explained patiently to le bon Monsieur Mendoza, of whose
little ways he knew a good deal, that he had come to him because he was
subterraneously famous in the Legion as the fairy god-papa who could,
with a wave of his wand, convert a uniformed Legionnaire into a most
convincing civilian. Further, that he was known to be wholly reliable
and incorruptibly honest in his dealings with those who could afford to
be his god-sons.
All of which was perfectly true.
(Monsieur Mendoza did not display a gilt-lettered board upon the wall of
his house, bearing any such inscription as "_Haroun Mendoza, Desertion
Agent. Costumier to Poumpistes and All who make the Promenade.
Desertions arranged with promptitude and despatch. Perfect Disguises a
Speciality. Foreign Money Changed. Healthy Itineraries mapped out.
Second-hand Uniforms disposed of. H.M.'s Agents and Interpreters meet
All Trains at Oran; and Best Berths secured on all Steamers. Convincing
Labelled Luggage Supplied. Special Terms for Parties_...." nor
advertise in the _Echo d'Oran_, for it would have been as unnecessary as
unwise....)
All very well and all very interesting, parried Monsieur Mendoza, but
while compliments garlic no _caldo_, shekels undoubtedly make the mule
to go. Had le bon Legionnaire shekels?
No, he had not, but they would very shortly arrive.
"And how many shekels will arrive?" enquired the good Monsieur Mendoza.
"Sufficient unto the purpose," was the answer, and then the bargaining
began. For the sum of fifty francs the Jew would provide one Legionary
with a satisfactory suit of clothes. The hat, boots, linen and tie
consistent with each particular suit would cost from thirty to forty
francs extra.... Say, roughly, a hundred francs for food and complete
outfit, per individual. The attention of the worthy Israelite was here
directed to the incontrovertible fact that he was dealing, not with the
Rothschild brothers, but with four Legionaries of modest ambition and
slender purse. To which, M. Mendoza replied that he who supped with the
Devil required not only a long, but a golden spoon. In the end, it was
agreed that, for the sum of three hundred francs, four complete outfits
should be provided.
The next thing was the production and exhibition of the promised
disguises. Would M. Mendoza display them forthwith, that they might be
selected by the time that the other clients arrived?
"_Si, si_," said M. Mendoza. "_Ciertamente. Con placer_." It was no
desire of M. Mendoza that any client should be expected _comprar a
ciegas_--to buy a pig in a poke. No, _de ningun modo_....
Shuffling into an inner room, the old gentleman returned, a few minutes
later, laden with a huge bundle of second-hand clothing.
"Will you travel as a party--say two tourists and their servants? Or as
a party of bourgeoisie interested in the wine trade? Or--say worthy
artisans or working men returning to Marseilles? ... What do you say to
some walnut-juice and haiks--wild men from the _Tanezrafet_? One of you
a Negro, perhaps (pebbles in the nostrils), carrying an _angareb_ and a
bundle. I could let you have some _hashish_.... I could also arrange
for camels--it's eighty miles to Oran, you know.... Say, three francs a
day, per camel, and _bakshish_ for the men.... Not _meharis_ of course,
but you'll be relying more on disguise than speed, for your escape...."
"No," interrupted John Bull. "It only means more trouble turning into
Europeans again at Oran. We want to be four obvious civilians, of the
sort who could, without exciting suspicion, take the train at a wayside
station."
"What nationalities are you?" enquired the Jew.
"English," was the reply.
"Then take my advice and don't pretend to be French," said the other,
and added, "Are any of the others gentlemen?"
Sir Montague Merline smiled.
"One," he said.
"Then you and that other had better go as what you are--English
gentlemen. If you are questioned, do not speak too good French, but get
red in the face and say, 'Goddam' ... Yes, I think one of you might have
a green veil round his hat.... the others might be horsey or seamen....
Swiss waiters.... Music-hall artistes.... Or German touts, bagmen or
spies.... Father Abraham! That's an idea! To get deported as a German
spy! Ha, ha!" There was a knock at the door....
"_Escuche!_" he whispered with an air of mystery, and added, "_Quien
esta ahi?_"
"It's the Lord Mayor o' Lunnon, Ole Cock," announced 'Erb as he entered.
"Come fer a new set of robes an' a pearly 'at."
"That one can go either as a dismissed groom, making his way back to
England, or an out-of-work Swiss waiter," declared Mendoza, as his
artist eye and ear took in the details of 'Erb's personality.
A great actor and actor manager had been lost in le bon M. Mendoza, and
he enjoyed the work of adapting disguises according to the possibilities
of his clients, almost as much as he enjoyed wrangling and bargaining,
for their last sous. A greedy and grasping old scoundrel, no doubt, but
once you entrusted yourself to M. Mendoza you could rely upon his
performing his part of the bargain with zeal, honesty, and secrecy.
The two Legionaries divested themselves of their uniforms and put on the
clothes handed to them.
Another knock, and Rupert came in.
"Hallo, Willie Clarkson," said he to Mendoza, who courteously replied
with a "_Buenas tardes, senor_."
"That one will be an English caballero," he observed.
"Thought I should never get here," said Rupert. "Got into the wrong
rabbit-warren," and took off his tunic.
The Jew did not "place" the Bucking Bronco immediately upon his
entrance, but studied him carefully, for some minutes, before announcing
that he had better shave off his moustache and be a Spanish fisherman,
muleteer, or sailor. If questioned, he might tell some tale, in
execrable French, of a wife or daughter kidnapped at Barcelona and
traced to a Tlemcen brothel. He should rave and be violent and more
than a little drunk....
And could the worthy M. Mendoza supply a couple of good revolvers with
ammunition?
"_Si, si,_" said M. Mendoza. "_Ciertamente. Con placer_. A most
excellent one of very large calibre and with twenty-eight rounds of
ammunition for forty francs, and another of smaller calibre and longer
barrel, but with, unfortunately, only eleven rounds for thirty-five
francs...."
"Keep your right hand in your pocket, each of you," said M. Mendoza as
they parted, "or you'll respectfully salute the first Sergeant you
meet...."
Sec.4
The two Englishmen, in light summer suits, one wearing white buckskin
boots, the other light brown ones, both carrying gloves and light canes,
attracted no second glance of attention as they strolled along the
boulevard, nor would anyone have suspected the vehement beating of their
hearts as they passed the Guard at the gate in the fortification walls.
Similarly innocent of appearance, was an ordinary-looking and humble
little person who shuffled along, round-shouldered, shrilly whistling
"Viens Poupoule, viens Poupoule, viens."
Nor more calculated to arouse suspicion in the breast of the most
observant Guard, was the big, slouching, blue-jowled Spaniard, who
rolled along with his _beret_ over one eye, and his cigarrillo pendent
from the corner of his mouth. The distance separating these from the
two English gentlemen lessened as the latter, leaving the main
promenades, passed through a suburb and, turning to the right, followed
a quiet country road, which led to a railway station.
Making a wide detour and avoiding the station, the four, marching
parallel with the railway line, headed north for Oran.
So far, so good. They were clear of Sidi-bel-Abbes and they were free.
Free, but in the greatest danger. The next thing was to get clear of
Africa and from beneath the shadow of the tri-couleur.
"_Free!_" said Rupert, as the other two joined him and John Bull, and
drew a long, deep breath, as of relief.
"Not a bit of it, Rupert," said John Bull. "It's merely a case of a
good beginning and a sporting chance."
"Anyhow, well begun's half done, Old Thing. I feel like a boy let out
of school," and he began to sing--
"Si tu veux
Faire mon bonheur,
Marguerite, Marguerite,
Si tu veux
Faire mon bonheur,
Marguerite, donne-moi ton coeur,
You'll have to sing that, Buck, and put 'Carmelita' for 'Marguerite,'"
he added.
"Business first," interrupted John Bull. "This is the programme. We'll
go steady all night at the 'quick' and the 'double' alternately, and
five minutes' rest to the hour. If we can't do thirty miles by
daylight, we're no Legionaries. Sleep all day to-morrow, in the shadow
of a boulder, or trees.... By the way, we mustn't fetch up too near Les
Imberts or we might be seen by somebody while we're asleep. Les Imberts
is about thirty miles from Sidi, I believe. To-morrow night, we'll do
another thirty miles and that'll bring us to Wady-el-hotoma. From there
I vote we go independently by different trains...."
"That's it," agreed Rupert. "United for defence--separated for
concealment. We'd better hang together as far as Wady-what-is-it, in
case a Goum patrol overtakes us."
"Why not bung orf from this 'ere Lace Imbear?" enquired 'Erb. "Better'n
doin' a kip in the desert, and paddin' the 'oof another bloomin' night.
I'm a bloomin' gennelman naow, Ole Cock. I ain't a lousy Legendary."
"Far too risky," replied John Bull. "We should look silly if Corporal
Martel and a guard of men from our own _chambree_ were on the next
train, shouldn't we? Whichever of us went into the station would be
pinched. The later we hit the line the better, though on the other hand
we can't hang about too long. We're between the Devil and the Deep
Sea--station-guards and mounted patrols."
It occurred to the Bucking Bronco that his own best "lay" would be an
application of the art of "holding her down." In other words, waiting
outside Sidi-bel-Abbes railway station until the night train pulled out,
and jumping on to her in the darkness and "decking her"--in other words,
climbing on to the roof and lying flat. As a past-master in "beating an
overland," he could do this without the slightest difficulty, leaving
the train as it slowed down into stations and making a detour to pick it
up again as it left. Before daylight he could leave the train
altogether and book as a passenger from the next station (since John
strongly advised against walking into Oran by road, as that was the way
a penniless Legionary might be expected to arrive). By that means he
would arrive at Oran before they were missed at roll-call in the
morning. Should he, by any chance, be seen and "ditched" by what he
called the "brakemen" and "train-crew," he would merely have "to hit the
grit," and wait for the next train. Yes, that's what he would do if he
were alone--but the four of them couldn't do it, even if they possessed
the necessary nerve, skill and endurance--and he wasn't going to leave
them.
"Come on, boys, _en avant, marche_," said John Bull, and they started on
their thirty-mile run, keeping a sharp look-out for patrols, and halting
for a second to listen for the sound of hoofs each time they changed
from the _pas gymnastique_ to the quick march. Galloping hoofs would
mean a patrol of Arab gens-d'armes, the natural enemies of the
_poumpiste_, the villains who make a handsome bonus on their pay by
hunting white men down like mad dogs and shooting them, as such, if they
resist. (It is not for nothing that the twenty-five francs reward is
paid for the return of a deserter "_dead_ or alive.")
On through the night struggled the little band, keeping as far from the
railway as was possible without losing its guidance. When a train
rolled by in the distance, the dry mouth of the Bucking Bronco almost
watered, as he imagined himself "holding her down," "decking her,"
"riding the blind," or perhaps doing the journey safely and comfortably
in a "side-door Pullman" (or goods-waggon).
Before daylight, the utterly weary and footsore travellers threw
themselves down to sleep in the middle of a collection of huge boulders
that looked as though they had been emptied out upon the plain from a
giant sack. During the night they had passed near many villages and had
made many detours to avoid others which lay near the line, as well as
farms and country houses, surrounded by their fig, orange and citron
trees, their groves of date-palms, and their gardens. For miles they
had travelled over sandy desert, and for miles through patches of
cultivation, vineyards and well-tilled fields. They had met no one and
had heard nothing more alarming than the barking of dogs. Now they had
reached an utterly desert spot, and it had seemed to the leader of the
party to be as safe a place as they would find in which to sleep away
the day. It was not too near road, path, building, or cultivation, so
far as he could tell, and about a mile from the railway. The cluster of
great rocks would hide them from view of any possible wayfarer on foot,
horseback, or camel, and would also shelter them from the rays of the
sun. He judged that they were some two or three miles from Les Imberts
station, and four or five from the village of that name.
The next trouble would be water. They'd probably want water pretty
badly before they got it. Perhaps it would rain. That would give them
water, but would hardly improve the chances of himself and Rupert as
convincing tourists. Thank Heaven they had a spare clean collar each,
anyhow. Good old Mendoza. What an artist he was!...
John Bull fell asleep.
Sec.5
"Look, my brothers! Behold!" cried "Goum" Hassan ibn Marbuk, an hour
later, as he reined in his horse and pointed to where the footprints of
four men left a track and turned off into the desert. "Franzwazi--they
wear boots. It is they. Allah be praised. A hundred francs for us,
and death for four Roumis. Let us kill the dogs."
Turning his horse from the road, he cantered along the trail of the
footsteps, followed by his two companions.
"Allah be praised!" he cried again. "But our Kismet is good. Had it
been but five minutes earlier it would have been too dark to notice
them."
"The footprints lead into that el Ahagger," he added later, pointing to
the group of great boulders.
The three men drew their revolvers and rode in among the rocks. The
leading Arab gave a cry of joy and covered Rupert, who was nearest to
him. As the Arab shouted, John Bull awoke and, even as he opened his
eyes, yelled "_Aux armes!_" at the top of his voice. (He had shouted
those words and heard them shouted, off and on, for fifteen years.) As
he cried out, Hassan ibn Marbuk changed his aim from Rupert to John Bull
and fired. The report of the revolver was instantly followed by three
others in the quickest succession. John Bull's cry had awakened the
Bucking Bronco and that wary man had slept with his "gun" in his hand.
A second after Hassan ibn Marbuk fired, the Bucking Bronco shot him
through the head, and then with lightning rapidity and apparently
without aim, fired at the other two "Goums" who were behind their
leader. Not for nothing had the Bucking Bronco been, for a time, trick
pistol-shot in a Wild West show. Hassan ibn Marbuk fell from his
saddle, the second Arab hung over his horse's neck, and the third, after
a convulsive start, drooped and slowly bent backward, until he lay over
the high crupper of his saddle.
"Arabs ain't no derned good with guns," remarked the Bucking Bronco, as
he rose to his feet, though it must, in justice, be admitted that the
leading Arab had decidedly screened the view, and hampered the activity
of the other two as he emerged from the little gully between two mighty
rocks.
"Gawd luvvus," said 'Erb, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Done in
three coppers in a bloomin' lump!"
The Bucking Bronco secured the horses.
"I say," said Rupert, who was bending over Sir Montague Merline, "Bull's
badly hit."
"Ketch holt, quick," cried the Bucking Bronco, holding out to 'Erb the
three reins which he had drawn over the horses' heads. He threw himself
down beside his friend and swore softly, as his experienced eye
recognised the unmistakable signs.
"Is he dying?" whispered Rupert.
"His number's up," groaned the American.
"Done in by a copper!" marvelled 'Erb, and, putting his arm across his
face, he leaned against the nearest horse and sobbed.... He was a
child-like person, and, without knowing it, had come to centre all his
powers of affection on John Bull.
The dying man opened his eyes. "Got it where the chicken got the axe,"
he whispered. "Good-bye, Buck.... See you in the ... Happy Hunting
Grounds ... I hope."
The Bucking Bronco looked at Rupert.
"Carmelita put thisyer brandy in my pocket, Rupert," he said producing a
medicine bottle. "Shall I dope him?"
He coughed and swallowed, his mouth and chin twitched and worked, and
tears trickled down his face.
"Can't do much harm," said Rupert, and took the bottle from the
American's shaking hand.
The brandy revived the mortally wounded man.
"Good-bye, Rupert," he said. "I advise you to go straight down to Les
Imberts station ... and take the next train.... There will be a patrol
... after this patrol ... before long. You can't lie up here for long
now.... Buck might take a horse and gallop for it.... Lie up somewhere
else.... And ride to Oran to-night.... 'Erb should go as Rupert's
servant ... or by a different train.... Remember Mendoza's tips."
The stertorous, wheezy breathing was painfully interrupted by a paroxysm
of coughing.
"Much pain, old chap?" asked the white-faced Rupert, as he wiped the
blood from his friend's lips.
"No," whispered Sir Montague Merline. "I am dead ... up to ... the
heart.... Expanding bullet.... Lungs ... and spine ... I ... ex- ...
pect. Shan't be ... long."
"Anything I can do--any message or anything?" asked Rupert.
The dying man closed his eyes.
The Bucking Bronco was frankly blubbering. Turning to the dead "Goum"
who had shot his friend, he swore horribly, and deplored that the man
was dead and beyond the reach of his further vengeance. He fell
instantly silent as his stricken friend spoke again.
"If you ... get ... to Eng ... land, Rupert ... will ... you go ... to
... my wife? She's Lady..." he whispered.
"Yes--Lady ... _who_?" asked Rupert eagerly.
"NO," continued the dying man, in a stronger voice, as he opened his
eyes. "I never ... had ... a ... wife."
Silence again.
"Why _Marguerite_ ... My ... darling ... girl. _Darling_ ... at ...
last. _Marguerite_."
Sir Montague Merline's problem was solved, and the last of his wages
paid....
Sec.6
The Honourable Reginald Rupert Huntingten never forgot the hour that
followed. The three broken-hearted men buried their friend in a
shallow, sandy grave and piled a cairn of rocks and stones above the
spot. It gave them a feeling akin to pleasure to realise that every
minute devoted to this labour of love, lessened their chance of escape.
Their task accomplished, they shook hands and parted--the Bucking Bronco
incapable of speech. Before he rode away, Huntingten thrust a piece of
paper into his hand, upon which he had scribbled: "_R. R. Huntingten,
Elham Old Hall, Elham, Kent,_" and said, "Wire me there. Or--better
still, come--and we'll arrange about Carmelita."
The Bucking Bronco rode away in the cool of the morning.
Having settled by the toss of a coin whether he or 'Erb should attempt
the next train, he gave that grief-stricken warrior the same address and
invitation.
With a crushing hand-clasp they parted, and Huntingten, with a light and
jaunty step, and a sore and heavy heart, set forth for the station of
Les Imberts to put his nerve and fortune to the test.
EPILOGUE
"Well, good night, my own darling Boy," said the beautiful Lady
Huntingten, as she lit her candle from that of her son, by the table in
the hall. "Don't keep Father up all night, if he and General Strong
come to your bedroom."
"Good night, dearest," replied he, kissing her fondly.
Setting down her candlestick, she took him by the lapels of his coat as
though loth to let him out of her sight and part with him, even for the
night.
"Oh, but it is good to have you again, darling," she murmured, gazing
long at his bronzed and weather-beaten face. "You won't go off again
for a long, long time, will you? And we must keep your promise to that
wholly delightful 'Erb, if it's humanly possible. But I really cannot
picture him as a discreet and silent-footed valet.... I simply loved
him and the Bucking Bronco. I don't know which is the more precious and
priceless.... I do so wonder whether he'll be happy with his
Carmelita.... I shall love seeing her."
"Yes, 'Erb and Buck are great birds," replied her son, "but poor old
John Bull was the chap."
"Poor man, how awful--with freedom in sight.... You knew nothing of his
story?" she asked.
"Absolutely nothing, dearest. All I know about him is that he was one
of the very best. Funny thing, y' know, Mother--I simply lived with
that chap, night and day, for a year, and know no more about him than
just that. That, and his marks--and by Jove, he'd got some.... Simply
a mass of scars, beginning with the crown of his head, where was a hole
you could have laid your thumb in. Been about a bit, too; fought in
China, Madagascar, West Africa, the Sahara and Morocco, in the Legion.
Certainly been in the British Army--in Africa, too. I fancy he'd been a
sailor as well--anyhow he'd been in Japan and got the loveliest bit of
tattooing I ever set eyes on. Wonderful colours--snake winding round
his wrist and up his forearm. Thing looked alive though it had been
done for over thirty years. Nagasaki, I think he said...." He yawned
hugely. "But here I am rambling on about a person you never saw, and
keeping you up," he added. He bent to kiss his mother again.
"Mother!--_darling_! Don't you feel well? Here, I'll get you a little
brandy."
Lady Huntingten was clutching at the edge of the table, and staring at
her son, white-lipped. Her face looked drawn and suddenly old.
"No, no," she said. "Come back. I--sometimes--a little..." and she sat
down on the oak settle beside the table.
"The heat ..." she continued incoherently. "There, I'm all right now.
Tell me some more about this--John Bull.... He _is_ dead? ... You
buried him yourself, you said."
"Yes, poor old chap, it was awful."
"And he gave you no messages for his people? He did not tell you his
real name?"
"No. Nothing. He's taken his story with him. The last words he said
were 'Will you go and tell my wife, Lady...' and there he pulled himself
up, and said he never had a wife. But he had, I'm sure--and he called
to her by her Christian name. As he died, he cried out, '_At last--my
darling--_'"
"_Marguerite_," whispered Lady Huntingten.
Made and Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and
London
* * * * *
ALSO BY P. C. WREN
BEAU GESTE
"Well-told, absorbing romance."--_Morning Post_.
"A story of rare quality from every point of view."--_Daily Telegraph_.
"Told with rare skill and delicacy."--_Westminster Gazette_.
"A most stimulating, and at times hair-raising, story of
adventure."--_Daily Graphic_.
"Very exciting reading."--_Spectator_.
"A spanking yarn, brimming with high spirits and vitality."--_The New
Statesman_.
"His Algerian pen-pictures are quite unusually forceful and
descriptive."--_The Field_.
"Unquestionably a great story."--_Truth_.
"Should find a big public."--_The Graphic_.
"The best kind of wholesome romance and the best of all its author's
books. A splendid story very splendidly told."--_T.P.'s and Cassell's
Weekly_.
"A wonderfully vivid and enthralling piece of work."--_John o' London's
Weekly_.
"If you want romance of the healthiest kind, 'Beau Geste' will give it
you."--_Bystander_.
"A really stirring and romantic story."--_Queen_.
"One of the best and strangest adventure stories of recent years."--_The
Gentlewoman_.
"One of the most exciting stories we have read for many a long
day--ingenious and thrilling."--_Guardian_.
"A story to stir the pulses: a vivid picture."--_Christian World_.
"Its swift popularity is well deserved; it is a novel of high
quality."--_Oxford Chronicle_.
"Deserves every whit of the success which it is now
attaining."--_Manchester Guardian_.
"One of the very best novels that we have read for a very long
time."--_Western Mail_.
ILLUSTRATED EDITION, with coloured and black-and-white Drawings by Helen
McKie. 7s. 6d. net.
Also an Edition-de-luxe, limited to 600 copies for sale in England,
numbered and signed by the Author, 21s. net.
FIRST CHEAP EDITION. Without Illustrations. 3s. 6d. net.
BEAU SABREUR
_First Cheap Edition. 3s. 6d. net_
In this latest story, Major Wren presents the fascinating life and
personality of that Major Henri de Beaujolais who appeared in "Beau
Geste." It is a typical Wren story--healthy, gripping romance plus
mystery and adventure--based on the conflict between the claims of love
and duty.
Spahis, legionaries, touaregs, play their several parts with intense
reality, while over all flares the pitiless sun of those desert wastes
in Northern Africa. A novel which is being read and enjoyed in all
parts of the world.
THE WAGES OF VIRTUE
_3s. 6d. net and 2s. net_
"A story of the French Foreign Legion ... the tale's the thing, no
doubt--but by no means the whole thing either, for not only is it told
with verve and real, if unobtrusive human sympathy, but it abounds
richly in various kinds of knowledge as well as Legionary lore.... It
is all skilfully worked out, and we leave it with the utmost confidence
to more than one kind of reader. There is strong internal evidence that
the author knows something of this amazing life (amazing even in these
times) from the inside. Furthermore, he uses with great effect a quite
astonishing acquaintance with many vernaculars to emphasize the motley
of many-hued characters and circumstances showing beneath the common
uniform."--_The Times_.
STEPSONS OF FRANCE
_3s. 6d. net and 2s. net_
"Those who have read Captain Wren's 'The Wages of Virtue' will renew
with pleasure their acquaintance with several of its principal
characters.... Old Jean Boule moves through these pages like the good
angel he is, and the Bucking Broncho and 'Erb 'Iggins are also here to
provide humour when it is needed."--_Yorkshire Post_.
"The stories themselves are extraordinarily thrilling--sometimes
uncomfortably thrilling."--_Bystander_.
DEW AND MILDEW
_First Cheap Edition. 3s. 6d. net_
"Immense snap, vivacity and resource."--_The Times_.
"Highly interesting to the lover of the mysterious. Told with dramatic
force."--_Western Daily Press_.
"Fascinating, powerful, amusing, and clever. All who love Kipling will
admire Wren."--_Occult Review_.
DRIFTWOOD SPARS
_First Cheap Edition. 3s. 6d. net_
A richly coloured novel of the East, full of dramatic incident, in which
every grade of Society is represented. The central figure is the son of
a Scottish mother and a Pathan father, and his duality of temperament
makes him peculiarly fitted for the perilous tasks he undertakes. His
adventures form a story of unusual power.
THE SNAKE AND THE SWORD
_First Cheap Edition. 3s. 6d. net_
"A really dramatic story."--_Evening Standard_.
"A story often tragic in its incident but powerful in holding the
reader's interest."--_Glasgow Herald_.
"A rousing exciting story, it presents a convincing, vivid
picture."--_The Bookman_.
"An extraordinary story."--_Daily Graphic_.
"Full of exciting but unusual incidents."--_Daily Telegraph_.
FATHER GREGORY
_First Cheap Edition. 3s. 6d. net_
"A queer and interesting company depicted with entertaining and not
unsympathetic skill, always picturesque, and sometimes
affecting."--_Scotsman_.
"A peculiarly interesting book and one to be unreservedly
recommended."--_Liverpool Post_.
"Well worth reading."--_The Athenaeum_.
"Original and cleverly told."--_Literary World_.
"Varied and enjoyable."--_The Times_.
THE YOUNG STAGERS
_New and Enlarged Edition. 3s. 6d. net_
Being further Faites and Gestes of the Junior Curlton Club of Karabad,
India, this delightful book is quite different from the adventurous
fiction in which Major Wren has made his name. It is a book of smiles
with much _naivete_ and not a little profound sense.
JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street, LONDON, W.1