TOIL AND PURSUIT
Before midnight the storm died with a suddenness even greater than
that of its onset. Like a tangible flock of evil birds or of the
spirits Victor Hugo has painted in _Les Djinns_, the sand-storm blew
itself out to sea and vanished. The black sky opened its eyes of
starlight, once again; gradually calm descended on the desert, and by
an hour after midnight the steady east wind had begun to blow again.
The "wolf's tail," or first gray streak of dawn along the horizon,
found the Legion all astir. Lebon had long since been told of his
rescue; he and his lieutenant had embraced and had given each other a
long story--the enslaved man's story making Leclair's face white with
rage, his heart a furnace of vengeance on all Islam.
The Sheik, dimly understanding that these devils of Feringistan had by
their super-magic overwhelmed him and his tribe with sleep-magic
and storm-magic of the strongest, lay bound hand and foot, sullenly
brooding. No one could get a word from Abd el Rahman; not even Rrisa,
who exhausted a wonderful vocabulary of imprecation on him, until the
Master sternly bade him hold his peace.
A gaunt, sunken-eyed old hawk of the desert he lay there in the sand,
unblinkingly defiant. Tortures and death, he felt, were to be his
portion; but with the stoicism of the barbarian he made no sound.
What his thoughts were, realizing the loss of tribesmen, capture,
despoilment of the Great Pearl Star, who could tell?
A wondrous dawn, all mingled of scarlet, orange, and vivid yellows,
with streaks of absinthe hue, burned up over the desert world. It
showed _Nissr_ about as she had been the night before; for the simoom
had not thrashed up sea enough--offshore, as it had been--to break up
the partial wreck.
The air-liner had, however, settled down a good deal in the sand,
and had canted at a sharp angle to port. Her galleries, fuselage,
and wings were heavily laden with sand that materially increased her
weight; and to the casual eye she gave the impression of a bird which
never again would soar on level wing.
The major voiced discouragement, but no one shared it. Spirits were
still high, in spite of thirst and exhaustion, and of the losses
already sustained in men and material. Lombardo and "Captain Alden"
had patched up the wounded in rough, first-aid fashion; and they,
in spite of pain, shared the elation of the others in the entire
wiping-out of the Beni Harb.
As soon as the light permitted operations to begin again, the Legion
trekked over to the Arabs' former lines. Nothing now remained to tell
them of the enemy, save here or there the flutter of a bit of burnous
or _cherchia_ (head-dress), that fluttered from the white sand now
all ribbed in lovely scollops like the waves of a moveless sea. In one
spot a naked brown arm and hand were projecting heavenward, out of the
sand-ocean, as if in mute appeal to Allah.
The Legionaries heaped sand on this grim bit of death, completely
burying it, and on the fluttering cloths. And as they peered abroad
across the desert, in the glory of morning, now nothing could be seen
to mind them of the fighting-men who, like the host of Sennacherib,
had been brushed by the death-angel's wing.
The jackals knew, though, and the skulking hyenas, already
sneaking in the _nullahs_; and so did the _rion_ and the yellow
_ukab_-birds--carrion-fowl, both--which already from the farthest
blue, had begun to wheel and volplane toward the coast.
Back on the beach, exultant, yet rather silent in the face of all that
death, the Legion at once got itself into action under the vigorous
command of the Master. Twenty-three men were still fit and active for
service; and both Enemark and Lebon would in a few days be of help.
"Man-power enough," thought the Master, as he laid out his campaign.
"The only troublesome factors, are, first, _Nissr's_ condition;
second, our lack of water and supplies; and third, the possibility of
interference from Arabs or European forces, by land or sea. If we can
overcome all these--_if_, did I say? We can! We will!"
First of all, three volunteers swam out to _Nissr_ through the surf
now again beating in from the open sea. Their purpose was to bring the
wounded Kloof ashore. Even though Kloof's oversight of the stowaway
had wrecked the expedition, and though Kloof would probably be
executed in due time, common humanity dictated succoring him.
The volunteers returned, after a hard fight, with a body past any
human judgments. Kloof, Daimamoto, Sheffield, and Beziers, all of
whom had lost their lives in the battle with the Beni Harb, were
soon buried on the beach by the hungry, thirsty, sand-penetrated
Legionaries. The shallow graves were piled with driftwood--rocks there
were none, even in the wady, which' was of clay and gravel--and so,
protected as best might be from beasts and birds, four of the
Legion entered their long homes. The only ceremony over the fallen
adventurers was the firing of a volley of six pistol-shots.
Swiftly returning heat, and a plague of black flies that poisoned with
every bite, warned the Legionaries not to delay. Hunger and thirst,
too, scourged them on. Their first care was food and drink.
Fortune favored them. In spite of the simoom the prevailing west
wind had cast up all along the shore--for two or three miles each
way--perhaps a quarter or a third of the stores they had been forced
to jettison. Before doing anything else, the Legion brought in these
cases of provisions and established a regular camp in the wady where
they would be protected from observation from the Sahara. The piling
up of these stores, the building of a fire to keep off the flies,
and the portioning out of what little tobacco they had with them,
wonderfully stiffened their morale.
Water, however, was still lacking; and all the Legionaries, as well
as the old Sheik who would have died in the flames before asking
for drink, were beginning to suffer extremely. The Master detailed
Simonds, L'Heureux, and Seres to construct a still, which they did in
only a little more than three hours.
The apparatus was ingeniously and efficiently built, out of two large
provision tins and some piping which they got--together with a few
tools--by swimming out to the air-liner. The still, with a brisk fire
under it, proved capable of converting sea-water into flat, tasteless
fresh water at the rate of two quarts an hour. Thirsty they might
all get, to desperation; but with this supply they could survive till
better could be had.
While the distilling apparatus was being built, work was already under
way on _Nissr_; work which old Abd el Rahman watched with beady eyes
of hate; work in which Dr. Lombardo, fellow-partner in Kloof's guilt,
was allowed to share--the condition being frankly stated to him that
his punishment was merely being deferred.
Under the Master's direction, stout mooring-piles of driftwood were
sunk into the dunes, block-and-tackle gear was improvised, and lines
were rove to the airship. She was lightened by shoveling several tons
of sand from her and by removing everything easily detachable; the men
working in baths of sweat, with a kind of ardent abandon.
Enough power was still left in her storage-batteries to operate the
air-pressure system through the floats. This air, with a huge boiling
and seething of the white surf, loosened the floats from the cling of
the sand; and a score of men at the tackles succeeded at high-tide in
hauling _Nissr_ far up on the beach.
Rough gear, broken ship, toiling men blind with sweat, blazing African
sun, appalling isolation, vultures and jackals at work behind the
dunes, and--back of all--ocean and Sahara, made a picture fit for any
master-painter. We must throw only one glance at it, and pass on.
This much accomplished, nightfall, with the west glowing like
a stupendous jewel, brought rest. They camped in the wady, with
machine-guns mounted and sentinels out. Abd el Rahman, liberated from
his bonds and under strict surveillance, still refused to talk. No
information could be got from him; but Rrisa's eyes brightened with
unholy joy at sight of the old man ceremonially tearing his burnous
and sifting sand on his gray head.
"Allah smite thy face, _ya kalb!_" (O dog!) he murmured. "Robber of
the Haram, from Jehannum is thy body!"[1]
[Footnote 1: Alluding to the Arab superstition that every man's body
is drawn from the place where it will eventually be buried. Rrisa's
remark, therefore, was an Oriental way of wishing the Sheik back into
Hell.]
Night passed with no alarm, quietly save for the yelping and
quarreling of the jackals and hyenas at work beyond the dunes. Early
morning found the Legionaries again at work; and so for five days they
toiled. The Legion was composed of picked men, skilled in science and
deep in technical wisdom. With what tools still remained from the time
when all surplus weight had been jettisoned, and with some improvised
apparatus, they set vigorously to work repairing the engines, fitting
new rudder-plates, patching up the floats and providing the burned
propellers with metal blades.
Metal enough they had at hand, by cutting out dispensable partitions
from the interior. And beavers never worked as these men worked in
spite of the fierce smitings of the tropic sun. Even the wounded men
helped, holding or passing tools. The Master labored with the rest,
grimy, sweating, hard-jawed; and "Captain Alden" did her bit without
a moment's slackening. Save for Abd el Rahman, now securely locked
without any means of self-destruction in a stateroom, no man idled.
Anxiety dogged their every moment. Sudden storm might yet hopelessly
break up the stranded air-liner. Other tribes might have seen the
signal-fire and might descend upon the Legionaries. Arab slavers might
discover them, beating along the coast in well-armed dhows. Twice, in
five days, latteen-sailed craft passed south, and one of these put
in to investigate; but a tray of blanks from a machine-gun, at half a
mile, turned the invader's blunt nose seaward again.
The greatest peril of all was that some news of the wreck might reach
Rio de Oro and be wirelessed to civilization. That would inevitably
mean ruin. Either it would bring an air-squadron swooping down, or
battle-ships would arrive.
The Master labored doggedly to get his neutralizing apparatus
effectively operating once more; and besides this, he spent hours
locked in his cabin, working on other apparatus the nature of which
he communicated to no one. But the Legion knew that nothing could
save them from long-range naval guns, if that kind of attack should
develop. They needed no urging to put forth stern, unceasing energies.
Twice smoke on the horizon raised the alarm; but nothing came of it.
With great astuteness the Master had the wireless put in shape, at
once, and sent out three messages at random, on two successive days.
These messages stated that _Nissr_ had been sighted in flames and
falling, in North latitude 19°, 35'; longitude 28°, 16', or about two
hundred and fifty miles north-west of the Cape Verdes; that wreckage
from her had been observed somewhat south of that point; and that
bodies floating in vacuum-belts had been recovered by a Spanish
torpedo-boat.
No answer came in from any of these messages; but there was always
an excellent chance that such misinformation would drag a red herring
across the trail of pursuit.
Men never slaved as the Legionaries did, especially toward the end.
The last forty-eight hours, the Master instituted night work. The men
paused hardly long enough to eat or sleep, but snatched a bite when
they could, labored till they could do no more, and then dropped in
their places and were dragged out of the way so that others could
take hold. Some fell asleep with tools in hand, stricken down as if by
apoplexy.
The Master had wisely kept the pace moderate, at first, but had
speeded up toward the end. None grew more haggard, toil-worn, or
emaciated than he. With blistered hands, sweat-blinded eyes, parched
mouths and fevered souls these men fought against all the odds of
destiny. Half naked they strove, oppressed by heat, sun, flies,
thirst, exhaustion. Tobacco was their only stay and solace. The
Master, however, only chewed khat leaves; and as for "Captain Alden,"
she toiled with no stimulant.
It was 7:33, on the morning of the sixth day, that Frazier--now chief
engineer--came to the Master, as he was working over some complex bit
of mechanism in his cabin. Frazier saluted and made announcement:
"I think we can make a try for it now, sir." Frazier looked white and
wan, shaking, hollow-eyed, but a smile was on his lips. "Two engines
are intact. Two will run half-speed or a little better, and one will
do a little."
"One remains dead?"
"Yes, sir. But we can repair that on the way. Rudders and propellers
will do. Helicopters O.K."
"And floats?"
"Both aft floats repaired, sir. One is cut down a third, and one a
half, but they will serve."
"How about petrol?" the Master demanded. "We have only that one aft
starboard tank, now, not over three-quarters full."
"There's a chance that will do till we can run down a caravan along
the Red Sea, carrying petrol to Suakin or Port Sudan. So there's a
fighting hope--if we can raise ourselves out of this sand that clings
like the devil himself. It's lucky, sir, we jettisoned those stores.
Wind and current brought some of them back, anyhow. If they'd stayed
in the storeroom they'd have all been burned to a crisp."
"Yes, yes. You think, then, we can make a start?" The Master put his
apparatus into the desk-drawer and carefully locked it. He stood up
and tightened his belt a notch.
"We can try, sir," Frazier affirmed grimly. Unshaven, haggard, dirty,
and streaked with sweat, he made a strange figure by contrast with the
trim, military-looking chap who only a week before had started with
the other Legionaries, now no less altered than he.
"Very well," said the Master decisively. "Our prospects are good. The
wounded are coming on. Counting Lebon, we have twenty-five men. I
will have all stores reloaded at once. Be ready in one hour, sir.
Understand?"
"Yes, sir!" And Frazier, saluting again, returned to the ravaged but
once more efficient engine-room.
All hands plunged into the surf, wading ashore--for it was now
high-tide--and in short order reloaded the liner. In forty-five
minutes stores, machine-guns, and everything had been brought aboard,
the cables to the posts in the beach had been cast off and hauled in,
and all the Legionaries were at their posts. The ports were closed.
Everything was ready for the supreme test.
The Master was last to come aboard. Still dripping seawater, he
clambered up the ladder from the lower gallery to the main corridor,
and made his way into the pilot-house. Bohannan was with him, also
Leclair and Captain Alden.
The engines had already been started, and the helicopters had begun
to turn, flickering swiftly in their turbine-tubes. The Master settled
himself in the pilot's seat. All at once a buzzer sounded close at
hand.
"Well, what now?" demanded the Master into the phone communicating
with the upper port gallery.
"Smoke to southward, sir. Coming up along the Coast."
"Smoke? A steamer?"
"Can't see, sir." It was the voice of Ferrara that answered. "The
smoke is behind the long point to southward. But it is coming faster
than a merchant vessel. I should say, sir, it was a torpedo-boat or a
destroyer, under forced draft. And it's coming--it's coming at a devil
of a clip, sir!"