The Collected Works of P. C. Wren: Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories. P. C. Wren
I heard Buddy say.
"Give the guy a fair trial," shouted Hank. "Lynchin' fer hoss-thieves an' sich--but give him a trial," and he seized the man himself. "Cough it up quick," he said to the terrified wretch, who seemed about to faint.
"Wait a minute," shouted Michael, in French. "He belongs to me. . . . He's had enough. . . ."
The crowd snarled. Several had bayonets in their hands.
"I lost my way," screamed the prisoner.
"And found it to the bed of a man who has money," laughed a voice. "Legion law! On the table with him!"
Michael jumped on the table.
"Silence, you fools!" he shouted. "Listen!" and the crowd listened. "I woke up and found the man feeling under my pillow. I thought he was somebody belonging to the room. Somebody I have been waiting for. Well--he isn't. Let him go--he won't come again. . . ."
At that there was a perfect yell of derision and execration, and Michael was sent flying by a rush of angry men.
While he, Digby, and I were struggling to get to the table, the thief was flung on to it and held down; a bayonet was driven through each of his hands, another through each of his ears, and he lay moaning and begging for mercy. As I got to the table, sick with disgust, with some idea of rescuing the poor beast, I was seized from behind and flung away again.
"Lie there and think about it, you thieving cur," shouted Schwartz to the thief.
"Stop your snivelling--or I'll put another through your throat," growled Brandt.
Hank seized me as I knocked Haff down.
"Let be, Johnny," he said, enveloping me in a bear's hug. "It's the salootary custom of the country. They discourages thievin' in these parts. But I wish it was Boldini they was lynchin'. . . ."
I tried to shake him off, as I saw Michael spring on Schwartz like a tiger.
There was a sudden cry of "Guard!" a swift rush in all directions, and the guard tramped in, to find a silent room--full of sleeping men--in the midst of which were we three pulling bayonets out of a white wooden table, and a whiter whimpering man.
"What's this?" said the Corporal of the Guard. . . .
"An accident," he answered himself, and, completely ignoring me, he turned to the stolid guard, gave the curt order:
"To the hospital," and the guard partly led, and partly carried, the wretched creature away.
What his name was, whether he was incited by Boldini, or whether he was merely trying to rob a man known to have money, I did not know.
As Michael caught him feeling under the pillow, it seemed quite likely he was merely looking for a purse or coins.
On the other hand, he may have tried the shelf and paquetage, and then under the pillow, in the hope of finding the alleged belt and jewel, before essaying the far more risky business of rifling the pouch and money-belt.
Talking the affair over the next day, none of us could remember having seen Guantaio or Colonna in the fray, so I concluded that, like Boldini, they had decided not to be awakened by the noise.
As all the old légionnaires prophesied would be the case, we heard nothing whatever from the authorities about the riot and the assault upon the thief. Clearly it was considered best to let the men enforce their own laws as they thought fit, provided those laws were reasonable and in the public interest.
When the injured man came out of hospital, we took an interest in his movements. He proved to be a Portuguese named Bolidar, a wharf-rat docker from Lisbon, and quite probably an amateur of petty crime. He stuck to his absurd tale that he had mistaken the room and was feeling his way into what he thought was his own bed.
We came to the conclusion that he was either staunch to his confederates, or else afraid to implicate them. We saw more of him later at Zinderneuf.
"Leave him to me," said Buddy. "I'll loosen his tongue--the miserable hoodlum. One night that dago swine is agwine to tell me an' Hank the secrets of his lovin' heart. . . ."
"He'll sure sob 'em out," opined Hank.
But whether he was to do this under the influence of wine or of terror, I did not gather.
What we did gather, a week or two later, was that we were the most famous gang of international crooks and jewel-thieves in Europe, and had got away with a diamond worth over a million francs. With this we had sought safety in the Legion, that we might lie low until the affair was forgotten, and then sell the diamond whole, or have it cut up, as might seem best.
We were Germans pretending to be English, and we had stolen the diamond, in London, from Sir Smith, a great English general, to whom it had been presented by the Prince of Wales, who was in love with his sister. Buddy solemnly informed me that Bolidar knew all this "for certain." Bolidar had got it from a friend of ours. No--no names--but if Hank and Buddy could get the diamond--"rescue" it from the rascals--he, Bolidar, was in a position to promise them a thousand francs, and the protection of--someone who was in a position to protect them.
"So there you are, pard," concluded Buddy, with an amused grin. And there we were.
But only for another month. At the end of that time we found ourselves in the selected draft under orders for the south, and our chance had come of winning that distinction, decoration, and promotion which was to be our first step on the Path of Glory--which was to lead not to the grave but to fame and fortune.
Chapter IV.
The Desert
We left the depôt of Sidi-bel-Abbès in the spirit in which boys leave school at the end of the half. The thought of escape from that deadly crushing monotony and weariness, to active service, change, and adventure, was inexpressibly delightful. The bitterness in my cup of joy was the knowledge that I was going before Isobel could visit Algeria, and that if we were sent to the far south, and were constantly on the move, I could only hear from her at long and irregular intervals.
I poured out my heart to her in a long letter, the night before we marched; told her I was absolutely certain I should see her again; and begged her not to waste her youth in thinking of me if a year passed without news, as I should be dead.
Having had my hour of self-pity, and having waxed magnificently sentimental, I became severely practical, made all preparations, tallowed my feet, and, laden like a beast of burden, fell in, for the last time, on the parade-ground of the Legion's barracks at Sidi-bel-Abbès.
With a hundred rounds of ammunition in our pouches, joy in our hearts, and a terrific load upon our backs, we swung out of the gates to the music of our magnificent band, playing the March of the Legion, never heard save when the Legion goes on active service.
Where we were going, we neither knew nor cared. That it would be a gruelling murderous march, we knew and did not care. We should march and fight as a battalion, or we should be broken up into companies and sections, and garrison desert-outposts where we should be in touch with our enemies--be they raiding Touaregs, rebellious Arab tribes, jehad-preaching Moors, or fanatical Senussi--and in a state of constant active-service.
Possibly we were going to take part in some comprehensive scheme of conquest, extending French dominion to Lake Tchad or Timbuktu. Possibly we were about to invade and conquer Morocco once and for all.
Our ideas were vague and our ignorance abysmal, but what we did know was, that we were on the road, we carried "sharp" ammunition, we were a self-contained, self-supporting unit of selected men, that the barracks and their killing routine were behind us, and the freedom and movement of active service were before us, with adventure, change, fighting, and the chance of decoration and promotion.
Merrily we sang as we tramped, passing gaily from "Voilà du Boudin" to "La casquette