The Collected Works of P. C. Wren: Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories. P. C. Wren
too! We don't want to be shot in our beds because Lejaune won't listen to us. . . . If Schwartz isn't forestalled, every man in this fort who hasn't joined his gang by the day after to-morrow will share Lejaune's fate."
"That means us five, Boldini, Dupré, and Lejaune," said Cordier.
"Unless Boldini is in with them,--which is quite likely," put in St. André.
"Yes, seven of us," mused Michael, "even without Boldini. If Lejaune listens to our tale of woe and acts promptly, we five and the two non-coms. are a most ample force for him to work with. . . . Simply a matter of acting a night before they do--and there need be no bloodshed either."
"Fancy fighting to protect Lejaune!" smiled Cordier. "Enough to make le bon Dieu giggle."
"We're fighting to protect the Flag," said St. André. "Lejaune is incidental. We're going to fight a murderous mutiny--and another incidental is that we are probably going to save our own lives thereby. . . ."
"Who'll tell Schwartz?" interrupted Cordier.
"I will," said Michael.
"We all will," said I. "Let us five just go to him together and warn him. We won't emphasise the fact that we speak for ourselves only."
"That's it," agreed St. André. "We'll tell Schwartz that we're a 'deputation' to him--and do the same when we go on to interview Lejaune--if that's necessary."
And so the five of us agreed to go in search of Schwartz then and there, to tell him that we would take no part in mutiny and murder, and to warn him that we should report the matter at once, unless he agreed to abandon the part of his scheme that included the slaughter of superiors and the coercion of comrades.
§6.
As we left the oasis and strolled towards the fort, we met a man carrying pails, for water. As he passed, I saw it was the Portuguese, Bolidar, the man who had been so roughly handled for attempted theft in our barrack-room at Sidi-bel-Abbès. He had always pretended that, on that melancholy occasion, he had strayed, under the influence of liquor, into the wrong room, and that, when caught, he was merely getting into what he thought was his own bed!
Warned by Hank and Buddy, however, we, on the other hand, regarded the gentleman as the miserable tool of Boldini, who had taken him up when Guantaio, Colonna, and Gotto had declined to do his stealing for him.
As he passed Michael, he half stopped, winked, made as though to speak, and then went on. Looking back, I saw that he had halted, put his pails down, and was staring after us.
Seeing me turn round, he signalled to me to come to him, and began walking towards me.
Here was a man with whom a quiet talk might be very useful, particularly as he had made the first overtures.
"I want to speak to your brother and you," he whispered. "Privately. I daren't be seen doing it. I am in Hell--and yet I am going to Hell. Yes, I am going to Hell--and yet I am in Hell now."
He was evidently in a very unbalanced state of mind. He was trembling, and he looked terribly ill.
"Go into the oasis and wait," said I. "I'll bring my brother along soon."
"I must hide . . . I must hide . . . I must hide," he kept repeating.
"All right," I agreed. "You hide. I'll stroll along whistling 'Père Bougeaud' when I bring my brother."
"Lejaune will tear my throat out. . . . He'll eat my heart. . . . So will Schwartz. . . . So will Boldini. . . ."
"Well, you won't feel the second two," I comforted him, "and you haven't got three hearts. . . . You tell us all about it," I added soothingly. "We'll look after you. Pull yourself together now," for I thought he was going to burst into tears.
"You won't bring anybody else? You won't tell anybody else? Not a word?" he begged.
"Not a soul. Not a word," I replied. "You wait for us in the far clump of palms beyond the well," and I went after Michael.
As soon as I could speak to him alone, I told him about Bolidar.
"Good," said Michael. "We'll hear what the merchant's got to say before we tackle Schwartz. The bold Bolidar evidently wants to hedge a bit, for some reason. . . . 'When rogues fall out.' . . . Let's go straight back before he changes what he calls his mind."
Michael ran on and asked St. André and the others to wait a little while and do nothing until he returned.
We then went back to the oasis, and as we passed near the well, I whistling "Avez-vous vu la casquette de Père Bougeaud?" Bolidar joined us, trembling with fear and fever.
We went and sat down together with a high sand-hill between us and the oasis.
At first, Bolidar was incoherent and almost incomprehensible, but soon it was quite clear that the wretched creature was turning to us as a last hope and last resort in his extremity of anxiety, suspense, and terror.
Realising what it was that drove him to unburden himself to us--sheer cowardly fear for his own wretched skin--we never for one instant doubted the truth of what he said.
He oozed truth as he did abject funk, from every pore, and he showed it in every gleam of his bloodshot rolling yellow eyes, and in every gesticulation of his trembling dirty yellow hands.
"My friends," he gabbled, "I must confess to you and I must save you. I can bear it no longer. My conscience. . . . My rectitude. . . . My soul. . . . My sense of gratitude. . . ."
Michael winked at me. We did not value Bolidar's conscience and gratitude as highly as we did his state of trembling fright, when estimating his motives for "confession." . . .
"On that terrible night when I was so cruelly misjudged and so cruelly treated, you tried to save me. . . . Yes, even though it was you whom I was supposed to be trying to rob. . . . An absurd idea, of course . . ." and he laughed nervously.
There was no doubting the fact that the gentle dago was in a rare state of terror. His convulsive swallowings, drawn yellow features, tremblings and twitchings, clenched hands and wild eyes, were really distressing.
"Most absurd idea, of course," murmured Michael. "What is it you want to tell us?"
"Your diamond! Your diamond!" whispered Bolidar hoarsely, gripping Michael's wrist and staring into his eyes.
"Ah--my diamond. And what about it?" said Michael gently.
"Lejaune! Lejaune means to get it," he hissed. "And he'll kill me! He'll kill me! If he doesn't, Schwartz will. . . . Or Boldini. . . . What shall I do! What can I do!" he screamed.
Michael patted the poor rascal's shoulder.
"There! There! Never mind. No one's going to kill you," he soothed him, almost as though he had been a baby. "Now tell us all about it and we'll see what can be done. . . . You join our party and you'll be safe enough."
"Your party?" asked Bolidar. "What is your party? And what are you going to do?"
"Oh--we are a party all right. The stoutest fellows in the garrison--and we're going to warn Lejaune--if Schwartz doesn't agree to give up the murder part of the plot," replied Michael.
"You're going to do what?" asked Bolidar, open-eyed and open-mouthed.
"Going to warn Lejaune," repeated Michael.
Bolidar threw his hands up and shook with mirthless laughter.
"But he knows!--He knows! He knows all about it, and who's in it--and when it's to be--and every word that's said in the place!" cackled Bolidar in a kind of broken, hoarse voice.
Michael and I stared at each other aghast.
"Who tells him?" asked Michael.
"I do," was the proud reply of this shameless animal. "And when he has got your diamond, he will kill me," he snivelled.
I was absolutely