The Collected Works of P. C. Wren: Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories. P. C. Wren
of my life if it had been done consciously, and with intent. I defied, insulted, and outfaced Lejaune!
"Look here, Lejaune," said I coolly, and in the manner of an Oxford undergraduate addressing an extortionate cabman or an impudent servant. "Look here, Lejaune, don't be a silly fool. Can't you understand that in about two minutes you may be hanging on that wall with bayonets through your hands--and left there, in a burning fort, to die? Or pinned out on the roof with the sun in your face? Don't be such an ass. We've got no diamond and you've got five good men to fight for you, more's the pity! Stop gibbering about jewels and be thankful that we five know our duty if you don't. . . ."
"Very Stout Fella," murmured my brother. "Order of Michael for you, John."
What would happen if the meanest slave in his palace went up to the Emperor of Abyssinia and smacked his face? . . . I don't know. Nor did Lejaune, or he would have done it, I think.
Probably the Emperor would begin by gasping and feeling faint. Lejaune gasped and looked faint.
Then he sprang to his feet with a sound that was a mixture of a roar, howl, and scream. As he did so, Michael's left hand made a swift, circling swoop, passed under Lejaune's hand, and swept the revolver to the floor.
Almost as it clattered to the ground, my bayonet was at Lejaune's throat and my finger was round my trigger.
Whether Lejaune had been going to shoot or not, I do not know, but he certainly looked as though rage had destroyed the last of his sanity, and our death was all he cared about.
Anyhow, he couldn't shoot now.
"Move--and I'll kill you," I hissed dramatically, feeling like a cinema star and an ass.
Michael picked up the revolver.
"So you are mutineers, you beautiful loyal lying grandsons of Gadarene swine, are you?" panted Lejaune, moving his head from side to side, and drawing deep breaths as though choking.
"Not at all," said Michael calmly. "We're decent soldiers wishing to do our duty properly--not to babble about diamonds two minutes before a mutiny breaks out. . . . Man, don't you know the fort will be burnt, the garrison gone, and you dead (if you are lucky), in an hour's time--unless you do your job while you've a chance? . . ."
"'Cré bon sang de bon jour de bon malheur de bon Dieu de Dieu de sort," swore Lejaune, "and I'll deal with you after this chien d'une revolts. But wait! You wait, my clever little friends. Hell's bells! I'll teach you one of my little lessons. . . . If you don't both die en crapaudine, by God, you shall live en crapaudine. . . ."
"Reward for saving your valuable life, I suppose," said Michael.
"You'll do that as your simple duty, my little friend. Oh, you love your duty. You are 'decent soldiers wishing to do your duty properly and not babble about diamonds' I believe? . . . Good! Come and do your duty then. We'll see what you'll babble about afterwards, with your mouths full of salt and sand, en crapaudine, eh? Perhaps you'll prefer drops of water to diamonds then, eh? . . . You wait. . . ."
He turned to me.
"And you talked about hanging on walls. And being pinned out in the sun, my little friend, eh? Will you kindly wait until I have you strapped up in a cell, of which I alone have the key? Perhaps it will not be I who 'jabbers about jewels' then, eh? . . . You wait. . . ."
"Your turn to jabber now, anyhow, Lejaune," said I wearily. "You're a fatiguing fellow. What about doing something now, and less of this 'waiting' business?"
The man pulled himself together, exerted his undeniably powerful will, and got the better of his immediate impulse.
"Come with me," he said quietly, and with a certain dignity. "Our real conversation is postponed until I have dealt with a few other unspeakables. We will then see what happens to those that threaten officers and point rifles at them. . . . Put that revolver down. . . ."
"Open the door, John," said Michael. I lowered my rifle and did so.
Maris, on guard outside, looked at me enquiringly. Presumably he had heard Lejaune's roars of rage.
Michael put the revolver on the table.
Lejaune took it up and strode to the open door.
"Follow me, you three," he said, and led the way to the barrack-room, without hesitating to turn his back to us.
Apparently he had complete faith in our loyalty to duty, and knew that he could depend upon us to obey any proper military order. At the door of the barrack-room stood St. André and Cordier, faisant sentinelle.
"Any trouble?" growled Lejaune, as they silently sprang to attention.
"No one has moved, mon Adjudant," replied St. André.
"Put down your rifles," said Lejaune to us three, "and bring all arms out of this room, quickly and silently. You other two will shoot any man who leaves his bed."
We set to work, emptying the arms-rack of the Lebel rifles first, and then going from bed to bed and removing the bayonet from its hook at the head of each.
A steel bayonet-scabbard struck a tin mug, and a man sat up. It was Vogué.
"Cover him," said Lejaune, and the two rifles turned toward the startled man. He looked in the direction of the voice.
"Lie down, man," I whispered. Vogué fell back instantly and closed his eyes.
It was remarkable with what speed slumber claimed him.
On my last journey to the door, with a double armful of bayonets, the inevitable happened. One slipped and fell. As it did so, I shot out my foot. The bayonet struck it and made little noise, but my foot knocked against a cot and its occupant sprang up, blinking.
"Himmel! What's that?" he said.
It was Glock.
"Lie down, Glock," I whispered. "Look," and I nodded my head toward the door.
"Shoot him if he moves," said Lejaune calmly.
Glock lay down again, staring at Lejaune, as a hypnotised rabbit at a snake.
I passed on, and in another minute there was not a weapon in the room, nor was there a sound. None slept so deeply as Corporal Boldini, who was nearest to the door.
Lejaune took a key from his pocket. "Into the armoury with them, St. André, Cordier, and Maris, quick!" he said. "You, St. André, mount guard. Send the key back to me with Cordier and Maris, and shoot instantly any living soul that approaches the place, other than one of these four men.
"Now then," he continued to Michael and me, as the others crept off, laden with rifles, "some of these swine are awake, so keep your eyes open. . . . If several jump at once, shoot Schwartz and Brandt. Then Haff and Delarey. If only one man moves, leave him to me. . . ."
A very, very faint lightening of the darkness outside the windows showed that the false dawn was breaking. As I stared into the room, I found myself trying to recall a verse about "Dawn's left hand" being in the sky and,
"Awake! for morning in the bowl of night Has flung the stone that puts the stars to flight; And lo! the Hunter of the East has caught The Sultan's turrets in a noose of light."
I tried to put it into Arabic, and wondered how the original sounded in the liquid Persian. . . . Was it "turrets" or "terrace"? . . .
What sort of a stone was Lejaune about to fling into the bowl of night? . . .
Would he order the five of us, when the other three returned, to open fire and begin a massacre of sleeping men?--an indiscriminate slaughter? . . .
He was quite capable of it. These were mutineers who had threatened his life, and, worse still, his sacred authority and discipline.
Why should he wait, he would argue, for a court martial to do it? Besides, if he waited, there would never be a court martial. He could not permanently