The Collected Works of P. C. Wren: Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories. P. C. Wren
forward--in the instant that my dazed and weary mind took in the incredible fact of this brutal kick--it also took in another fact even more incredible--Michael's eyes were open, and turned to me.
Michael was alive! . . . I would live too, if possible. . . . My hand, still grasping my bayonet, fell to my side.
"Good!" said Lejaune. "Armed attack on a superior officer--and in the face of the enemy! . . . Excellent! I court martial you myself. I find you guilty and I sentence you to death. . . . I also carry out the sentence myself. . . . Thus . . ." and the revolver travelled slowly from my face to the pit of my stomach.
"There! . . ."
As Lejaune had spoken, Michael's right hand had moved. As the last word was uttered, the hand seized Lejaune's foot, jerking him from his balance, as he pulled the trigger in the act of looking down and of stumbling.
Blinded, deafened, and dazed, I leapt and lunged with all my strength and drove my bayonet through Lejaune. I stumbled, and it was torn from my hand. When I could see again (for I must have ducked straight at the revolver as he fired it, or else he must have raised it as his foot was pulled from under him), he was lying on his back, twitching, the handle of the bayonet protruding from his chest, the blade through his heart.
Lejaune was dead, and I was the mutineer and murderer after all! I was the "butcher" and Lejaune the "pig."
Chapter VI.
A "Viking's Funeral"
"All night long, in a dream untroubled of hope,
He brooded, clasping his knees."
I stooped over Michael, whose eyes were closed again.
Was he dead--his last act the saving of my life?
I don't think I felt very much, at the moment. My mind was numb or blank, and I wasn't certain that the whole affair was not a nightmare. . . .
Michael opened his eyes.
"Stout Fella," he whispered. "Got the letters?"
I told him that he would deliver them in person. That we were the sole survivors. That the relief would come soon and we should be promoted and decorated.
"For stabbing Lejaune?" he smiled. "Listen, Johnny. . . . I'm for it, all right. Bled white. . . . Listen. . . . I never stole anything in my life. . . . Tell Dig I said so, and do get the letter to Aunt Patricia. . . . You mustn't wait for the relief. . . . Lejaune's body. . . . They'd shoot you. . . . Get a camel and save yourself. . . . In the dark to-night. . . . If you can't get away, say I killed Lejaune. . . . I helped to, anyhow . . ."
I do not know what I said.
"No. Listen. . . . Those letters. . . . You are to leave one on me. . . . Leave it in my hand. . . . Confession. . . . Do the thing thoroughly. . . . No need for you and Dig to carry on with the game now. . . . You must get the confession published or it's all spoilt. . . ."
"You've nothing to confess, Beau, old chap," I said. . . . "Half a minute, I'm going to get some brandy. . . ."
His fingers closed weakly on my sleeve.
"Don't be an ass, Johnny," he whispered. "Confession's the whole thing. . . . Leave it where it'll be found or I'll haunt you. . . . Gnaw your neck and go 'Boo' in the dark. . . . No, don't go. . . . Promise. . . . God! I'm going blind. . . . John . . . John. . . . Where are you? . . . Promise. . . . Confession. . . . John . . . John . . ."
Within two minutes of his seizing Lejaune's foot and saving my life, my brother was dead. . . . My splendid, noble, great-hearted Beau. . . .
I have not the gift of tears. I have not cried since I was a baby, and the relief of tears was denied me now.
No. I could not weep. But I looked at the revolver, still clutched in Lejaune's right hand. . . . It was only a momentary temptation, for I had something to do for Michael. His last words had laid a charge on me, and I would no more fail Michael dead, than I would have failed him when he lived.
Michael's affairs first--and if the Touaregs rushed the place while I attended to them, I would just take Lejaune's revolver and make a good end. I ought to get five of them, and perhaps might grab one of their heavy straight swords and show them something. . . .
I turned to the letters.
One of them was addressed to Lady Brandon. She should get it, if I had the ingenuity, courage, and skill to keep myself alive long enough. One was addressed to Claudia. That too. . . . There was one for me, and one for Digby. And there was another, crushed up in Lejaune's left hand. The envelope from which he had torn it lay near. It was addressed to The Commissioner of Police, Scotland Yard, London, England. Poor Michael's "confession" of something he had never done! I was sorely tempted to destroy it, but his words were still in my ears, urgent and beseeching. I was to see that the "confession" was published.
Well--let it remain where it was. It would get a wide-enough publicity if it were found in the dead hand of the murdered Commandant of a beleaguered fort. . . . I picked up the packet that Lejaune had dropped when I struck him, and put it with the three letters into my pocket. I then opened the one addressed to me. It ran as follows:--
"My dear John, When you get this, take the letters that are with it to Brandon Abbas, as soon as you can. Send them if you can't take them. The one for Aunt Patricia solves the Mystery of the 'Blue Water,' at any rate to HER satisfaction, and she can publish the solution or not, as she thinks fit, later on. . . . After Uncle Hector's death, for example. . . . Meanwhile, I beg and beseech and instruct and order you, to see that the letter addressed to the Chief of Police is not burked. It is exactly what we all bolted for--this averting suspicion from innocent people (including your Isobel, don't forget, Johnny boy!). We took the blame between us, and the first of us to die should shoulder the lot, of course, so that the other two can go home again. You or Dig would do this for his brothers, and so will I, if I pip first. So off with the home letters--HOME, and see that the other one gets into the papers and into the hands of the police and all that. I have written an absolutely identical letter to this for Digby too, so I am sure that one or both of you will see that my wishes are carried out. No nonsense about 'DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM,' mind. It is the living we have to think about, so do exactly as I tell you. You'll be doing the best for me, as a matter of fact, as well as for the living, if you carry out what I ask--so GO TO IT, PUP. If I outlive you, I shall do the same by you or Dig, SO GO TO IT. You spoilt my plans by your balmy quixotic conduct in bunking from home--now put them right by doing exactly as I say. Good-bye, dear old stoutest of Stout Fellas. See you in the Happy Hunting Grounds. Beau. P.S.--Don't come near me there, though, if you destroy that confession."
I put the letter down and looked at his face. Peaceful, strong, dignified, and etherealised beyond its usual fineness and beauty. . . . I closed his eyes and folded his hands upon his chest. . . .
How could I let this thing happen--let the world have confirmation of the suspicion that Michael was a despicable mean thief? Or rather, how could I publish to a world that knew little or nothing about the affair, that Michael had done such a miserable deed?
I looked at his face again.
How could I disobey his last instructions, refuse his last request?
Nor was it a request made impulsively, on the spur of the moment. He had thought it all out, and written it down long ago, in case of just such an event as had happened--his predeceasing us. . . .
What would Digby do in my position? Would he take that paper from Lejaune's hand and destroy it? I felt he would not. He could not, had he been present at Michael's death, and heard his dying words. . . . Not having done so, would he blame me if I left that confession there, to be found by the relieving force?
Well--if he did, he must, and I must act