by E. C. Tubb
“None.”
“I see.” Corville frowned down at his hands, his mind busy with thoughts. Le Farge must have sent the message and, if it hadn’t arrived, then it must have been intercepted on the way. It was a grim reminder of the incipient rebellion. Normally traders were allowed to pass unmolested. It was only the rich, unarmed caravans that tempted the raiding tribes.
He stared at the old man.
“I have gained information that a massed raid is due to take place against Fort Onassis shortly. I understand that it is your habit to assemble the men in the compound at regular intervals. The Arabs know this and they plan to attack at the next such assembly.”
“Tomorrow?” Marignay blinked. “Impossible.”
“Why is it impossible, sir?”
“The tribes are at peace with us. Why, only a short while ago I was entertained by one of the desert Sheiks. Sheikh El Morini, a Toureg, an educated man who assured me that he only desired peace so that his tribe could tend their herds unmolested,”
“Did you believe him?”
“Of course.” Marignay smirked. “He gave me a gift, a damascened dagger, the hilt set with jewels and the blade inscribed with writings from the Koran. It is a work of great antiquity and I shall treasure it after I have retired to my Villa in the south of France as a memento of my stay here.”
“You are unwise to accept gifts of such a nature,” said Corville quietly. “I know well the dagger you describe. I saw its twin at the oasis of Haroon when it was used to murder a scheming merchant. I travelled with the caravan that carried guns for your ‘peace-loving Sheikh’ and I heard him plan to attack Onassis at your next assembly.” He leaned forward in his eagerness. “I tell you, sir, that the fort is about to be attacked. The battle out on the desert where twenty men lost their lives was wholly to prevent me reaching here with the news.”
“Ridiculous!”
“It is not ridiculous, sir.” Rapidly Corville told the Colonel what he had learned, how he had escaped, and how he was rescued. “So you see, sir, it is imperative that the men remain alert. A full assembly with full dress uniform would give the Touregs the opportunity they need for a surprise attack. Fort Onassis is surrounded with hills, each giving plenty of cover for waiting attackers. Once they reach the walls of the fort we shall have almost insurmountable difficulty in driving them back. The whole thing is the essence of stupidity.”
He regretted those words the moment he had said them. Right or wrong Marignay would now hold his precious assembly even if only to prove to the young officer that he was not stupid. He would continue on his own way because to do otherwise would be to admit that perhaps the young man was right and he was wrong. Marignay could never do that.
“Ridiculous,” he repeated. “There isn’t the slightest essence of danger. You are imagining things.”
“Did I imagine twenty men dead out in the desert,” snapped Corville. “Was that proof of the peaceful intentions of Sheik El Morini?”
“We have no proof that it was he who instigated the attack. It could have been anyone, or, more than likely, a wandering band of nomads hoping to get some rifles and ammunition.”
“Nomads would not dare to attack an armed column of the Legion,” said Corville. “And you know it, sir.” He sighed as he saw the stubborn set of the other’s mouth. He knew that Marignay hadn’t been long enough in the desert to learn of the subtle ways of the Arabs. He had served most of his time in France and probably thought of the Legion as a glorified police force. To him it was incredible that anyone should dream of attacking a garrison. Marignay had heard of such things happening but, despite that knowledge, he simply couldn’t believe that it would ever happen to him.
Corville wished that the old commander, Colonel Frenshi, had managed to survive his last bout of fever. If he had Corville would have been free of his worry. Frenshi wouldn’t have stopped to argue or assert his superiority. He would have manned the walls, loaded his guns and waited, snarling like a trapped tiger, ready for anything the desert could bring.
But Frenshi was dead.
“I think that you are worrying yourself unduly, de Corville,” said Marignay drily. “I can assure you that there will be no attack on this or any other garrison.”
“I wish that I could share your optimism, sir.” Corville tried not to be sarcastic. “But may I enquire why you saw fit to punish one of the men in the way you did?”
“I whipped him, or rather, I had him whipped.” Marignay made a negligent gesture. “The alternative was to put him in the cells and we have too many men in the cells as it is.”
“It was an unorthodox punishment, sir,” reminded the young officer. “The man would be within his rights at making a complaint.”
“He may if he wishes.” Marignay sounded as though the subject was totally unimportant. “I shall consider whether to forward such a complaint if it is ever made.”
“It won’t be made,” promised Corville. “You know that none of the men would ever do that. Is that what you relied on when you ordered the whipping?”
“You are insolent, sir!”
“I am truthful, sir. I do not care to see the men on whom I rely treated like dogs.”
“Be careful, sir,” stormed Marignay. “Do not think that, because you are an officer, you are immune from punishment. I could have you cashiered for insubordination.”
“You could try,” snapped Corville, now almost shaking with temper. “But. I am not one of the men who cannot defend themselves against a petty tyrant. I shall appeal to Sidi bel Abbes and inform them of your conduct here, I would go so far as to say that it is leading directly to mutiny. Commanders like you, Colonel, have a nasty habit of dying during the very first engagement. Usually from a bullet in the back.”
“How dare you talk to me in that manner!” Marignay surged upright from his desk and stood, his face red with anger, staring at the young man. Looking at him Corville knew that he had gone too far. As a soldier it was his duty to obey, not to taunt his superior officer no matter how incompetent he might be. He could complain, yes, but in disobeying the Colonel he was guilty of mutiny and for that crime there was no excuse. He swallowed his anger and tried to calm the old man.
“My apologies, sir,” he stammered. “I did not mean to threaten, only to warn. It is not wise to treat men with contempt. They will undergo the severest punishments without complaint, but no man who is a man can tolerate being treated as a dog.”
“The man stole from his fellows,” snapped Marignay.
“That is a bad crime,” admitted the young man, “but even his fellows do not like to see him punished as you have treated him.”
“What else could I do?” Marignay shrugged. “The cells are full as it is. The man stole, cheated, and the men themselves would have beaten him. I did it for them and, at sundown, the prisoner will be cut down, revived, and set about his duties. The incident will be over and forgotten.”
Corville doubted that. Some things are never forgotten, especially by a man who bore the scars of a whip on his back. Such things lead to mutiny or, as was most often the case, to desertion. In either event Corville could feel nothing but pity for the poor fools who tried either path. Mutiny never succeeded. The ringleaders were shot and the followers sent to spend their lives in a penal settlement. Desertion was even worse. Not from the Legion point of view, but from the man trying to run from his responsibilities. Few ever managed to escape at all. For those who did the desert itself must for, without food, water and transportation they were sure to die. Even if they escaped nature, it was a different matter to escape the human wolves who prowled the sands.
A lone legionnaire was a find indeed and many a poor devil had shrieked his life away beneath the daggers or in the fires of the permanent encampments at the big oases. Some managed to reach the coast after selling rifle and ammunition, clothes and equipment to the rare, friendly natives or sympathetic tribesmen they met. A few others adopted Islam and became Moslem and so rid themselves of
the dread taint of ‘unbelievers’, but not one in a hundred ever managed to desert with success.
And yet men still tried and, while they were treated as Marignay had treated the thief, they would always try. Corville made a mental resolve to report the colonel’s conduct to headquarters as soon as possible. Marignay was both dangerous to himself and to the Legion, and the quicker he was retired the better.
But first he had to make his peace with the colonel.
“I was hasty,” he admitted. “I should not have spoken as I did. But I have been travelling in the sun, almost died from exhaustion, and the battle wounded me.” He touched the strip of plaster on his brow. “Such things leave a man not himself.”
“Of course.” Marignay was suddenly affable again. “You will join me in wine?” Without waiting for an answer he produced bottle and glasses. “Here, try this. I had it brought me from the vineyards of France. None of this thin, arid Algerian wine for me. No. I like the best and this....” He sipped and smiled. “Perfect.”
It was good wine, even Corville had to admit that, and he felt his tension slipping away as he sipped the ruby liquid. Here, sitting in the fort, surrounded by thick walls and armed men, he felt safe for the first time since he had left Sidi bel Abbes. It seemed incredible that tribesmen could ever storm the walls and beat down the defence and yet, remembering Fort Hollendoft and other forts which had fallen to the attackers, Corville felt a sudden chill so that he shivered a little. Marignay noticed it.
“You feel cold? Fever perhaps?”
“No. Just someone walking over my grave.” Corville smiled as he saw the colonel frown. “An English saying, almost impossible to translate.” He held out his glass for more wine. “As you say this is excellent wine. Burgundy, of course, vintage?”
“1897.” Marignay let a little of the wine roll around his tongue before swallowing it. “A famous year for Bnrgundy. 1903 was perhaps, just as good, but wine, like music, improves with the keeping.” To Corville’s surprise the colonel winked. “I have been saving it for a special occasion. To night, at dinner, you will see what I mean.”
“You intrigue me.” Corville relaxed, feeling the reaction from too hard endeavour seeping through his bones. “About the message I must get to Colonel Le Farge. Have you decided as to how best to get it to him?”
“Tomorrow,” said Marignay with a casual wave of his hand, “We will discuss it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow will be too late,” reminded Corville grimly. “You forget, the attack is due then.”
“Nonsense, my dear young fellow.” The wine seemed to be making Marignay almost overpoweringly affable. “Sheikh El Morini is coming to dine tomorrow evening. How can he do that if we are under attack?”
“The Sheik probably jests,” Corville was reminded of the Toureg’s grim sense of humour when he had threatened the merchant. “He will probably dine here but as the victor, not as a guest.”
“You annoy me,” said Marignny pointedly. “Please to remember that I am your commanding officer. To doubt my word is tantamount to insult.”
“I apologise. No insult was intended.”
“I’m sure of it. You have perhaps had a touch too much of the sun? A passing weakness I am sure, but the entertainment tonight should quickly restore you to full health.” Marignay seemed secretly amused.
“You intrigue me.” Corville set down his empty glass. “About that message....”
“Tomorrow.” Marignay paused with the bottle in his hand. “Please do not mention it again “
“No, sir.”
“That is better.” The colonel poured the wine. “You are young, de Corville, and have much to learn. There is a certain way to do these things, a time for work and a time for the social graces. You are an aristocrat, one of the old stock, and I am pleased to have you here as one of my officers. Captain Gerald, while a good soldier, yet lacks that little something which can turn even the desert into a garden.” The colonel set down the bottle and stared at the young man. “Life is hard here, de Corville, and a man can be excused a touch of beauty. Because we live like animals is no reason to act like them.”
“No, sir.” Corville was a little puzzled at what the other meant. He arrived at the conclusion that the colonel had been drinking too much wine.
“We have guests,” said Marignay. “Three of them.” He smiled. “A man and two women, old friends who, when they found that I was to be in command here, asked whether or not they could come and spend a while at a genuine Legion fortress. Naturally, I agreed. You will meet them at dinner this evening.”
Women! In a desert fort which was due to be attacked at any moment!
Corville wondered whether or not he was dreaming.
CHAPTER FIVE
INVITATION TO DANGER
THERE were, as Marignay had said, three visitors to Fort Onassis. Two of them, the man and the younger of the two women, were Americans. Dick Mason was young enough to still be swayed by the thought of adventure and old enough to realise that most of it consisted of dirt and poverty, discomfort and disease. His sister, Clarice, was fresh from her education and was rounding it off with a trip to the capital cities of the world. Both were rich, not obtrusively so, but with the easy grace of those without snobbery and yet without fear of poverty. The elder of the two women, a Miss Carson, had been engaged as travelling companion and secretary to Clarice and it was she who, on the basis of a slight friendship with Marignay, had persuaded him to invite the party to the fort. They had arrived by camel train two weeks ago and already desert life was beginning to pall.
It was night when they sat down to dine. A cool and rare breeze had sprung up from the hills, so cool that men shivered at their posts and thought enviously of their warm blankets in the stuffy barrack room. The night was clear with the dying moon setting towards the low horizon and, from time to time, the eerie cry of a jackal broke the deathly stillness of the tropic night.
Marignay had, despite Corville’s opposition, invited the full officer strength of the garrison to dine with him. Captain Gerald, a dour soldier of the old school who remembered the days when the French Colonial soldiers grew handlebar moustaches in obedience to the tenet, “Plus qu’ll est long, plus est ma force,” or “The longer the whiskers the stronger the man,” sat grim and unsmiling at the right of the elderly Englishwoman. Colonel Marignay himself sat at her other side between her and Clarice. Corville sat between the young American and her brother and tried not to think of what would happen to her should the Touregs succeed in their attack. Inevitably the talk turned to the eternal subject of the desert.
“It’s so mysterious,” sighed Miss Carson who, from casual reference, Corville knew to be named Susan. “Looking at the bleak, eternal sands, one wonders what strange things it could tell if it could only speak. Brave Sheiks, mounted on gallant steeds, thundering through the night to the rescue of some princess carried away by rough tribesmen from the interior.”
“The only Sheiks I have ever seen,” said Gerald brutally, “are fat, dirty, lazy men who leave all the work to their wives and think more of a goat than any princess ever born.” He gulped at his wine, making no secret of the fact that he found it more to his liking than the thin, raw, stuff that was the ration issue. “Good wine this. Colonel. One day I too will be able to fill my stomach with wine fit to drink instead of the swill we get from the commissariat.” He glowered into his glass. “One day I think I will take a bayonet and pay a visit to those who grow fat at the expense of the legionnaires.”
“The Captain has a grievance against the world,” explained Marignay to his guests. “Himself a robber, he thinks that everyone is trying to rob him. A pity that he sees fit to forget that he is supposed to be a gentleman.”
“Gentleman? Pah! Call me a man and leave out the ‘gentle’. One cannot be gentle in the Legion. One must be of iron, hard, cold, ruthless. One must kill or be killed.”
He reached for the wine. “But nevertheless, I can still enjoy good wine.” He stared at the g
uests. “Come, drink up, tomorrow you may not have a throat to drink with.”
“Gerald!” Marignay rose and glared at the captain. “You may leave us.”
“Leave you?” Gerald staggered to his feet and deliberately winked at the elderly woman. “I’ll leave you fast enough. But I’ll take the bottle with me.” He grabbed it, lurched, and half staggered through the door. Marignay looked apologetically at his visitors.
“A thousand pardons for what you have just seen, but what would you do?” He spread his hands. “The Legion breeds hard men and one must make do with what one has. It was not so in the Blues, then we had officers who were gentlemen. I remember one evening when....”
Corville sat and let the colonel’s voice drift over the surface of his mind. He alone knew that Gerald was far from being drunk. The Captain had sensed the incipient terror and had arranged to leave the dinner table early so as to keep an eye on the defences. It had proved impossible to absent himself and so, with direct simplicity, the captain had managed to get himself thrown out. Corville wished that he could do the same.
He became aware of someone speaking to him and turned to face the young American girl.
“I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “What did you say?”
“I asked you how long had you been in the Legion,” said Clarice. Her voice was low and her French excellent. “Did I ask something I shouldn’t?”
“No. Five years.”
“Do you like it?”
“Pardon?” Corville blinked and forced himself to pay attention. “Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”
“I asked you if you liked it.”
“Yes, yes I suppose I do but....”
“But?”
“But sometimes I wish that 1 were home again. There is something about the desert, something almost alien, if you know what I mean. It belongs to a different time, a different race. We come here and yet, try as we may, we can never be a real part of it.” He warmed to the subject as he put his thoughts into words. “Watch an Arab as he walks along the street. See his movements, and then stare into his eyes when he talks with you. You never really know him. His very thoughts are different than our own, his sense of values, his god even, though. I will admit, that Islam seems to be as good a religion as Christianity for some things.” He smiled at her expression. “It’s true, you know. No Moslem will touch alcohol in any form. He will obey the laws of hospitality and respect the rights and privileges of others of the same faith. Sometimes I’ve thought that it would be a good idea for all legionnaires to turn to Islam. That way we might be able to restrain the tribes a little better than what we do. At least it would save....” He stopped, remembering the company, and to cover his confusion drank some wine.
