How far away it seemed. He squirmed as he thought of the part he had played. The disgrace of that court-martial had only been capped by the disgrace of running away.
His fine, narrow face twitched when memory hit too hard. Pain clouded his eyes. It was his curse to have to think. Where others only acted and realized nothing of their danger, he knew he had to act anyway. He knew fear as does every intelligent man.
Sergeants! Damn the part that they had played. Why hadn’t he remembered the things he had heard about the sergeants of the Legion—those towering, awful figures who had to be addressed as “sir”?
As Lieutenant Stephans, he had had nothing to do with sergeants. He had been above them and beyond them. But as Legionnaire Grant—
A chill coursed over him like a bucket of cold water. The desert night was icy. The cooking fire had died. Looking at his guards, he was snapped back into the realness of his danger.
The Tuaregs had bowed their heads over their rifles. Their breathing was regular. Grant went as taut as a cocked gun. They were asleep!
No, maybe they were shamming. Maybe they wanted him to run so that they could plug him.
Nothing stirred in the camp. Even the horses drowsed after a hard day of riding. Grant moved a little, just to test the guards. Their breathing did not change. Grant moved again.
Suddenly bold, he stood up without touching them. His back was stiff where the bullet had left a furrow. By this time the khaki shirt had frozen into the wound, making an effectual bandage.
Still the sentries did not move. Their heads were pillowed on their hands. Their veils were a filmy cloud behind the vertical stocks of their rifles.
Grant saw his canteen beside the cooking fire. He stepped silently toward it. His revolver was there. Hastily, realizing that this was too good to be true, he shook the canteen and found it half full. Something was wrong. They wouldn’t let him get away like this.
The plain stretched out before him, hazy in the moonlight. Grant took a cautious step toward it. Certainly the sentries would awake and plug him. His back crawled, waiting for a bullet.
He took step after step, placing distance between himself and the camp. Looking back he saw that the guards had not moved. Almost out of earshot now, he quickened his pace.
Plotting his position by a star, he headed north. He looked back once more. No sounds of pursuit were to be heard. The coals of the cooking fire were faintly visible like a red eye.
He began to run. The wind was cooling against his face, the plain fled by under his hobnailed boots. He couldn’t make for the hills. He’d have to take the middle course and trust to luck. When morning came, he’d be far away.
Until now the thought of his return had not bothered him. He had been too certain of his execution. But now he realized that he was walking straight into the bataillon pénal. He’d be a joyeux when he got back to the Legion.
He closed his mouth like a trap. This was one time when he’d stay and take his medicine. He’d have to. He’d face Muller’s charges and take the rap.
One hour, two hours, and he still headed into the north. By the ragged outline of the mountains around him, he knew exactly where he was. And the knowledge made him stop.
He was heading straight in toward the hidden platoon! But then, that would be his only salvation. Alone out here the Tuaregs would get him again. He’d go up to the pass and surrender himself to the lieutenant there. He’d tell him what he had done and Muller could bring his charges later.
Feeling better in his decision, he slogged toward the range where lay the pass. Some twenty miles beyond the platoon was another post—a squadron assigned to the Legion. He knew it was there. He had seen their two-seaters over the desert on their patrols.
Hours slipped by, and he found himself walking through the blackest night he had ever known. He stumbled into boulders, slid down the sides of hidden washes; but the star kept him on his trail.
The moon was gone and the sun would be there presently. He hoped he was far enough from the Tuareg encampment to be invisible.
The sun swam up over the mountainous rim of the world, sending shafts of cool light across the plain. It was fresh and invigorating and Grant quickened his pace.
Before long the desert gathered up the heat and threw it back. Heat waves danced along the crests. A mirage came up and disappeared before it was clearly distinguished.
His wound was stinging. He knew he’d have to have medical aid before long. Otherwise infection would overtake him.
He sat down to rest against a large rock, taking advantage of its shadow. He’d wait a while and then go on. He had not realized how tired he was. His eyes were haggard.
Maybe it would have been wiser to have taken to the hills. He looked at the brown jumbles of stone on his left. Instantly he sat up straight.
“My lord, it can’t be!”
But it was. A horseman had moved into deeper cover a mile to his left. Grant turned and looked to his right flank. A white robe swirled and disappeared behind a rock.
The Tuaregs were following him!
Then they had let him escape on purpose. But why?
He got up and started north again. Covertly he studied the movements of the raiders on either flank. They were flitting from rock to rock, keeping pace with him, taking advantage of the cover afforded by the hills.
When he got to the platoon— Grant stopped dead and stared into the north. So that was it. The Tuaregs had known he would go to the platoon. And they wanted to know the exact position. If they knew, they would have little trouble ambushing the patrol which kept their ammunition waiting across the mountains.
A tight smile came briefly to his lips. So that was the game, was it? He was a decoy, like a hunter’s wooden duck. He was a potential charge of dynamite. But he couldn’t stay out here on the desert to be slaughtered. His only salvation lay in reaching that platoon. And if he went there, the platoon’s purpose would be defeated and many would die.
His lagging feet took him north again, still toward the patrol. He was unwilling to throw aside this chance at life. The bataillon pénal might await him with its living death, but that was better than Tuareg knives.
Besides, what did he care about France, about the Legion, about drill sergeants?
He stopped again, realizing that he did care. His eyes stared longingly at the only refuge. He could not go on toward the aviation drome. The Tuaregs would get him long before he got there.
He had only his revolver for protection and that would avail him little against long-range rifles.
He had no right to jeopardize the lives of the platoon. If he was any kind of a soldier, it would show now.
Abruptly he sat down, drew out his canteen and took a drink. “No,” he said in a low voice. “Rabble, perhaps, but they’ve got more right to live than I have.”
He turned and looked to his left. “All right, Blue Veil, come on out here and knock me off. I’m no use to you now.” He took another drink on it.
He felt strangely different. Although he did not realize it, he had been questioning his own nerve for months. He had shown to himself, that most critical observer, that he was a man after all.
Maybe when he felt the knives he’d regret it. But then it would be too late. Yes, the patrol had a right to live.
For minutes he did not move. He did not even look north until a flicker and sparkle caught his eye.
He scowled. A flashing dot appeared and reappeared in the mountains ahead of him. Talking sunlight! Heliograph! He felt in that moment like a man who has lost a race. Nevertheless he took out his revolver and noted the message in the sand, writing with the muzzle.
When the dots disappeared, he read his message: “Come right to this dot.”
“They’ve done it,” whispered Grant. “They’ve given themselves away and now all hell can’t help them.”
He stood up. No use to hold off now. The Tuaregs had seen that beam and the Tuaregs would know what it meant. A swirl of cloth confirmed his observation.
He strode swiftly forward and then broke into a run. He’d have to get there before the Tuaregs did; and he’d have to go some to do it. He might as well save his own neck.
Those fools—that had been a blunder on their part. They had seen him and had sent that message, little knowing what kind of a trap they were springing on themselves.
He came to the base of the mountains. Two men were visible up on a high rock. He would not have seen them at all had it not been for the gold braid of one—the lieutenant, most likely.
Grant scrambled over a pile of stones and started up the slope. He glanced behind him; but he could see nothing of the raiders. The Tuaregs had followed the skirts of the hills, of course. No telling where they were.
Grant stopped and cupped his hands before his face. “Get out of sight! Tuaregs!”
“Quoi?” shouted the officer.
“Tuaregs!” cried Grant. He pointed wildly to both sides and the rear.
But his warning was too late. He saw a horseman and the flash of a rifle at the same instant.
As the report echoed hollowly through the ravines, the lieutenant stood up very straight, his hands gripping his throat. He toppled off the rock and crashed into a shale slide. His body stopped an instant after the second shot.
The other man up there strove to jump down, but he was too late. His body jerked and he fell back against his heliograph tripod, knocking it down.
Grant had a hasty glimpse of sergeant’s stripes on the dead man’s arm. Then Grant sprinted up a small canyon, deeper into the mountains.
Shots cracked behind him. He heard a sharp detonation over his head. Glancing up he saw a kepi and the muzzle of a rifle.
He climbed swiftly, forgetting his back, forgetting everything but the bullets yowling about his flying heels. Strong hands pulled him over the edge of the barricade. He dropped into the rudely constructed compound and stood up, breathing hard.
Some forty Legionnaires were about him. Some of them were already at the wall, firing down into the desert below.
A corporal approached Grant. “Sergeant, I am Corporal Duval. Did you see either the lieutenant or our sergeant out there?”
“Yes,” said Grant. “They’re both dead.”
Duval’s weathered face did not change. “Then, Sergeant, as you are the senior officer present, it is up to you to take command.”
Grant backed up a pace. His eyes went down to the chevrons on his sleeve. “Command?” he said.
“Yes. What are your orders, sir?”
Chapter Five
GRANT looked about him. He could see the faces of the men who ringed the place. He recognized none of them. He looked back at Duval to make certain that the man was serious.
But Duval was all respect and obedience. The situation was so ludicrous that Grant wanted to laugh. He had come up here expecting to turn himself in for a swift passage to the bataillon pénal! But instead he was in command, just because he had been cold and had donned Muller’s jacket.
A high rock in the center was used for a lookout post. A Legionnaire called down, “They’re massing for a direct attack!”
Legionnaire Grant reverted to Lieutenant Stephans. His face was a disciplined mask. His eyes were sober. “What is the lay of the land, Corporal?”
Duval, heels together, said: “You came up the pass, sir. The Tuaregs can’t get us from the rear. We must resist a frontal attack.”
“Where are your machine guns?”
“Commanding the pass as it comes down.”
“Then,” said Grant, “place those guns in such a position as to rake both the pass and the slope before us. You haven’t time to worry about the caravan now.”
Duval saluted and strode quickly to the waiting gunners. “Take your pieces to the front. Quickly.”
The gunners immediately snatched up the tripods and moved them. In less than a minute, the machine guns were slamming short, wicked bursts down the pass into the forming ranks of the raiders.
Grant watched the procedure with a sort of silent awe. He had not actually thought that they would carry out his orders. And yet they had done so absolutely without question.
This was the first time he had ever commanded men under fire. There was little thrill to it. They were all responsive to his order and he felt responsible for their lives. Just because he had happened to have chevrons on his sleeve!
Another corporal came up. “Sir, I am Corporal Schwartz. Does the sergeant wish to check our ammunition and supplies?”
“Your word is good enough,” replied Grant. “How long can they last?”
“Not more than twenty-four hours, sir. We’ve waited for the caravan several days and we’re getting pretty low on water and food.”
“I don’t think the Tuaregs will stay at it very long,” said Grant. “Place a guard over the water.”
“Yes, sir,” said Schwartz, saluting.
Grant pulled his kepi down over his eyes. He felt like a burglar coming in here and bossing these men about. He had no right to do it; but how could he tell them?
He went up to the murette. The rock wall had been thrown up hastily for defense. The Legionnaires were half lying against it, firing between breaks in the stone. They glanced up when they sensed his presence and then went on firing.
A pair of field glasses lay in the niche the lieutenant had reserved for himself. Grant picked them up and studied the massing below.
The Tuaregs were gathering out on the plain, evidently preparing for a rush. Blue Veil was behind them, issuing orders.
Grant went back to the center of the compound. Duval came to him and Grant took the man’s whistle. He blew “cease firing,” and waited for the guns to stop their sharp barking.
His voice was very loud in the ensuing silence. “Wait until the charge has reached the pass mouth. Then, sights two hundred meters and volley fire. Machine guns change for enfilade fire down the slope.”
The Legionnaires changed their sights and laid their rifles back along the murette, waiting. Once more Grant was jarred by the implicit way they obeyed him. Who was he to be obeyed, anyhow?
He went back to the lieutenant’s niche and watched the Tuaregs. The horses were drawn up in ranks. Long rifles and two-handed swords flamed in the sunlight. The mass started ahead at a trot. The pace quickened to a canter. Then at a fast run they catapulted toward the pass. Before they reached it the group broke into two sections, one heading straight up the slope.
With the whistle in his lips, Grant waited. He took down the field glasses to better judge the distance. The veils whipped, robes fluttered, horses reared as they plunged ahead.
Two hundred meters, Grant judged. He blew a single, shrill blast. The guns responded as one rifle. The machine guns clattered, swift and deadly.
The uproar was deafening. Empties spat away from the murette, smoking into the compound. The Tuareg yell was thin, lost in the thunder of exploding powder.
The charge came on to a hundred meters. The pass was strewn with kicking horses and shrieking men. Abruptly the lines shattered themselves against an invisible wall. The Tuaregs turned and raced back.
The guns stopped. Legionnaires coolly blew the curling smoke out of their barrels and sat back. Grant exhaled a great sigh. If those rifles had failed to respond when they did, the Tuaregs would have struggled up to engulf them; and that would have been the end. He knew, then, that he had borne all the strain on his own smarting shoulders.
Grant turned and looked up at the rock. “Lookout! Watch for any further movements below and report them instantly.”
A thin “Yes, sir,” drifted down.
Grant seated himself with his back to the murette. He was very, very tired. His wound hurt like hellfi
re itself. Schwartz came over to him.
“Corporal,” said Grant, his haggard face lifted up, “I’ve been marching all day and all night. After that shambles, the Tuaregs will hold off for a little while. Carry on while I take a nap.”
“Yes, sir,” said Schwartz with a salute.
After that, Grant dozed. He awakened every time the machine guns started and went to sleep each time they stopped. He was as nervous as a cat, not because of the Tuaregs, but because of the command.
Just before dark, he made another tour of the defenses. Men looked at him through the red glow of the sunset, speculation in their eyes. He noticed that they talked together in low tones after he had passed.
A chill went through him. Did they suspect his masquerade? After all, he might well be expected to carry the thing off successfully. He lacked nothing by way of knowledge in military matters.
Chapter Six
SOME of his self-reliance had left him when he reached the base of the lookout rock. He stood there glancing about him. Schwartz and Duval and two other corporals came out of the shadows of the murette and approached him. Their stride was a little uncertain and they did not look him in the eyes.
Duval came to a full stop before him. “Sergeant, we have been talking it over.
“We are not safe here,” added Duval, screwing up his weathered face.
“No,” said Schwartz, staring past Grant, “we are not safe here. We think it best that we retreat up the pass under cover of darkness and escape in the direction of the aviation drome.”
Emboldened by Grant’s silence, Duval stepped a pace forward. “The caravan will know about this. They would not miss the firing. We are going to retreat.”
Grant tightened his mouth. “Have you planned all this out?”
“Yes, it will be very simple,” said Duval.
Grant looked him in the eye. “So it will be simple, eh?”
“Yes, very simple,” echoed Schwartz.
Fifty-Fifty O'Brien Page 5