“Little sparrow,” he said, “dance no more this night. Go and sleep.”
“And I will dance for you tomorrow night?”
The heavy lids of the man flickered. The eyes of his companions became blank—a blankness that seemed overdone.
“Yes, you will dance for me again,” said Mohamet gravely, “because you are under my protection. Sleep now. I will send for you when I want you. Here is your money.”
* * * *
He was dismissed. And she was racked with a problem. There had been something terrible about those men. Never before had they been like that. But Mohamet had not been lying—he really meant she should dance for him again. But what were they planning? Pirates, robbers, fierce men of the North. What did they plan? The few words she had gleaned made darkness—darkness fraught with something terrible. It was three hours past midnight.
As she began to undress she heard footsteps along the narrow street. There were two men. One spoke to the other as they passed her window. His voice was like the hiss of a snake.
“Let them cry for help! We have cut their talking wire!”
“And the girl?” muttered the other.
“Nay, Mohamet Ali says that he himself will slay the man that so much as touches a hair of her head!”
They passed on. But the Spirit of France knew! Crouched on her bed, shivering, hardly breathing, she knew.
The disconnected words. The cruel grimaces. Religious fanaticism, like burning oil, was to be poured upon the Christians. Four white men and ten loyal Sikhs in Mergui—and the telegraph wire to Rangoon had been cut!
But she would not be harmed. She had no doubts about that. Her safety was assured. Mohamet would rather die than break his word. And the man who touched her would surely die. Mohamet and his men had treated her decently. To do so was a queer freak in their cruel natures. But they had done so, and would continue to do so. And the white people—had reviled her. They had tried to make a prostitute of her. And the fat priest—
She writhed on her bed at the memory of it—at the memory of all her treatment at the hands of the Christians. She fought the problem. If she stayed in her room she was safe. If she warned the unsuspecting white men her doom was certain. It would be better, far better to kill herself than to fall into Mohamet’s clutches again. If she warned the white men! … And what would the white men do for her if she did warn them? Continue to revile her, to offer cheap pay for her lovely body? She smothered a bitter laugh. For there would be no white men left to revile her, and she would be worse than dead. What chance had four Englishmen, with their ten fighting Sikhs, against five hundred Mohammedans, every one believing that Paradise waited the man who died fighting against an unbeliever?
She walked up and down the floor. This was agony. It was horrible to think of those men being killed! But she was safe! And if she warned the Christians her fate would be more horrible than theirs! But—she might die!
The Spirit of France. Her little pet name of childhood. And the brave things her father had told her about the spirit of France—about the gallantry of that distant homeland she had never seen! The history of a nation seemed to be watching her.…
How would France face such a problem? … How would the glorious national spirit of France respond to such a situation? …
She was walking stealthily to the door, cursing herself. Valuable time was wasted while she dwelt upon her own safety.
“I am a disgrace,” she muttered.
She crouched in the dark doorway. More men were coming along the street. She held her breath, her soul damning these men for detaining her from her duty. They passed, and her light feet were flying as they had never flown before. Like a leaf still, but now like a leaf before a hurricane, the Spirit of France was running through the streets of Mergui.
* * * *
Scandalized, Father Murphy woke to her tearing away his mosquito curtains, to her fierce shaking of his arm.
“What! What are you doing here? Go away. George!”
He called for his servant—converted, and baptized with that familiar name.
The Spirit of France sneered. But she continued to pull fiercely at the furious priest.
“Your servant!” she laughed shrilly. “He weel ’ave run away—with all your other made-Christians!”
She pulled at the priest, swearing like a cat. And, somehow, she told her story.
“But such a thing cannot happen in Burma anymore!” the priest exclaimed.
“Come! Come and see, foolish man!” she stormed. “They ’ave cut the telegram!”
“Go away while I put on some clothes!”
“There is not time!”
“Wait outside! I will not run through the streets in pajamas to save my life!”
She waited, feverishly biting her fingernails. Then, the hour before the dawn saw a heavily panting Father Murphy doing his utmost to run with the Spirit of France through the streets of Mergui towards the fairly stout jail and the magistrate’s office.
“Hurree! Hurree!”
“The doctor!” panted the priest. “We must wake Doctor Pelham!”
They roused the doctor, a calm and cynical person.
“I’m safe,” he drawled. “I’m an infidel, and these chaps, you say, are out to kill the Christians!”
“Don’t jest at this terrible moment,” said Murphy severely.
“Not jestin’. How many times have you called me an infidel, Murphy? But I’m accustomed to being woke up at ghastly hours to go on unpleasant business. I’ll go with you.”
“Hurree!” cried the girl. “I ’ear ’em!”
“So do I,” replied the doctor. “But there is time to get my bag. Somebody will need surgical aid—most of us, probably.”
They reached the jail. In the yard were all the Sikhs. They had just wakened the magistrate, reporting “some sort of disturbance.” The Spirit of France shrilled out the truth. The magistrate was skeptical. He could not know that this was the beginning of the riots of 1897.
“Telegraph Rangoon immediately,” the magistrate told his white assistant.
The Spirit of France laughed wildly. Then she sat down weakly.
“Wire’s down, sir!” reported the operator.
“Now you know I tell truth,” the Spirit of France cried indignantly. “They are going to keel every Christian in Mergui. I ’ear them when I dance, but am not sure till they pass my window after cutting the telegram wire.”
“So,” said the young magistrate cheerfully. “Then we’ll have to fight it out alone. Have to anyway, because it would be days before Rangoon could get help to us. But I would like to let the boss know who did this thing.” He turned to the Spirit of France, and bowed. “I—I’m much obliged to you for what you have done. And now you had better go.”
“Go!” She jumped to her feet. “M’sieu, many times ’ave I fired a gun. I fight joust so well as onybody!”
“Don’t doubt it,” responded the magistrate. “It isn’t that. The point is that if you leave us now Mohamet Ali will not hurt you. He will just regard you as a frightened woman—liable to do anything. Run along, now. Cry, and say the noise has terrified you! Don’t suppose Mohamet knows you roused Father Murphy and the doctor; so, goodbye—and thank you!”
He held out his hand.
“I stay ’ere and fight for you!” she answered firmly.
“Do you realize,” he said gently, “that there is little chance of any of us seeing the sunset—that we’ll do well to last until noon? Do you know that if you stay here and help us Mohamet will give orders to his men to take you alive? Do you realize what horrible things will be done to you then?”
She laughed.
“Do you realize that my father was a Frenchman? He call me for pet name ‘Little Spirit of France!’ Do you realize Spirit of France—what eet mean? Give me a gun, please!”
The magistrate beckoned to Sergeant Ruttan Singh.
“Give the mem sahib a gun, Sergeant.”
Then he turned to
the Spirit of France. His voice shook somewhat. Trying to honor her, he spoke in such awful French that she was hard put to it not to laugh. But his words more than excused his accent.
He turned to the still heavily breathing priest.
“Padre, have you any scruples about pulling the trigger when the sight’s on another human being?”
“Not a one—in this case!” responded Father Murphy cheerfully and with perfect conviction.
“Good! We will divide. You will take three Sikhs and defend the northwest corner.”
“I was Irish before I was a priest. Give me a rifle!” answered Murphy.
“They are coming!” whispered the Spirit of France.
“We will be ready,” replied the magistrate quietly. “Take the southeast corner, will you, Doctor? It’s liable to be hot there while it lasts, but you’re a first-class shot.”
“Very good, General,” drawled the doctor. “But won’t my friends laugh when they hear of this! Old Pelham, the infidel, killed in a religious war!”
The magistrate grinned.
“All right, then. I will command at the northeast, and Mason and Ruttan Singh shall have the southwest corner. Now we are ready. Good thing we have lots of ammunition. Here they come! Steady now! Don’t waste a shot! If they get over the wall, shoot; and keep on shooting as long as any of ’em are in the yard! And if a head shows let it have it!” He walked across the room and whispered to the doctor, “If I go first, Pelham, and you see that we’re done in, and the girl is still alive— keep a bullet for her.”
The doctor nodded.
“And I’ll tell Ruttan Singh to tell his men to do the same,” the magistrate added.
* * * *
As it grew light the raging hundreds beyond the circling wall began firing their first broadside—of verbal filth, that hymn of hate which has sounded down the years, that way of honoring God peculiar to religious enthusiasts. Some scattered shots were fired which did no damage, and Mohamet Ali could be heard shouting to his followers.
“We have days of time, oh men of the True God! Haste not! Let the infidels shudder a while as death stares them in the eye. Let them die slowly!”
A mocking voice answered him.
“That hellcat pet of thine was seen warning the fat mullah of the infidels, oh Mohamet Ali!”
“So, the woman, eh! A snake in my bosom!” Mohamet foamed down his beard, but realizing the probable effect on his followers, controlled himself “So it was written, then, that she should furnish amusement for the Faithful! See that she is not killed! Catch the cat alive and unhurt. She asked me if she should dance for me again! She shall! But it will be such a dance as she has never dreamed of!”
He followed with unprintable threats. He gesticulated and raved about the fun to follow the killing of the white men. But he showed a little too much of himself. The doctor took a snap shot at him, and Mohamet Ali lost the greater part of one of his ears.
“Damn rotten miss,” muttered that sarcastic medico. “Must have lost my temper at hearing such an awful creature call me an infidel. Can’t shoot straight when my trigger hand itches to punch a chap’s nose.”
“Magistrate Sahib.” Ruttan Singh saluted. “It is sunrise and the flag has not been hoisted. Will the sahib give the order?”
“Rutah Singh, you know it is certain death to venture out of here into the yard?”
The big Sikh grinned.
“Death is at our elbows, sahib!”
“Yes, and there’s something about the old rag that makes it more enjoyable to fight when it’s flying; but we can’t afford to lose a man. Sorry, Ruttan Singh, but we must fight this fight with the flag lying on the table yonder.”
“Very good, sahib,” replied Ruttan Singh regretfully, saluting and returning to his post.
The sun rose, and the besieging horde became suddenly quiet. It turned as one man towards Mecca, and said its morning prayer.
“Can’t we rush ’em?” muttered the priest to the magistrate.
“No! It’s tempting, but we’ve got to hold the fort! Never can tell what may turn up, you know; but if we rushed out on those praying people we’d all be killed in short order!”
“Religion is a fearful and wonderful thing!” remarked the doctor.
“I wish they’d hurry,” whispered Mason.
“So do we all,” answered the doctor. “But let’s not show it.”
The praying ended.
“Ready, everybody!” shouted the magistrate.
Forgetting, of course, Mohamet Ali’s cautious suggestion that they let the Christians die slowly, and stimulated to paradisiacal ardor by their prayers, the followers of the prophet leaped shrieking at the wall, and went over it like a brown wave.
* * * *
Then for some minutes there was very warm work. Rapid firing did not stem the wave. It broke it, but those unhit dashed with a truly terrible bravery at the bars of the jail windows. Shrieks, groans and monstrous blasphemies made a frightful din as they charged. The defenders were for the most part grimly silent. Only the doctor muttered encouragingly.
“A little lower, young lady. These birds are flying low.”
But the Spirit of France never heard him. Her mind was set on the fearful hairy faces against whom her soul raged, while a mockery of memory wondered why she had danced for them. She fought joyously. In her blood a long line of heroes surged. As she dashed the sweat from her eyes she saw with surprise that the yard was filled with dead men.
Such a stout defense was too much, even for such fanatics. The canny Mohamet saw that he was not getting value for his dead. He called his men.
“Lot of wounded out there,” remarked the doctor casually. “But I have two minor casualties to attend to in here. Ruttan Singh has a bullet in his shoulder, although he won’t admit it; and one of his men is hit. Ah! Hullo, General; close shave that!”
A bullet had grazed the magistrate’s forehead, and he was bleeding freely.
“You attend to the men! Give me ze plaster for ees head!”
And the Spirit of France began deftly to bind the magistrate’s wound.
“It may be inhuman,” said the young man, “but those chaps out there will have to attend to their own wounded, Doctor. Do you think I should let them carry them off under a flag of truce?”
The doctor gave him a searching look. The magistrate’s wound had shaken him badly.
“Take a big drink and don’t be an ass,” advised the doctor. “Good work, young lady. Now, before the charming enemy tries another charge, please help me bandage this fine sergeant of Sikhs.”
But Mohamet Ali had thought of a better and more entertaining plan of campaign than charging across that death-strewn yard. And the one redeeming feature of a Mergui morning, the brief breeze from the sea, would aid the new plan. Mohamet disclosed his new and brilliant plan to his lieutenants behind the wall. It was hailed with shrieks of approbation, delighted yells. It gratified the lust for cruelty of a mob maddened by primitive emotion. Hence there was a pause in the conflict.
“What now?” said the doctor. “Are the brutes saying their prayers again?”
“Not at this hour!” answered the priest.
“Well, I don’t pretend to be an authority,” retorted the doctor. “But I wish we could see over the jail wall! They are up to some deviltry! And they could bring up a dozen batteries along the side of the hill while we couldn’t see them doing it!”
“There is no artillery they can get,” said the distressed magistrate.
“That’s right—there isn’t,” soothed the doctor.
The wait was nerve-racking—the wait and the impossibility of seeing what the enemy was doing. But the doctor had more than his suspicions. The yells of delight could mean only one thing. Yes, that would be it. A whiff of sea breeze confirmed his deduction.
“But I won’t tell the others,” he muttered grimly. “Bad enough when it comes, without having ’em suffer the dread of waiting for it.”
The enemy
had become silent. Then there was some chuckling borne on the breeze. It was followed by a great yell. The breeze became pungent.
“They are trying to smoke us out!” shouted the priest gamely.
“Yes,” drawled the doctor. “Better tie wet towels over our faces!”
He turned away. He was very pale now. Should he tell his friends? What a mercy they didn’t realize. But a short-lived mercy. Better let them know—they were brave men. He beckoned the priest and the magistrate.
“May as well tell you,” he whispered. “They are rounding up cases of oil from the Chinese stores. They will pour the oil over the wall, and the fires will do the rest! The delay is caused by the Chinks. They don’t want to supply oil for which they know they won’t be paid— and they don’t want to be mixed up in their affair. The Mohamet Ali gang can run up country, having no property here to leave when our people get here—but the Chinks have stores they don’t want to lose!”
He whispered this very gently:
“Hadn’t we better shoot the girl and then rush out on them and end it?” said the magistrate now, with full hold on himself, as calm as the doctor.
“But … who will … shoot her?” whispered the priest. No one answered.
“Oh, hell, let’s stick it out!” said the doctor. “The oil isn’t here yet!”
* * * *
The wounded Ruttan Singh reeled to the magistrate. He saluted stiffly.
“Sahib, there is a steamer coming into the harbor!”
“Thank you, Sergeant!” the magistrate answered. “Don’t tell anyone! It’s probably one of those native owned coast boats, Mohammedan crew. There is one due here today. And while they perhaps would not help the enemy, they certainly won’t help us. They couldn’t, anyhow. When they see the row, they will run out of the harbor without discharging the cargo!”
The smoke became worse. The defenders peered through it as best they could, guns ready, but the Mohammedans kept their heads behind the wall.
Coughing, the doctor turned to the window.
“Hullo!” he muttered. “That isn’t a native coast boat. Damn the smoke—I can’t see!”
The Adventure Megapack: 25 Classic Adventure Stories Page 39