The Military Megapack

by Harry Harrison

  Crossing to the lamp, he laid the blade of his knife across the top of the chimney and turned the wick up further. With a start of horror Burke realized what he was up to. Torture!

  He said grimly: “By the head of thy father, Hussein ib Zaid, if this comes to el Auruns’ ear the terrors of gehenna will fall on you and your people!”

  The Arab laughed, his lips twisting sinisterly over his dirty fangs of teeth. He lifted the knife from the chimney, tested its heat, put it back again. The watching airman knew what was in store for him. When that knife had taken on sufficient heat it would be used to mark him, and in the process he would suffer the tortures of hell. The Arabs were past masters in this sort of thing, had nothing to learn.

  Finally, Hussein took the knife up again, held it near to his cheek—chuckled—turned. “Now,” he cried, “now I will leave the mark of the Weled Ali upon the Christian pig!”

  * * * *

  He came closer. Standing a yard away, he moved the blade slowly toward Burke’s eyes. He would move it closer and closer until the heat seared through even closed eyelids, scorched the cornea, brought blindness.

  Burke stood his ground, realized that to struggle would be only to increase the agony. Nearer—nearer—already the pain was beginning to strike in toward his brain. Another minute or two and—

  Something moved beyond the Arab. Because of the burning knife so close to his eyes Burke saw only a shadow against the ceiling. But suddenly the knife blade was swept away. He found himself staring wide-eyed at the scene being enacted before him. A muffled gasp had croaked from Hussein ibn Zaid’s throat. His eyes darted from their sockets. And then a long knife blade flashed beneath his chin, opening his neck from ear to ear.

  As he plunged forward at Burke’s feet, a well-known voice cried:

  “Wellah, I am become a deliverer, el Bourque!”

  Beyond the fallen Arab stood Abdulla el Zaagi, the captain of Lawrence’s bodyguard and one of the wildest, quick-witted rascals in Arabia, showing his teeth in a wide grin.

  “How did you get here?” the astonished airman gasped.

  “Wellah, el Bourque, this afternoon when I was returning with el Ollafeel and his party from Amman we saw your bird fighting two Turkish birds. We were then on the other side of the hills to east of the railway and on our way back to Azrak. When your bird came down we hurried into the hills to succor you, but, wellah, you had vanished and there was nothing but that burning bird. Then I saw your footprints on the sand and I said to el Ollafeel: ‘El Bourque has gone in disguise to Minifer to get a camel!’ And then I mounted my hujun and set off after you. By Allah, I stood overlooking the railway shouting at the top of my voice when you leaped aboard the train. To el Ollafeel I said then: ‘He has gone to Deraa, on what business Allah knows, but I go after him!’ So I rode. And I rode straight to the house of Ali Bender, who told me you were here! But come, el Bourque, we must go!”

  He stooped, picked the lifeless Weled Ali up and heaved him over his shoulder.

  “What are you going to do with him?” Burke demanded.

  “Bear him as a gift to el Auruns!” chuckled the grinning Arab. “To the end, wellah, that the Weled Ali hear of it!”

  Out through the window. Through the garden. Over the wall. They were hurrying across the square when the sound of voices behind halted them. A group of shadows moved toward the house of Abd el Kader. Djevid and his staff! Before they reached the far side of the square the hue and cry rose behind them. The airman’s escape had been discovered. They hurried on to the house of Ali Bender.

  A quarter of an hour later they started out of the corn merchant’s yard on foot, and leading the Zaagi’s camel, across whose back, trussed up in a large canvas bag, rode Hussein ibn Zaid. But they had hardly got their nose through the gate when the shouts of soldiers hurrying down the road toward them drove them back. Ali Bender shot the gate to nervously behind them, and the Zaagi, turning on Burke, hissed: “You shall have to ride, el Bourque, as Hussein rides. Go, my uncle”—he swung on Ali—“and fetch another bag.”

  Burke had ridden in strange fashions, but never in one so strange as this. Tied up inside the big canvas bag and swaying against the hujun’s ribs, he was balanced on the other side by the Weled Ali sheik—the living and the dead—a grim cargo!

  Up the street the Zaagi led his mount “Yakh, O my uncle!” he encouraged it.

  Swaying with the camel’s movements and sweating from the close confinement, Burke kept wondering if after all he should have allowed the Zaagi to tie him up this way. He felt absolutely helpless—was absolutely helpless—could do nothing. A sense of apprehension—of dread—took possession of him. Through the night he could hear in various parts of the town the cries of the Turkish soldiers who were searching for him. The approaches to the town would be guarded. Could they get through?

  The Zaagi, under the guise of talking to his mount, cried out: “A stout heart, O my uncle! We are close to the square by the railway station. A little further now and there will be rest for tired bones.”

  And then suddenly the rattle of a gun and a voice: “Who goes?”

  “Bedu!” the Zaagi replied.

  “Halt!”

  The camel jerked to a stop.

  “Who are you?”

  “I,” replied the quick-witted Zaagi impudently, “am of the Weled Ali and return to my encampment beyond the railway.” Burke had told him about the Arab encampment and the clever fellow was using it after his own fashion to their advantage.

  “What have you got in those bags?”

  “Forage! Men must eat, O soldier!”

  Suddenly Burke got an awful prod in the stomach—a prod that almost knocked his wind out. The sentry had banged the butt of his rifle against the bag in which he was trussed.

  “You are Weled Ali, eh?” exclaimed the Turk. “By Allah, your sheik has disappeared with a captured Inglezi birdman—and there has been blood spilt.”

  “What!” yelped the Zaagi. “By the truth of Allah, I go to the encampment to rouse the tribe. They shall know whose blood it is that has been spilt. Yakh, O my uncle!” He gave the camel a thump on the rump, and the beast lurched forward, the soldier’s derisive laugh following.

  “Aiee, O my uncle,” said the Zaagi softly a little further on, “for stupidity, the Turk!”

  Presently the beast lumbered up and over the railway embankment, and Abdulla jerked her to a stop. A minute later Burke was free, wiping the sweat from his face. With a gasp of relief he said: “Thank God, that’s over!”

  * * * *

  They were at the foot of the hills beyond the railway. Suddenly he said: “We must find the Weled Ali, Abdulla! You say el Ollafeel and his men are on the other side of the hills. Let us hurry on and join them. They will help us search.”

  Abdulla shook his head. “It is too late for that, el Bourque. We cannot come by them short of another hour. By that time it will be dawn. Let us leave these Weled Ali to their dreams! Have we not got their sheik?”

  But Burke said grimly: “We can’t leave them while they have tongues in their head. If we do not take them with us all my work has been in vain.”

  The Zaagi shrugged impatiently. Arab-like, now that the excitement of the escape was over, he was all for the easiest way out. Burke stood there for a moment with his chin in his hand. And then he said: “Give me your rifle. We go to find the Weled Ali. Come softly after me.”

  There were three likely places on the western slopes of these hills where the Arab tribesmen might be encamped—three sets of wells. Burke led the way to the nearest, left the Zaagi a quarter of a mile short of it, and crept on his hands and knees. No houses of hair encircled the hard-baked hollow. Returning to the Arab, he ordered him to follow and made his way up the jagged basalt rocks towards the higher well. But it, too, was vacant. By this time a full half hour had passed and the sky above them was taking on the faint transparency of the dawn.

  Time was pressing. A little while now and the Arabs would waken—
when that happened it would be too late to carry out the plan he had in mind. He hurried on up the hill to the third well—the Zaagi coming up well in the rear with the camel. And suddenly, topping a slight rise, he saw what he wanted. Tents in the shallow valley below. Camels tethered off to one side. He hurried back to the Zaagi, told him to leave his hujun there and led the way up again.

  “We’ll creep in on them while they sleep and put the gun to their heads. But first, before we waken them, we must snaffle their rifles. Come!”

  On hands and knees they made their way slowly towards the tents below. Every minute the sky was getting lighter. A slip now—a prematurely wakened Weled Ali—and the game would be up with success a hair’s breadth away. At the opening of the first tent Burke turned, pointed on to the next one, and, when the Zaagi slipped past him, stuck his head gingerly inside. Three shadowy figures slept side by side. He crawled further. The air was fetid from sleeping breath.

  He could hear his heart hammering again, could feel his body trembling. One thought kept ringing through his brain: “You mustn’t fumble now!” On he moved. At the sleeper’s heads he found what he sought—three rifles—Lee Enfield’s supplied by Lawrence to these treacherous devils. With infinite caution he took hold of them, started dragging them towards the entrance. He was almost out when one of the sleepers grunted—turned uneasily on his side. He flattened out—waited with taut breath. Would the fellow wake?

  With a gorgeous sensation of relief he heard the fellow’s breathing become regular again—crept outside. Ten minutes later they had a pile of rifles in the open ground between the tents—nineteen of them.

  “What now—into the well?” The Zaagi pointed towards the three holes a dozen yards further on. But Burke shook his head. These Lee Infield’s were too valuable to throw away. He said: “Come on—we’ll waken them now!”

  The Zaagi leapt with a laugh to his feet. “Ayah ho, ya Weled Ali!” he cried.

  Commotion within the tents. A voice: “It is Hussein returned!” Men with sleep in their eyes tumbled out—let out sudden squawks of amazement at the sight of Burke and the Zaagi—and came to a halt.

  Burke said grimly, his rifle pointed at them: “We march, O Weled Ali, back to Azrak! And you go on foot!”

  In the rapidly increasing light the cornered tribesmen glanced furtively from side to side for some avenue of escape. The presence of the Zaagi told them plainly that they were in for trouble, but, used to trouble, these sons of the desert were ready to seize any loophole.

  “Go and lose the camels,” Burke said to Abdulla, “We will drive them before us.”

  While he kept the tribesmen covered with his rifle the Zaagi moved towards the camels. Suddenly, the latter let out an exclamation of alarm. He got close to the edge of the plateau in which the wells lay and could look over it down the narrow ravine that led towards Deraa, a hundred feet down which his own camel stood browsing at the dead shrubs of acacia. Up that ravine, and less than a quarter of a mile away, came a company of Turkish cavalry that had evidently been sent from the town to search the hills for Burke. He rushed back and told the airman. A tremor of excitement passed through the listening Weled Ali—and their dark eyes gleamed at the thought of approaching revenge.

  “Come,” cried Abdulla, “we must seize two of their camels and fly!”

  Burke backed away from the watching Arabs and glanced over the edge. At the first sight of the approaching Turks it seemed that there was nothing else to do but follow the Zaagis’ advice. They certainly couldn’t get away with the Weled Ali, who would have to travel on foot, since to allow them to mount their camels would be folly. He turned and said to Abdulla: “If we run away now we have failed. These fellows will tell the Turks of el Auruns plans. By Allah, if we didn’t have the treacherous devils at our backs we might hold those Turks for a while!”

  * * * *

  The Zaagis’ face screwed itself into thought. He turned—measured the waiting tribesmen with a fierce glance—and then suddenly he dashed towards the wells, and glanced over the rim of the nearest. It was the dry season and not more than a few feet of water remained in their bottoms fifteen feet down.

  Suddenly he turned with a laugh. “Come, Weled Ali!” he yelled.

  The Weled Ali glanced at one another doubtfully, held their place. Abdulla rushed at them furiously with clubbed rifle. “Wellah, have I not spoken!”

  While the bewildered Burke watched, the Zaagi drove the tribesmen to the edge of the nearest well. “Jump!” he cried.

  Suddenly Burke knew—and a chuckle rumbled from him. Within the next minute there was not a sign of Hussein ibn Zaid’s followers. They stood to their knees in water cursing at the bottom of the three wells.

  In the meantime Burke had dragged the seized rifles to the edge of the plateau. By the time the Zaagi reached his side he was leaning over the edge. As the quick-witted Arab dropped beside him his gun spoke down the defile. By this time the Turks were little over a hundred yards below, and coming single file up the narrow high-walled path that was the only approach to the wells. As Burke’s shot splashed against the rocky wall beside him the officer at their head halted, holding up the line. As the Zaagi’s rifle spat his horse crumpled under him.

  Burke turned to the Zaagi grinning: “With a dozen like you, Abdulla, I’d guarantee to outwit the whole Turkish army.”

  “Verily, there was a wise midwife with my mother when I was born,” retorted the Zaagi with a laugh.

  The Turks began to spread out, clambering up the walls of the ravine. It was quite obviously their idea to creep up in a wide semicircle, finding what shelter they could. For the next ten minutes the two rifles at the edge of the plateau barked steadily—and more than one still figure on that scarred hillside attested to the soundness of their aim. Yet all the time the Turks came steadily nearer. Outnumbered forty to one, Burke realized at the end of the half hour that sooner or later the enemy would get close enough to rush, knew that the weight of numbers would inevitably tell. And yet he kept there firing, hoping against hope.

  Another quarter of an hour. Six more Turks lay stiff under the risen sun, but that semicircle of doom came steadily closer—was now at the nearest point, little more than a hundred feet away. He cursed the scattered boulders that hid them, behind which they were able to make their approach. Suddenly, a shout rose—a cry of command. The Turks rose to a man, started forward on the dash up the remainder of the steep slope.

  The two defenders poured a steady volley of lead into them. The sweat rolled down their faces. They had no time to reload now and as soon as the magazine of one rifle was emptied they threw it aside and snatched up another from the pile beside them. For another minute it was desperate fighting, but finally the attackers, unable to stand longer under the murderous fire, dropped to what shelter they could get fifty feet below. Another rush and they would reach their objective.

  And then suddenly, out of the hills behind him, rose a wild Arab yell.

  “Beni Sakr…Beni Sakr!”

  The battle cry of Lawrence’s Arab allies. Down the hill they rushed with an English Colonel at their head—Oldfield ! It was the party the Zaagi had left last night on the other side of the hills, and who had come this way in the hopes of picking him up on his way out of Deraa. A moment later they swept on to the succor of the two defenders just as the nearest Turk was within a yard of the swinging butt of Burke’s rifle. Presently, the remnants of a company of Turkish cavalry was on its way pell­mell towards Deraa. And then the long cavalcade of victorious Arabs rose eastward, with nineteen bound Weled Ali and a dead sheik riding before them—and the wild song of the warrior on their lips.

  THE CRIME OF THE BRIGADIER, by Arthur Conan Doyle

  In all the great hosts of France there was only one officer towards whom the English of Wellington’s Army retained a deep, steady, and unchangeable hatred. There were plunderers among the French, and men of violence, gamblers, duellists, and roués. All these could be forgiven, for others of their k
idney were to be found among the ranks of the English. But one officer of Massena’s force had committed a crime which was unspeakable, unheard of, abominable; only to be alluded to with curses late in the evening, when a second bottle had loosened the tongues of men. The news of it was carried back to England, and country gentlemen who knew little of the details of the war grew crimson with passion when they heard of it, and yeomen of the shires raised freckled fists to Heaven and swore. And yet who should be the doer of this dreadful deed but our friend the Brigadier, Etienne Gerard, of the Hussars of Conflans, gay-riding, plume-tossing, débonnaire, the darling of the ladies and of the six brigades of light cavalry.

  But the strange part of it is that this gallant gentleman did this hateful thing, and made himself the most unpopular man in the Peninsula, without ever knowing that he had done a crime for which there is hardly a name amid all the resources of our language. He died of old age, and never once in that imperturbable self-confidence which adorned or disfigured his character knew that so many thousand Englishmen would gladly have hanged him with their own hands. On the contrary, he numbered this adventure among those other exploits which he has given to the world, and many a time he chuckled and hugged himself as he narrated it to the eager circle who gathered round him in that humble café where, between his dinner and his dominoes, he would tell, amid tears and laughter, of that inconceivable Napoleonic past when France, like an angel of wrath, rose up, splendid and terrible, before a cowering continent. Let us listen to him as he tells the story in his own way and from his own point of view.

  You must know, my friends, said he, that it was towards the end of the year eighteen hundred and ten that I and Massena and others pushed Wellington backwards until we had hoped to drive him and his army into the Tagus. But when we were still twenty-five miles from Lisbon we found that we were betrayed, for what had this Englishman done but build an enormous line of works and forts at a place called Torres Vedras, so that even we were unable to get through them! They lay across the whole Peninsula, and our army was so far from home that we did not dare to risk a reverse, and we had already learned at Busaco that it was no child’s play to fight against these people. What could we do, then, but sit down in front of these lines and blockade them to the best of our power? There we remained for six months, amid such anxieties that Massena said afterwards that he had not one hair which was not white upon his body. For my own part, I did not worry much about our situation, but I looked after our horses, who were in great need of rest and green fodder. For the rest, we drank the wine of the country and passed the time as best we might. There was a lady at Santarem—but my lips are sealed. It is the part of a gallant man to say nothing, though he may indicate that he could say a great deal.