by E. C. Tubb
And that, of course, was the trouble. One man, no matter how efficient, could only fire one rifle and cover one section of the desert. The walls were too long, the men too few, the defending fire too scanty. The Arabs could concentrate ten men to cover a single embrasure and, at the sight of a Lebel or a kepi, ten bullets would blast towards living flesh. It was only a matter of time before the Arabs swarmed over the walls.
Unless....
Unless Smith had managed to deliver his message to Colonel Le Farge. Unless the Colonel sent reinforcements immediately to the threatened fortress. Unless Delmar had managed to get through and was returning with his Spahis. But as the days passed and Delmar did not appear Corville knew that the brave officer had met his death in a hopeless attempt to find aid.
The fate of Marojia now depended on whether or not Smith had managed to reach headquarters in time.
Four days later the Arabs managed to swarm over the walls.
They came in a yelling crowd, firing, stabbing, hacking and killing with a frenzied blood-lust, shrieking their hate at the hated Ferengi, almost insane with religious fervour and the taste of success.
Corville withdrew into the arsenal, the two women and a handful of legionnaires all that remained of the depleted garrison. Doggedly they barricaded themselves in, firing until their weapons grew too hot to hold, hurling the crude bombs into the heart of the attacking swarm and blowing the attackers to an early Paradise. But, no matter what they did, it wasn’t enough, and Corville knew that they were doomed.
Incredibly the attack cased and, in the silence, the harsh voice of the Sheik El Morini sounded unnaturally loud.
“Hear me, Ferengi. Surrender and your lives will be spared.”
“Like Marignay’s?” Corville pressed down the rifle a man held and who was just about to shoot the speaker.
“Aye. He is rich with Arab gold and, if he obeys me, he will have a high place in affairs yet to come.”
Morini laughed without humour. “Much has he taught us and much has he done. Be like him. Embrace Islam, surrender the arsenal, aid us in the Great Jehad, and your lives will be spared. By the beard of the Prophet I swear it.”
Corville hesitated. Not on his own account for, to him surrender was unthinkable, but he had two women in his care and, if by some way he could manage to save them, then that way had to be found. Clarice must have guessed what was in his mind for she came up to him and shook her head.
“No, dear. You can’t betray yourself for me. If we die, then we die together.”
“Your answer?” El Morini seemed impatient. “Yes or no?”
“Kill them!” screamed the Hadji Hassan. The Mullah appeared beside the Sheik. “Kill them for the Glory of Allah!”
“Kill!” screamed the Arabs. “Kill!”
“Answer,” yelled the Sheik. “Answer or die!”
He paused, the shrieking Arabs paused with him and, before Corville could shout his defiance and touch off the fuse that would destroy the arsenal, the fort, and every living thing within it, the clear notes of a bugle echoed through the stillness.
“By God!” swore the legionnaire whom Corville had prevented from shooting the Sheik. “They have arrived!” Even as he spoke he pressed the trigger and El Morini, a startled expression on his face, clutched at a red stain on his burnoose, staggered, and fell.
Immediately all hell broke loose.
Corville couldn’t see the reinforcements but the attackers could and, as they stared at the long lines of marching legionnaires they knew that their dreams of conquest were at an end. Desperate, half insane with hate, they turned their full fury on the tiny group remaining in the fortress. Guns splintered the walls with bullets, swords hacked at the bodies of dead and wounded and, like a screaming mass of animals they hurled themselves against the final barricade.
Coldly Corville and the remaining Legionnaires cut them down with machinegun fire. It wasn’t battle. It was butchery and, as the reinforcements reached the fort, the attack broke and became a rout with tribesmen running from the long bayonets and spitting Lebels of the despised Ferengi.
“We’re saved,” sobbed Clarice, for now that the danger was past, she broke down and became all-woman. “We’re saved!”
Corville held her close to him for a moment, then, as the blue and scarlet uniforms of the reinforcements mounted the walls and came towards him, gently pushed her into the arms of Miss Carson.
Colonel Le Farge grinned like a pleased tiger when he saw the body of El Morini.
“Who did this?”
“A legionnaire, I don’t know his name.” Corville pointed out the man surrounded now by a bunch of cheering comrades. Le Farge called to him.
“Did you kill this man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You will receive promotion and extra wine.”
The legionnaire grinned, more at the promise of extra wine than promotion and returned to his friends. Corville gestured to Le Farge.
“‘How did you get here so soon?”
“Thank your sergeant for that, I had men all ready to leave as soon as I learned where they would be needed most and, when Smith arrived more dead than alive, we set out on a forced march. Mon Dieu! How we marched! We have made history, I think. A third of our number fell out along the way and I, for one, can’t blame them.”
“And Smith?”
“He came with us. He insisted and so I put him on a horse with two men to hold him on.” Le Farge stared over his shoulder. “Here he is.”
Smith, his scarred face anxious, sighed as he saw the young officer. Automatically he gripped Corville’s shoulders, then, seeming to remember himself, stiffened to attention and saluted.
“Your orders, sir?”
“Relax.” Corville smiled at the older man. “We have much to talk over, you and I. One day, perhaps, I can thank you for all you have done, but now....” He gestured towards the huddled dead. “Now we have work to do.”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. I....”
He broke off as someone moved among the huddled shapes. It was the Mullah, Hadji Hassan and, as the tall man rose to his feet, he pointed a pistol at the young officer, “Allah il Allah!” he shrieked. “Dog of an unbeliever. Die!”
His finger closed around the trigger and flame spat directly towards Corville.
Smith moved. He threw himself forward just as the pistol fired and, as he smashed into the turbanned figure, blood streamed from his mouth as lead ripped into his body. Again the pistol fired, again, this time with a soggy sound, then the sergeant’s bayonet had lanced into the Mullah’s heart.
Smith was dying when they turned him over. He smiled up at Corville and, grasping the young man’s hand, forced himself to speak.
“Tell your mother,” he whispered, then choked as blood filled his throat. “Goodbye…son.”
“Goodbye, father.” For a moment Corville stared down at the silent figure and, when he straightened, his eyes were moist with unshed tears.
“He was a hero,” said Le Farge sombrely. “I had guessed, but it was not for me to say. And yet, even so, I am glad that you found him before it was too late.” His face hardened as he stared at the dead man. “Marignay has much to answer for. We shall catch him and, instead of the clean, heroic death of a bullet, he will die like the dog he is. Unless, of course, the Arabs, now that we have broken their dreams of power, kill him first. I think I should like that. They will have no love for him and he is one man I could wish to die beneath their knives.” He sighed and rested his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Your duty here is done. Leave your father to us who loved him. You have someone else to take care of now.”
He pushed the young man towards Clarice, standing beside the sobbing figure of Miss Carson, and as the young couple met, sighed again.
Corville would resign from the Legion now. He would take the news of his father’s death back to his mother, and, more than that, would take his intended wife too. Le Farge stared down at
the dead and, as he stared, his arm lifted in salute.
“Adieu, mes camarades,” he whispered. “One day perhaps, we shall meet to fight again.”
Over the fort the proud tricolour of France floated in the freshening breeze and, even as they notes of the bugle died away, men were busy at their work among the dead.
It was the way of the Legion.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
English writer E. C. TUBB is internationally known, having been translated into more than a dozen languages. In a sixty-year writing career he published over 120 novels, and more than 200 science fiction short stories in such magazines as Astounding/Analog, Authentic, Fantasy Adventures, Galaxy, Nebula, New Worlds, Science Fantasy, and Vision of Tomorrow.
Tubb’s early science fiction novels were exciting adventure stories, written in the prevailing fashion of the early 1950s. Yet, from his very first novel, his work was characterized at all times by a sense of plausibility, logic, and human insight. These qualities were even more evident in his short stories, which were frequently anthologized.
By 1956 his output included adventure, detective stories, and westerns, but he remained best known for his numerous science fiction novels, of which Alien Dust (1955) and The Space Born (1956) were acknowledged classics. Tubb became famous for his long-running “Dumarest of Terra” series of novels, the galaxy-spanning saga of Earl Dumarest and his search to find his way back across the stars to the legendary lost planet where he was born—Earth. They eventually spanned 33 titles, the final one, Child of Earth, appearing in 2009. Equally well known were his Space 1999 TV novelizations, and his “Cap Kennedy” novels. Some of his finest SF short stories were collected in The Best Science Fiction of E. C. Tubb (Wildside, 2003).
Tubb continued to write dynamic science fiction novels right up to his death in October, 2010.
ALSO BY E. C. TUBB
The Best Science Fiction of E. C. Tubb
Sands of Destiny: A Novel of the French Foreign Legion
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY E. C. TUBB