The Collected Works of P. C. Wren: Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories. P. C. Wren
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Great Men, Lords, Sidis, Nobles, Officers, Born Leaders, these emissaries?" I asked.
"No," replied the Hadji. "They are low men on high horses. They do not walk, speak, look, give, ride, eat nor act as men of noble birth. . . ."
Through a narrow aperture at the entrance to my tent I could see that the stars were paling.
"You shall take me to their camp--now--Hadji," I said, and pulled on burnous, haik, kafiyeh, and fil-fil boots.
The Hadji seemed a little startled.
"It would not look well for me to be seen visiting their camp now," he said. "It will soon be light. . . ."
"You need not visit their camp," I replied. "Take me to where I can see it, and then disappear."
The good man sat awhile in thought.
"How much, Sidi?" he asked.
"I am not like those others," I replied. "I do not shake bags of money in the faces of pious and honest men, nor haggle and bargain. I richly reward those who serve me well--very richly--when their service is completed. . . . Now do as I say, or go away, and let me sleep in peace, for this chatter wearies me . . ." and I yawned.
The Hadji went to the doorway and collogued with the soldier without.
Returning, he said that he had dispatched my sentry to inform the guard at the camp of the emissaries that a man would shortly visit the latter, and must not be challenged, as he came from the Emir on secret business. The countersign was "Stamboul."
"This fellow, one Gharibeel Zarrug, is entirely faithful to me, Sidi," he added. "You can always send me messages by his mouth. I can arrange that he is very frequently on guard over your tent."
We sat in silence for a few minutes, a silence broken by the Hadji's request for a taste of the sharab of the Infidels. I gave the good man a nip of cognac and I believe this bound him to my interests (until they clashed with his) more strongly than gold would have done. He had all the stigmata of the secret drunkard, and his tongue continually flickered at his lips like that of a snake.
The soldier returned and whispered.
"Come, Sidi," said the Hadji, "I will take you as far as is safe."
"Safe for me or for you?" I asked.
"Nowhere is safe for you, Sidi," was the reply. "Take my advice and flee for your life--to return with an army, and a treaty which I will sign as Regent. . . ."
I did my best by careful noting of direction, the stars, clumps of trees, tents, water-runnels and stones, to ensure my being able to make the return journey. . . .
After we had walked for about a mile, the Hadji stopped in the black shadow of some palms and pointed to an orderly cluster of tents, just visible from where we stood.
"That is their camp, Sidi," said the Hadji, "and beyond those palms are their camel-lines and servants' quarters and the bivouac of a Camel Corps section--provided for the--ah--protection of the party . . ." and without another word the Reverend Father vanished.
§ 2
I walked boldly across to the principal tent, ignored the distant sentry, and entered.
Two men slept on rugs, one an obvious Oriental, the other slightly fairer of complexion and with heavy moustache and huge beard.
I studied his face by the light of the lantern that hung from the tent-pole, and learned nothing from it--but I suspected a disguised European. The man's hands were larger than those of an Arab and there was more colour, in what I could see of his cheeks, than I should expect in those of a native.
Turning to the lamp, I unhooked it and held it to his face, so that the light fell upon it while mine was in the shadow thrown by the back of the lamp--a common bazaar affair of European make, such as hangs on the walls of the cheap hotels of Algeria and Tunis. I then drew a bow at a venture.
I struck the sleeper heavily on the chest, and, as he opened his eyes and sat up, said coolly:
"Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur Becque!"
My shaft winged true.
"Himmel!" he exclaimed, half awake and startled into unguarded speech. And then, collecting his scattered wits, said in French--"What is it? Who are you?" and his hand went under his pillow.
"Keep still!" I said sternly, and my revolver came from under my burnous, and he looked into the muzzle of it.
And, as he looked, the cast in his left eye was obvious.
"Who are you?" he said again in French.
And then a third voice added, in the same tongue, "Whoever you are, drop that pistol. Quick--I have you covered."
Like a fool, I had absolutely forgotten the second man in my excitement at discovering that it was indeed Becque, the man whom Raoul d'Auray de Redon had seen in Zaguig before its occupation by the French. . . . My old friend, Becque! . . .
An awkward dilemma! . . . If I dropped my revolver I should be at their mercy, and if I did not I should probably be shot in the back and buried in the sand beneath their tent--for even if they did not know who I was, they knew (thanks to the triple traitor, Abdul Salam) that I was a rival and an enemy. . . . Who else would speak French in that place!
How neatly should I be removed from their path!
None but the rogue Abdul Salam knew that I was aware of their existence--much less that I had actually entered their tent. . . . The sentry of course did not know me, in my disguise, and the sound of the pistol-shot could easily be explained, if it were heard and inquiries were made. . . . An accident. . . . A shot at a prowling pariah cur or jackal that had entered the tent and alarmed one of them, suddenly awakened. . . .
I should simply disappear, and my disappearance would be a soon-forgotten mystery, and probably ascribed to sudden flight prompted by fear--for had I not abused the Emir with unforgettable and unforgiveable insults? . . . And then what of Mary Vanbrugh and Maudie--the French female spies sent to beguile and debauch the Emir and win his consent to the treaty? . . . Mary Vanbrugh would think I had fled, deserting her--in the name of Duty!
All this flashed through my mind like lightning. What should I do? . . . What about a shot into Becque's vile heart and a swift wheel about and a shot at the Arab?
No--he would fire in the same second that I shot Becque, and he could not miss me at a range of six feet. . . . Nor could I, even in such a situation, shoot a defenceless man in his bed. . . .
Perhaps I could have done so in the days before Mary Vanbrugh had made me see Life and Honour and true Duty in so different a light. . . .
Then I should have said, "What would France have me do?" Now I said, "What would Mary Vanbrugh have me do?"
And I somehow felt that Mary would say: "Live if you can, and die if you must--but not with this defenceless man's blood on your hands, his murder on your conscience . . ." even if she knew what he had plotted and proposed concerning her and her maid.
Perhaps a couple of seconds had passed--and then the voice behind me spoke again with sharp menace.
"Quick--I am going to shoot! . . ."
"So am I," said yet a fourth voice coolly, in Arabic, and even, in that moment, I marvelled that the Arab speaker should so aptly have gathered the import of the French words--though actions, of course, speak louder than words.
I recognized the voice of the Emir.
"Everybody shooting everybody this morning," added the Vizier--inevitable shadow of his master.
Keeping Becque covered I turned my head. Two excellent European revolvers threatened the fellow who, green with fright, put his automatic on the ground.
I put my own back into the