§3The good Monsieur Mendoza, discovered in a dirty unsavoury room, at the top of a broken winding staircase of a modestly unobtrusive, windowless house, in a dirty unsavoury slum of the Ghetto, was exceedingly surprised to learn that le Légionnaire Jean Boule had come tohim, of all people in the world, for assistance in deserting.The surprise of le bon Monsieur Mendoza was in itself surprising, in view of the fact that the facilitation of desertion was his profession. Still, there it was, manifest upon his expressive and filthy countenance, not to mention his expressive and filthy hands, which waggled, palms upward, beside his shrugged shoulders, as he gave vent to his pained astonishment, not to say indignation, at the Legionary's suggestion.... He was not that sort of man.... Besides, how did he know that Monsieur le Légionnaire had enough?...John Bull explained patiently to le bon Monsieur Mendoza, of whose little ways he knew a good deal, that he had come to him because he was subterraneously famous in the Legion as the fairy god-papa who could, with a wave of his wand, convert a uniformed Légionnaire into a most convincing civilian. Further, that he was known to be wholly reliable and incorruptibly honest in his dealings with those who could afford to be his god-sons.All of which was perfectly true.(Monsieur Mendoza did not display a gilt-lettered board upon the wall of his house, bearing any such inscription as "Haroun Mendoza, Desertion Agent. Costumier to Poumpistes and All who make the Promenade. Desertions arranged with promptitude and despatch. Perfect Disguises a Speciality. Foreign Money Changed. Healthy Itineraries mapped out. Second-hand Uniforms disposed of. H.M.'s Agents and Interpreters meet All Trains at Oran; and Best Berths secured on all Steamers. Convincing Labelled Luggage Supplied. Special Terms for Parties...." nor advertise in theEcho d'Oran, for it would have been as unnecessary as unwise....)All very well and all very interesting, parried Monsieur Mendoza, but while compliments garlic nocaldo, shekels undoubtedly make the mule to go. Had le bon Légionnaire shekels?No, he had not, but they would very shortly arrive."And how many shekels will arrive?" enquired the good Monsieur Mendoza."Sufficient unto the purpose," was the answer, and then the bargaining began. For the sum of fifty francs the Jew would provide one Legionary with a satisfactory suit of clothes. The hat, boots, linen and tie consistent with each particular suit would cost from thirty to forty francs extra.... Say, roughly, a hundred francs for food and complete outfit, per individual. The attention of the worthy Israelite was here directed to the incontrovertible fact that he was dealing, not with the Rothschild brothers, but with four Legionaries of modest ambition and slender purse. To which, M. Mendoza replied that he who supped with the Devil required not only a long, but a golden spoon. In the end, it was agreed that, for the sum of three hundred francs, four complete outfits should be provided.The next thing was the production and exhibition of the promised disguises. Would M. Mendoza display them forthwith, that they might be selected by the time that the other clients arrived?"Si, si," said M. Mendoza. "Ciertamente. Con placer." It was no desire of M. Mendoza that any client should be expectedcomprar a ciegas--to buy a pig in a poke. No,de ningun modo....Shuffling into an inner room, the old gentleman returned, a few minutes later, laden with a huge bundle of second-hand clothing."Will you travel as a party--say two tourists and their servants? Or as a party of bourgeoisie interested in the wine trade? Or--say worthy artisans or working men returning to Marseilles? ... What do you say to some walnut-juice and haiks--wild men from theTanezrafet? One of you a Negro, perhaps (pebbles in the nostrils), carrying anangareband a bundle. I could let you have somehashish.... I could also arrange for camels--it's eighty miles to Oran, you know.... Say, three francs a day, per camel, andbakshishfor the men.... Notmeharisof course, but you'll be relying more on disguise than speed, for your escape....""No," interrupted John Bull. "It only means more trouble turning into Europeans again at Oran. We want to be four obvious civilians, of the sort who could, without exciting suspicion, take the train at a wayside station.""What nationalities are you?" enquired the Jew."English," was the reply."Then take my advice and don't pretend to be French," said the other, and added, "Are any of the others gentlemen?"Sir Montague Merline smiled."One," he said."Then you and that other had better go as what you are--English gentlemen. If you are questioned, do not speak too good French, but get red in the face and say, 'Goddam' ... Yes, I think one of you might have a green veil round his hat.... the others might be horsey or seamen.... Swiss waiters.... Music-hall artistes.... Or German touts, bagmen or spies.... Father Abraham! That's an idea! To get deported as a German spy! Ha, ha!" There was a knock at the door...."Escuche!" he whispered with an air of mystery, and added, "Quien esta ahi?""It's the Lord Mayor o' Lunnon, Ole Cock," announced 'Erb as he entered. "Come fer a new set of robes an' a pearly 'at.""That one can go either as a dismissed groom, making his way back to England, or an out-of-work Swiss waiter," declared Mendoza, as his artist eye and ear took in the details of 'Erb's personality.A great actor and actor manager had been lost in le bon M. Mendoza, and he enjoyed the work of adapting disguises according to the possibilities of his clients, almost as much as he enjoyed wrangling and bargaining, for their last sous. A greedy and grasping old scoundrel, no doubt, but once you entrusted yourself to M. Mendoza you could rely upon his performing his part of the bargain with zeal, honesty, and secrecy.The two Legionaries divested themselves of their uniforms and put on the clothes handed to them.Another knock, and Rupert came in."Hallo, Willie Clarkson," said he to Mendoza, who courteously replied with a "Buenas tardes, señor.""That one will be an English caballero," he observed."Thought I should never get here," said Rupert. "Got into the wrong rabbit-warren," and took off his tunic.The Jew did not "place" the Bucking Bronco immediately upon his entrance, but studied him carefully, for some minutes, before announcing that he had better shave off his moustache and be a Spanish fisherman, muleteer, or sailor. If questioned, he might tell some tale, in execrable French, of a wife or daughter kidnapped at Barcelona and traced to a Tlemcen brothel. He should rave and be violent and more than a little drunk....And could the worthy M. Mendoza supply a couple of good revolvers with ammunition?"Si, si," said M. Mendoza. "Ciertamente. Con placer. A most excellent one of very large calibre and with twenty-eight rounds of ammunition for forty francs, and another of smaller calibre and longer barrel, but with, unfortunately, only eleven rounds for thirty-five francs....""Keep your right hand in your pocket, each of you," said M. Mendoza as they parted, "or you'll respectfully salute the first Sergeant you meet...."§4The two Englishmen, in light summer suits, one wearing white buckskin boots, the other light brown ones, both carrying gloves and light canes, attracted no second glance of attention as they strolled along the boulevard, nor would anyone have suspected the vehement beating of their hearts as they passed the Guard at the gate in the fortification walls.Similarly innocent of appearance, was an ordinary-looking and humble little person who shuffled along, round-shouldered, shrilly whistling "Viens Poupoule, viens Poupoule, viens."Nor more calculated to arouse suspicion in the breast of the most observant Guard, was the big, slouching, blue-jowled Spaniard, who rolled along with hisbéretover one eye, and his cigarrillo pendent from the corner of his mouth. The distance separating these from the two English gentlemen lessened as the latter, leaving the main promenades, passed through a suburb and, turning to the right, followed a quiet country road, which led to a railway station.Making a wide détour and avoiding the station, the four, marching parallel with the railway line, headed north for Oran.So far, so good. They were clear of Sidi-bel-Abbès and they were free. Free, but in the greatest danger. The next thing was to get clear of Africa and from beneath the shadow of the tri-couleur."Free!" said Rupert, as the other two joined him and John Bull, and drew a long, deep breath, as of relief."Not a bit of it, Rupert," said John Bull. "It's merely a case of a good beginning and a sporting chance.""Anyhow, well begun's half done, Old Thing. I feel like a boy let out of school," and he began to sing--"Si tu veuxFaire mon bonheur,Marguerite, Marguerite,Si tu veuxFaire mon bonheur,Marguerite, donne-moi ton coeur,You'll have to sing that, Buck, and put 'Carmelita' for 'Marguerite,'" he added."Business first," interrupted John Bull. "This is the programme. We'll go steady all night at the 'quick' and the 'double' alternately, and five minutes' rest to the hour. If we can't do thirty miles by daylight, we're no Legionaries. Sleep all day to-morrow, in the shadow of a boulder, or trees.... By the way, we mustn't fetch up too near Les Imberts or we might be seen by somebody while we're asleep. Les Imberts is about thirty miles from Sidi, I believe. To-morrow night, we'll do another thirty miles and that'll bring us to Wady-el-hotoma. From there I vote we go independently by different trains....""That's it," agreed Rupert. "United for defence--separated for concealment. We'd better hang together as far as Wady-what-is-it, in case a Goum patrol overtakes us.""Why not bung orf from this 'ere Lace Imbear?" enquired 'Erb. "Better'n doin' a kip in the desert, and paddin' the 'oof another bloomin' night. I'm a bloomin' gennelman naow, Ole Cock. I ain't a lousy Legendary.""Far too risky," replied John Bull. "We should look silly if Corporal Martel and a guard of men from our ownchambréewere on the next train, shouldn't we? Whichever of us went into the station would be pinched. The later we hit the line the better, though on the other hand we can't hang about too long. We're between the Devil and the Deep Sea--station-guards and mounted patrols."It occurred to the Bucking Bronco that his own best "lay" would be an application of the art of "holding her down." In other words, waiting outside Sidi-bel-Abbès railway station until the night train pulled out, and jumping on to her in the darkness and "decking her"--in other words, climbing on to the roof and lying flat. As a past-master in "beating an overland," he could do this without the slightest difficulty, leaving the train as it slowed down into stations and making a détour to pick it up again as it left. Before daylight he could leave the train altogether and book as a passenger from the next station (since John strongly advised against walking into Oran by road, as that was the way a penniless Legionary might be expected to arrive). By that means he would arrive at Oran before they were missed at roll-call in the morning. Should he, by any chance, be seen and "ditched" by what he called the "brakemen" and "train-crew," he would merely have "to hit the grit," and wait for the next train. Yes, that's what he would do if he were alone--but the four of them couldn't do it, even if they possessed the necessary nerve, skill and endurance--and he wasn't going to leave them."Come on, boys,en avant, marche," said John Bull, and they started on their thirty-mile run, keeping a sharp look-out for patrols, and halting for a second to listen for the sound of hoofs each time they changed from thepas gymnastiqueto the quick march. Galloping hoofs would mean a patrol of Arab gens-d'armes, the natural enemies of thepoumpiste, the villains who make a handsome bonus on their pay by hunting white men down like mad dogs and shooting them, as such, if they resist. (It is not for nothing that the twenty-five francs reward is paid for the return of a deserter "deador alive.")On through the night struggled the little band, keeping as far from the railway as was possible without losing its guidance. When a train rolled by in the distance, the dry mouth of the Bucking Bronco almost watered, as he imagined himself "holding her down," "decking her," "riding the blind," or perhaps doing the journey safely and comfortably in a "side-door Pullman" (or goods-waggon).Before daylight, the utterly weary and footsore travellers threw themselves down to sleep in the middle of a collection of huge boulders that looked as though they had been emptied out upon the plain from a giant sack. During the night they had passed near many villages and had made many détours to avoid others which lay near the line, as well as farms and country houses, surrounded by their fig, orange and citron trees, their groves of date-palms, and their gardens. For miles they had travelled over sandy desert, and for miles through patches of cultivation, vineyards and well-tilled fields. They had met no one and had heard nothing more alarming than the barking of dogs. Now they had reached an utterly desert spot, and it had seemed to the leader of the party to be as safe a place as they would find in which to sleep away the day. It was not too near road, path, building, or cultivation, so far as he could tell, and about a mile from the railway. The cluster of great rocks would hide them from view of any possible wayfarer on foot, horseback, or camel, and would also shelter them from the rays of the sun. He judged that they were some two or three miles from Les Imberts station, and four or five from the village of that name.The next trouble would be water. They'd probably want water pretty badly before they got it. Perhaps it would rain. That would give them water, but would hardly improve the chances of himself and Rupert as convincing tourists. Thank Heaven they had a spare clean collar each, anyhow. Good old Mendoza. What an artist he was!...John Bull fell asleep.§5"Look, my brothers! Behold!" cried "Goum" Hassan ibn Marbuk, an hour later, as he reined in his horse and pointed to where the footprints of four men left a track and turned off into the desert. "Franzwazi--they wear boots. It is they. Allah be praised. A hundred francs for us, and death for four Roumis. Let us kill the dogs."Turning his horse from the road, he cantered along the trail of the footsteps, followed by his two companions."Allah be praised!" he cried again. "But our Kismet is good. Had it been but five minutes earlier it would have been too dark to notice them.""The footprints lead into that el Ahagger," he added later, pointing to the group of great boulders.The three men drew their revolvers and rode in among the rocks. The leading Arab gave a cry of joy and covered Rupert, who was nearest to him. As the Arab shouted, John Bull awoke and, even as he opened his eyes, yelled "Aux armes!" at the top of his voice. (He had shouted those words and heard them shouted, off and on, for fifteen years.) As he cried out, Hassan ibn Marbuk changed his aim from Rupert to John Bull and fired. The report of the revolver was instantly followed by three others in the quickest succession. John Bull's cry had awakened the Bucking Bronco and that wary man had slept with his "gun" in his hand. A second after Hassan ibn Marbuk fired, the Bucking Bronco shot him through the head, and then with lightning rapidity and apparently without aim, fired at the other two "Goums" who were behind their leader. Not for nothing had the Bucking Bronco been, for a time, trick pistol-shot in a Wild West show. Hassan ibn Marbuk fell from his saddle, the second Arab hung over his horse's neck, and the third, after a convulsive start, drooped and slowly bent backward, until he lay over the high crupper of his saddle."Arabs ain't no derned good with guns," remarked the Bucking Bronco, as he rose to his feet, though it must, in justice, be admitted that the leading Arab had decidedly screened the view, and hampered the activity of the other two as he emerged from the little gully between two mighty rocks."Gawd luvvus," said 'Erb, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Done in three coppers in a bloomin' lump!"The Bucking Bronco secured the horses."I say," said Rupert, who was bending over Sir Montague Merline, "Bull's badly hit.""Ketch holt, quick," cried the Bucking Bronco, holding out to 'Erb the three reins which he had drawn over the horses' heads. He threw himself down beside his friend and swore softly, as his experienced eye recognised the unmistakable signs."Is he dying?" whispered Rupert."His number's up," groaned the American."Done in by a copper!" marvelled 'Erb, and, putting his arm across his face, he leaned against the nearest horse and sobbed.... He was a child-like person, and, without knowing it, had come to centre all his powers of affection on John Bull.The dying man opened his eyes. "Got it where the chicken got the axe," he whispered. "Good-bye, Buck.... See you in the ... Happy Hunting Grounds ... I hope."The Bucking Bronco looked at Rupert."Carmelita put thisyer brandy in my pocket, Rupert," he said producing a medicine bottle. "Shall I dope him?"He coughed and swallowed, his mouth and chin twitched and worked, and tears trickled down his face."Can't do much harm," said Rupert, and took the bottle from the American's shaking hand.The brandy revived the mortally wounded man."Good-bye, Rupert," he said. "I advise you to go straight down to Les Imberts station ... and take the next train.... There will be a patrol ... after this patrol ... before long. You can't lie up here for long now.... Buck might take a horse and gallop for it.... Lie up somewhere else.... And ride to Oran to-night.... 'Erb should go as Rupert's servant ... or by a different train.... Remember Mendoza's tips."The stertorous, wheezy breathing was painfully interrupted by a paroxysm of coughing."Much pain, old chap?" asked the white-faced Rupert, as he wiped the blood from his friend's lips."No," whispered Sir Montague Merline. "I am dead ... up to ... the heart.... Expanding bullet.... Lungs ... and spine ... I ... ex- ... pect. Shan't be ... long.""Anything I can do--any message or anything?" asked Rupert.The dying man closed his eyes.The Bucking Bronco was frankly blubbering. Turning to the dead "Goum" who had shot his friend, he swore horribly, and deplored that the man was dead and beyond the reach of his further vengeance. He fell instantly silent as his stricken friend spoke again."If you ... get ... to Eng ... land, Rupert ... will ... you go ... to ... my wife? She's Lady..." he whispered."Yes--Lady ...who?" asked Rupert eagerly."NO," continued the dying man, in a stronger voice, as he opened his eyes. "I never ... had ... a ... wife."Silence again."WhyMarguerite... My ... darling ... girl.Darling... at ... last.Marguerite."Sir Montague Merline's problem was solved, and the last of his wages paid....§6The Honourable Reginald Rupert Huntingten never forgot the hour that followed. The three broken-hearted men buried their friend in a shallow, sandy grave and piled a cairn of rocks and stones above the spot. It gave them a feeling akin to pleasure to realise that every minute devoted to this labour of love, lessened their chance of escape.Their task accomplished, they shook hands and parted--the Bucking Bronco incapable of speech. Before he rode away, Huntingten thrust a piece of paper into his hand, upon which he had scribbled: "R. R. Huntingten, Elham Old Hall, Elham, Kent," and said, "Wire me there. Or--better still, come--and we'll arrange about Carmelita."The Bucking Bronco rode away in the cool of the morning.Having settled by the toss of a coin whether he or 'Erb should attempt the next train, he gave that grief-stricken warrior the same address and invitation.With a crushing hand-clasp they parted, and Huntingten, with a light and jaunty step, and a sore and heavy heart, set forth for the station of Les Imberts to put his nerve and fortune to the test.EPILOGUE"Well, good night, my own darling Boy," said the beautiful Lady Huntingten, as she lit her candle from that of her son, by the table in the hall. "Don't keep Father up all night, if he and General Strong come to your bedroom.""Good night, dearest," replied he, kissing her fondly.Setting down her candlestick, she took him by the lapels of his coat as though loth to let him out of her sight and part with him, even for the night."Oh, but it is good to have you again, darling," she murmured, gazing long at his bronzed and weather-beaten face. "You won't go off again for a long, long time, will you? And we must keep your promise to that wholly delightful 'Erb, if it's humanly possible. But I really cannot picture him as a discreet and silent-footed valet.... I simply loved him and the Bucking Bronco. I don't know which is the more precious and priceless.... I do so wonder whether he'll be happy with his Carmelita.... I shall love seeing her.""Yes, 'Erb and Buck are great birds," replied her son, "but poor old John Bull was the chap.""Poor man, how awful--with freedom in sight.... You knew nothing of his story?" she asked."Absolutely nothing, dearest. All I know about him is that he was one of the very best. Funny thing, y' know, Mother--I simply lived with that chap, night and day, for a year, and know no more about him than just that. That, and his marks--and by Jove, he'd got some.... Simply a mass of scars, beginning with the crown of his head, where was a hole you could have laid your thumb in. Been about a bit, too; fought in China, Madagascar, West Africa, the Sahara and Morocco, in the Legion. Certainly been in the British Army--in Africa, too. I fancy he'd been a sailor as well--anyhow he'd been in Japan and got the loveliest bit of tattooing I ever set eyes on. Wonderful colours--snake winding round his wrist and up his forearm. Thing looked alive though it had been done for over thirty years. Nagasaki, I think he said...." He yawned hugely. "But here I am rambling on about a person you never saw, and keeping you up," he added. He bent to kiss his mother again."Mother!--darling! Don't you feel well? Here, I'll get you a little brandy."Lady Huntingten was clutching at the edge of the table, and staring at her son, white-lipped. Her face looked drawn and suddenly old."No, no," she said. "Come back. I--sometimes--a little..." and she sat down on the oak settle beside the table."The heat ..." she continued incoherently. "There, I'm all right now. Tell me some more about this--John Bull.... Heisdead? ... You buried him yourself, you said.""Yes, poor old chap, it was awful.""And he gave you no messages for his people? He did not tell you his real name?""No. Nothing. He's taken his story with him. The last words he said were 'Will you go and tell my wife, Lady...' and there he pulled himself up, and said he never had a wife. But he had, I'm sure--and he called to her by her Christian name. As he died, he cried out, 'At last--my darling--'""Marguerite," whispered Lady Huntingten.Made and Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London* * * * *ALSO BY P. C. WRENBEAU GESTE"Well-told, absorbing romance."--Morning Post."A story of rare quality from every point of view."--Daily Telegraph."Told with rare skill and delicacy."--Westminster Gazette."A most stimulating, and at times hair-raising, story of adventure."--Daily Graphic."Very exciting reading."--Spectator."A spanking yarn, brimming with high spirits and vitality."--The New Statesman."His Algerian pen-pictures are quite unusually forceful and descriptive."--The Field."Unquestionably a great story."--Truth."Should find a big public."--The Graphic."The best kind of wholesome romance and the best of all its author's books. A splendid story very splendidly told."--T.P.'s and Cassell's Weekly."A wonderfully vivid and enthralling piece of work."--John o' London's Weekly."If you want romance of the healthiest kind, 'Beau Geste' will give it you."--Bystander."A really stirring and romantic story."--Queen."One of the best and strangest adventure stories of recent years."--The Gentlewoman."One of the most exciting stories we have read for many a long day--ingenious and thrilling."--Guardian."A story to stir the pulses: a vivid picture."--Christian World."Its swift popularity is well deserved; it is a novel of high quality."--Oxford Chronicle."Deserves every whit of the success which it is now attaining."--Manchester Guardian."One of the very best novels that we have read for a very long time."--Western Mail.ILLUSTRATED EDITION, with coloured and black-and-white Drawings by Helen McKie. 7s. 6d. net.Also an Edition-de-luxe, limited to 600 copies for sale in England, numbered and signed by the Author, 21s. net.FIRST CHEAP EDITION. Without Illustrations. 3s. 6d. net.BEAU SABREURFirst Cheap Edition. 3s. 6d. netIn this latest story, Major Wren presents the fascinating life and personality of that Major Henri de Beaujolais who appeared in "Beau Geste." It is a typical Wren story--healthy, gripping romance plus mystery and adventure--based on the conflict between the claims of love and duty.Spahis, legionaries, touaregs, play their several parts with intense reality, while over all flares the pitiless sun of those desert wastes in Northern Africa. A novel which is being read and enjoyed in all parts of the world.THE WAGES OF VIRTUE3s. 6d. net and 2s. net"A story of the French Foreign Legion ... the tale's the thing, no doubt--but by no means the whole thing either, for not only is it told with verve and real, if unobtrusive human sympathy, but it abounds richly in various kinds of knowledge as well as Legionary lore.... It is all skilfully worked out, and we leave it with the utmost confidence to more than one kind of reader. There is strong internal evidence that the author knows something of this amazing life (amazing even in these times) from the inside. Furthermore, he uses with great effect a quite astonishing acquaintance with many vernaculars to emphasize the motley of many-hued characters and circumstances showing beneath the common uniform."--The Times.STEPSONS OF FRANCE3s. 6d. net and 2s. net"Those who have read Captain Wren's 'The Wages of Virtue' will renew with pleasure their acquaintance with several of its principal characters.... 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His adventures form a story of unusual power.THE SNAKE AND THE SWORDFirst Cheap Edition. 3s. 6d. net"A really dramatic story."--Evening Standard."A story often tragic in its incident but powerful in holding the reader's interest."--Glasgow Herald."A rousing exciting story, it presents a convincing, vivid picture."--The Bookman."An extraordinary story."--Daily Graphic."Full of exciting but unusual incidents."--Daily Telegraph.FATHER GREGORYFirst Cheap Edition. 3s. 6d. net"A queer and interesting company depicted with entertaining and not unsympathetic skill, always picturesque, and sometimes affecting."--Scotsman."A peculiarly interesting book and one to be unreservedly recommended."--Liverpool Post."Well worth reading."--The Athenæum."Original and cleverly told."--Literary World."Varied and enjoyable."--The Times.THE YOUNG STAGERSNew and Enlarged Edition. 3s. 6d. netBeing further Faites and Gestes of the Junior Curlton Club of Karabad, India, this delightful book is quite different from the adventurous fiction in which Major Wren has made his name. It is a book of smiles with muchnaïvetéand not a little profound sense.JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street, LONDON, W.1*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE WAGES OF VIRTUE***
§3
The good Monsieur Mendoza, discovered in a dirty unsavoury room, at the top of a broken winding staircase of a modestly unobtrusive, windowless house, in a dirty unsavoury slum of the Ghetto, was exceedingly surprised to learn that le Légionnaire Jean Boule had come tohim, of all people in the world, for assistance in deserting.
The surprise of le bon Monsieur Mendoza was in itself surprising, in view of the fact that the facilitation of desertion was his profession. Still, there it was, manifest upon his expressive and filthy countenance, not to mention his expressive and filthy hands, which waggled, palms upward, beside his shrugged shoulders, as he gave vent to his pained astonishment, not to say indignation, at the Legionary's suggestion.... He was not that sort of man.... Besides, how did he know that Monsieur le Légionnaire had enough?...
John Bull explained patiently to le bon Monsieur Mendoza, of whose little ways he knew a good deal, that he had come to him because he was subterraneously famous in the Legion as the fairy god-papa who could, with a wave of his wand, convert a uniformed Légionnaire into a most convincing civilian. Further, that he was known to be wholly reliable and incorruptibly honest in his dealings with those who could afford to be his god-sons.
All of which was perfectly true.
(Monsieur Mendoza did not display a gilt-lettered board upon the wall of his house, bearing any such inscription as "Haroun Mendoza, Desertion Agent. Costumier to Poumpistes and All who make the Promenade. Desertions arranged with promptitude and despatch. Perfect Disguises a Speciality. Foreign Money Changed. Healthy Itineraries mapped out. Second-hand Uniforms disposed of. H.M.'s Agents and Interpreters meet All Trains at Oran; and Best Berths secured on all Steamers. Convincing Labelled Luggage Supplied. Special Terms for Parties...." nor advertise in theEcho d'Oran, for it would have been as unnecessary as unwise....)
All very well and all very interesting, parried Monsieur Mendoza, but while compliments garlic nocaldo, shekels undoubtedly make the mule to go. Had le bon Légionnaire shekels?
No, he had not, but they would very shortly arrive.
"And how many shekels will arrive?" enquired the good Monsieur Mendoza.
"Sufficient unto the purpose," was the answer, and then the bargaining began. For the sum of fifty francs the Jew would provide one Legionary with a satisfactory suit of clothes. The hat, boots, linen and tie consistent with each particular suit would cost from thirty to forty francs extra.... Say, roughly, a hundred francs for food and complete outfit, per individual. The attention of the worthy Israelite was here directed to the incontrovertible fact that he was dealing, not with the Rothschild brothers, but with four Legionaries of modest ambition and slender purse. To which, M. Mendoza replied that he who supped with the Devil required not only a long, but a golden spoon. In the end, it was agreed that, for the sum of three hundred francs, four complete outfits should be provided.
The next thing was the production and exhibition of the promised disguises. Would M. Mendoza display them forthwith, that they might be selected by the time that the other clients arrived?
"Si, si," said M. Mendoza. "Ciertamente. Con placer." It was no desire of M. Mendoza that any client should be expectedcomprar a ciegas--to buy a pig in a poke. No,de ningun modo....
Shuffling into an inner room, the old gentleman returned, a few minutes later, laden with a huge bundle of second-hand clothing.
"Will you travel as a party--say two tourists and their servants? Or as a party of bourgeoisie interested in the wine trade? Or--say worthy artisans or working men returning to Marseilles? ... What do you say to some walnut-juice and haiks--wild men from theTanezrafet? One of you a Negro, perhaps (pebbles in the nostrils), carrying anangareband a bundle. I could let you have somehashish.... I could also arrange for camels--it's eighty miles to Oran, you know.... Say, three francs a day, per camel, andbakshishfor the men.... Notmeharisof course, but you'll be relying more on disguise than speed, for your escape...."
"No," interrupted John Bull. "It only means more trouble turning into Europeans again at Oran. We want to be four obvious civilians, of the sort who could, without exciting suspicion, take the train at a wayside station."
"What nationalities are you?" enquired the Jew.
"English," was the reply.
"Then take my advice and don't pretend to be French," said the other, and added, "Are any of the others gentlemen?"
Sir Montague Merline smiled.
"One," he said.
"Then you and that other had better go as what you are--English gentlemen. If you are questioned, do not speak too good French, but get red in the face and say, 'Goddam' ... Yes, I think one of you might have a green veil round his hat.... the others might be horsey or seamen.... Swiss waiters.... Music-hall artistes.... Or German touts, bagmen or spies.... Father Abraham! That's an idea! To get deported as a German spy! Ha, ha!" There was a knock at the door....
"Escuche!" he whispered with an air of mystery, and added, "Quien esta ahi?"
"It's the Lord Mayor o' Lunnon, Ole Cock," announced 'Erb as he entered. "Come fer a new set of robes an' a pearly 'at."
"That one can go either as a dismissed groom, making his way back to England, or an out-of-work Swiss waiter," declared Mendoza, as his artist eye and ear took in the details of 'Erb's personality.
A great actor and actor manager had been lost in le bon M. Mendoza, and he enjoyed the work of adapting disguises according to the possibilities of his clients, almost as much as he enjoyed wrangling and bargaining, for their last sous. A greedy and grasping old scoundrel, no doubt, but once you entrusted yourself to M. Mendoza you could rely upon his performing his part of the bargain with zeal, honesty, and secrecy.
The two Legionaries divested themselves of their uniforms and put on the clothes handed to them.
Another knock, and Rupert came in.
"Hallo, Willie Clarkson," said he to Mendoza, who courteously replied with a "Buenas tardes, señor."
"That one will be an English caballero," he observed.
"Thought I should never get here," said Rupert. "Got into the wrong rabbit-warren," and took off his tunic.
The Jew did not "place" the Bucking Bronco immediately upon his entrance, but studied him carefully, for some minutes, before announcing that he had better shave off his moustache and be a Spanish fisherman, muleteer, or sailor. If questioned, he might tell some tale, in execrable French, of a wife or daughter kidnapped at Barcelona and traced to a Tlemcen brothel. He should rave and be violent and more than a little drunk....
And could the worthy M. Mendoza supply a couple of good revolvers with ammunition?
"Si, si," said M. Mendoza. "Ciertamente. Con placer. A most excellent one of very large calibre and with twenty-eight rounds of ammunition for forty francs, and another of smaller calibre and longer barrel, but with, unfortunately, only eleven rounds for thirty-five francs...."
"Keep your right hand in your pocket, each of you," said M. Mendoza as they parted, "or you'll respectfully salute the first Sergeant you meet...."
§4
The two Englishmen, in light summer suits, one wearing white buckskin boots, the other light brown ones, both carrying gloves and light canes, attracted no second glance of attention as they strolled along the boulevard, nor would anyone have suspected the vehement beating of their hearts as they passed the Guard at the gate in the fortification walls.
Similarly innocent of appearance, was an ordinary-looking and humble little person who shuffled along, round-shouldered, shrilly whistling "Viens Poupoule, viens Poupoule, viens."
Nor more calculated to arouse suspicion in the breast of the most observant Guard, was the big, slouching, blue-jowled Spaniard, who rolled along with hisbéretover one eye, and his cigarrillo pendent from the corner of his mouth. The distance separating these from the two English gentlemen lessened as the latter, leaving the main promenades, passed through a suburb and, turning to the right, followed a quiet country road, which led to a railway station.
Making a wide détour and avoiding the station, the four, marching parallel with the railway line, headed north for Oran.
So far, so good. They were clear of Sidi-bel-Abbès and they were free. Free, but in the greatest danger. The next thing was to get clear of Africa and from beneath the shadow of the tri-couleur.
"Free!" said Rupert, as the other two joined him and John Bull, and drew a long, deep breath, as of relief.
"Not a bit of it, Rupert," said John Bull. "It's merely a case of a good beginning and a sporting chance."
"Anyhow, well begun's half done, Old Thing. I feel like a boy let out of school," and he began to sing--
"Si tu veuxFaire mon bonheur,Marguerite, Marguerite,Si tu veuxFaire mon bonheur,Marguerite, donne-moi ton coeur,
"Si tu veuxFaire mon bonheur,Marguerite, Marguerite,Si tu veuxFaire mon bonheur,Marguerite, donne-moi ton coeur,
"Si tu veux
Faire mon bonheur,
Faire mon bonheur,
Marguerite, Marguerite,
Si tu veux
Faire mon bonheur,
Faire mon bonheur,
Marguerite, donne-moi ton coeur,
You'll have to sing that, Buck, and put 'Carmelita' for 'Marguerite,'" he added.
"Business first," interrupted John Bull. "This is the programme. We'll go steady all night at the 'quick' and the 'double' alternately, and five minutes' rest to the hour. If we can't do thirty miles by daylight, we're no Legionaries. Sleep all day to-morrow, in the shadow of a boulder, or trees.... By the way, we mustn't fetch up too near Les Imberts or we might be seen by somebody while we're asleep. Les Imberts is about thirty miles from Sidi, I believe. To-morrow night, we'll do another thirty miles and that'll bring us to Wady-el-hotoma. From there I vote we go independently by different trains...."
"That's it," agreed Rupert. "United for defence--separated for concealment. We'd better hang together as far as Wady-what-is-it, in case a Goum patrol overtakes us."
"Why not bung orf from this 'ere Lace Imbear?" enquired 'Erb. "Better'n doin' a kip in the desert, and paddin' the 'oof another bloomin' night. I'm a bloomin' gennelman naow, Ole Cock. I ain't a lousy Legendary."
"Far too risky," replied John Bull. "We should look silly if Corporal Martel and a guard of men from our ownchambréewere on the next train, shouldn't we? Whichever of us went into the station would be pinched. The later we hit the line the better, though on the other hand we can't hang about too long. We're between the Devil and the Deep Sea--station-guards and mounted patrols."
It occurred to the Bucking Bronco that his own best "lay" would be an application of the art of "holding her down." In other words, waiting outside Sidi-bel-Abbès railway station until the night train pulled out, and jumping on to her in the darkness and "decking her"--in other words, climbing on to the roof and lying flat. As a past-master in "beating an overland," he could do this without the slightest difficulty, leaving the train as it slowed down into stations and making a détour to pick it up again as it left. Before daylight he could leave the train altogether and book as a passenger from the next station (since John strongly advised against walking into Oran by road, as that was the way a penniless Legionary might be expected to arrive). By that means he would arrive at Oran before they were missed at roll-call in the morning. Should he, by any chance, be seen and "ditched" by what he called the "brakemen" and "train-crew," he would merely have "to hit the grit," and wait for the next train. Yes, that's what he would do if he were alone--but the four of them couldn't do it, even if they possessed the necessary nerve, skill and endurance--and he wasn't going to leave them.
"Come on, boys,en avant, marche," said John Bull, and they started on their thirty-mile run, keeping a sharp look-out for patrols, and halting for a second to listen for the sound of hoofs each time they changed from thepas gymnastiqueto the quick march. Galloping hoofs would mean a patrol of Arab gens-d'armes, the natural enemies of thepoumpiste, the villains who make a handsome bonus on their pay by hunting white men down like mad dogs and shooting them, as such, if they resist. (It is not for nothing that the twenty-five francs reward is paid for the return of a deserter "deador alive.")
On through the night struggled the little band, keeping as far from the railway as was possible without losing its guidance. When a train rolled by in the distance, the dry mouth of the Bucking Bronco almost watered, as he imagined himself "holding her down," "decking her," "riding the blind," or perhaps doing the journey safely and comfortably in a "side-door Pullman" (or goods-waggon).
Before daylight, the utterly weary and footsore travellers threw themselves down to sleep in the middle of a collection of huge boulders that looked as though they had been emptied out upon the plain from a giant sack. During the night they had passed near many villages and had made many détours to avoid others which lay near the line, as well as farms and country houses, surrounded by their fig, orange and citron trees, their groves of date-palms, and their gardens. For miles they had travelled over sandy desert, and for miles through patches of cultivation, vineyards and well-tilled fields. They had met no one and had heard nothing more alarming than the barking of dogs. Now they had reached an utterly desert spot, and it had seemed to the leader of the party to be as safe a place as they would find in which to sleep away the day. It was not too near road, path, building, or cultivation, so far as he could tell, and about a mile from the railway. The cluster of great rocks would hide them from view of any possible wayfarer on foot, horseback, or camel, and would also shelter them from the rays of the sun. He judged that they were some two or three miles from Les Imberts station, and four or five from the village of that name.
The next trouble would be water. They'd probably want water pretty badly before they got it. Perhaps it would rain. That would give them water, but would hardly improve the chances of himself and Rupert as convincing tourists. Thank Heaven they had a spare clean collar each, anyhow. Good old Mendoza. What an artist he was!...
John Bull fell asleep.
§5
"Look, my brothers! Behold!" cried "Goum" Hassan ibn Marbuk, an hour later, as he reined in his horse and pointed to where the footprints of four men left a track and turned off into the desert. "Franzwazi--they wear boots. It is they. Allah be praised. A hundred francs for us, and death for four Roumis. Let us kill the dogs."
Turning his horse from the road, he cantered along the trail of the footsteps, followed by his two companions.
"Allah be praised!" he cried again. "But our Kismet is good. Had it been but five minutes earlier it would have been too dark to notice them."
"The footprints lead into that el Ahagger," he added later, pointing to the group of great boulders.
The three men drew their revolvers and rode in among the rocks. The leading Arab gave a cry of joy and covered Rupert, who was nearest to him. As the Arab shouted, John Bull awoke and, even as he opened his eyes, yelled "Aux armes!" at the top of his voice. (He had shouted those words and heard them shouted, off and on, for fifteen years.) As he cried out, Hassan ibn Marbuk changed his aim from Rupert to John Bull and fired. The report of the revolver was instantly followed by three others in the quickest succession. John Bull's cry had awakened the Bucking Bronco and that wary man had slept with his "gun" in his hand. A second after Hassan ibn Marbuk fired, the Bucking Bronco shot him through the head, and then with lightning rapidity and apparently without aim, fired at the other two "Goums" who were behind their leader. Not for nothing had the Bucking Bronco been, for a time, trick pistol-shot in a Wild West show. Hassan ibn Marbuk fell from his saddle, the second Arab hung over his horse's neck, and the third, after a convulsive start, drooped and slowly bent backward, until he lay over the high crupper of his saddle.
"Arabs ain't no derned good with guns," remarked the Bucking Bronco, as he rose to his feet, though it must, in justice, be admitted that the leading Arab had decidedly screened the view, and hampered the activity of the other two as he emerged from the little gully between two mighty rocks.
"Gawd luvvus," said 'Erb, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Done in three coppers in a bloomin' lump!"
The Bucking Bronco secured the horses.
"I say," said Rupert, who was bending over Sir Montague Merline, "Bull's badly hit."
"Ketch holt, quick," cried the Bucking Bronco, holding out to 'Erb the three reins which he had drawn over the horses' heads. He threw himself down beside his friend and swore softly, as his experienced eye recognised the unmistakable signs.
"Is he dying?" whispered Rupert.
"His number's up," groaned the American.
"Done in by a copper!" marvelled 'Erb, and, putting his arm across his face, he leaned against the nearest horse and sobbed.... He was a child-like person, and, without knowing it, had come to centre all his powers of affection on John Bull.
The dying man opened his eyes. "Got it where the chicken got the axe," he whispered. "Good-bye, Buck.... See you in the ... Happy Hunting Grounds ... I hope."
The Bucking Bronco looked at Rupert.
"Carmelita put thisyer brandy in my pocket, Rupert," he said producing a medicine bottle. "Shall I dope him?"
He coughed and swallowed, his mouth and chin twitched and worked, and tears trickled down his face.
"Can't do much harm," said Rupert, and took the bottle from the American's shaking hand.
The brandy revived the mortally wounded man.
"Good-bye, Rupert," he said. "I advise you to go straight down to Les Imberts station ... and take the next train.... There will be a patrol ... after this patrol ... before long. You can't lie up here for long now.... Buck might take a horse and gallop for it.... Lie up somewhere else.... And ride to Oran to-night.... 'Erb should go as Rupert's servant ... or by a different train.... Remember Mendoza's tips."
The stertorous, wheezy breathing was painfully interrupted by a paroxysm of coughing.
"Much pain, old chap?" asked the white-faced Rupert, as he wiped the blood from his friend's lips.
"No," whispered Sir Montague Merline. "I am dead ... up to ... the heart.... Expanding bullet.... Lungs ... and spine ... I ... ex- ... pect. Shan't be ... long."
"Anything I can do--any message or anything?" asked Rupert.
The dying man closed his eyes.
The Bucking Bronco was frankly blubbering. Turning to the dead "Goum" who had shot his friend, he swore horribly, and deplored that the man was dead and beyond the reach of his further vengeance. He fell instantly silent as his stricken friend spoke again.
"If you ... get ... to Eng ... land, Rupert ... will ... you go ... to ... my wife? She's Lady..." he whispered.
"Yes--Lady ...who?" asked Rupert eagerly.
"NO," continued the dying man, in a stronger voice, as he opened his eyes. "I never ... had ... a ... wife."
Silence again.
"WhyMarguerite... My ... darling ... girl.Darling... at ... last.Marguerite."
Sir Montague Merline's problem was solved, and the last of his wages paid....
§6
The Honourable Reginald Rupert Huntingten never forgot the hour that followed. The three broken-hearted men buried their friend in a shallow, sandy grave and piled a cairn of rocks and stones above the spot. It gave them a feeling akin to pleasure to realise that every minute devoted to this labour of love, lessened their chance of escape.
Their task accomplished, they shook hands and parted--the Bucking Bronco incapable of speech. Before he rode away, Huntingten thrust a piece of paper into his hand, upon which he had scribbled: "R. R. Huntingten, Elham Old Hall, Elham, Kent," and said, "Wire me there. Or--better still, come--and we'll arrange about Carmelita."
The Bucking Bronco rode away in the cool of the morning.
Having settled by the toss of a coin whether he or 'Erb should attempt the next train, he gave that grief-stricken warrior the same address and invitation.
With a crushing hand-clasp they parted, and Huntingten, with a light and jaunty step, and a sore and heavy heart, set forth for the station of Les Imberts to put his nerve and fortune to the test.
EPILOGUE
"Well, good night, my own darling Boy," said the beautiful Lady Huntingten, as she lit her candle from that of her son, by the table in the hall. "Don't keep Father up all night, if he and General Strong come to your bedroom."
"Good night, dearest," replied he, kissing her fondly.
Setting down her candlestick, she took him by the lapels of his coat as though loth to let him out of her sight and part with him, even for the night.
"Oh, but it is good to have you again, darling," she murmured, gazing long at his bronzed and weather-beaten face. "You won't go off again for a long, long time, will you? And we must keep your promise to that wholly delightful 'Erb, if it's humanly possible. But I really cannot picture him as a discreet and silent-footed valet.... I simply loved him and the Bucking Bronco. I don't know which is the more precious and priceless.... I do so wonder whether he'll be happy with his Carmelita.... I shall love seeing her."
"Yes, 'Erb and Buck are great birds," replied her son, "but poor old John Bull was the chap."
"Poor man, how awful--with freedom in sight.... You knew nothing of his story?" she asked.
"Absolutely nothing, dearest. All I know about him is that he was one of the very best. Funny thing, y' know, Mother--I simply lived with that chap, night and day, for a year, and know no more about him than just that. That, and his marks--and by Jove, he'd got some.... Simply a mass of scars, beginning with the crown of his head, where was a hole you could have laid your thumb in. Been about a bit, too; fought in China, Madagascar, West Africa, the Sahara and Morocco, in the Legion. Certainly been in the British Army--in Africa, too. I fancy he'd been a sailor as well--anyhow he'd been in Japan and got the loveliest bit of tattooing I ever set eyes on. Wonderful colours--snake winding round his wrist and up his forearm. Thing looked alive though it had been done for over thirty years. Nagasaki, I think he said...." He yawned hugely. "But here I am rambling on about a person you never saw, and keeping you up," he added. He bent to kiss his mother again.
"Mother!--darling! Don't you feel well? Here, I'll get you a little brandy."
Lady Huntingten was clutching at the edge of the table, and staring at her son, white-lipped. Her face looked drawn and suddenly old.
"No, no," she said. "Come back. I--sometimes--a little..." and she sat down on the oak settle beside the table.
"The heat ..." she continued incoherently. "There, I'm all right now. Tell me some more about this--John Bull.... Heisdead? ... You buried him yourself, you said."
"Yes, poor old chap, it was awful."
"And he gave you no messages for his people? He did not tell you his real name?"
"No. Nothing. He's taken his story with him. The last words he said were 'Will you go and tell my wife, Lady...' and there he pulled himself up, and said he never had a wife. But he had, I'm sure--and he called to her by her Christian name. As he died, he cried out, 'At last--my darling--'"
"Marguerite," whispered Lady Huntingten.
Made and Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London
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ALSO BY P. C. WREN
BEAU GESTE
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