Sands of Destiny (4 page)

Men died in the sand as they blasted at the burnooscd shapes. Men of many nations and many languages, united beneath the common banner of the Legion and proud to die among the mea with which they had lived. Lambert, his eyes glinting over the barrel of his rifle, swore a medley of oaths as he pumped lead towards the attacking Touregs.

“
Les Cochon! Chein! Sacré Bleu!
Pigs! Swine! Devils! Take that you son of a fatherless mother! And that, you spawn of hell. And that from Francios who you killed at Hollendoft, and for Pierre who you staked out for the ants to eat two years ago.” With each imprecation be fired at the Touregs and more than one of his skilfully aimed bullets met their targets.

But the death was not all on one side.

Legionnaires died too, not so fast, nor as many, for they had burrowed into the sand so that only the slender barrels of their rifles and the tops of their kepis showed above the desert. But they died from sheer weight of numbers for a man can only shoot at one target at a time and when he is faced with five targets, all shooting, all advancing, all screaming to Allah and eager to die, then it takes more than a Lebel to save him.

And so they died, their blue and scarlet daubed with the bright hue of blood, as they lay gasping in the sand. Some died cleanly, shot between the eyes or in the heart. Others were not so lucky.

Crouching beside the motionless body of the horse, one of the first to die, Corville worked the bolt of a rifle with practiced ease and sent lead whining across the sand towards the advancing figures before him. Again he fired, again and again until the barrel grew too hot to touch and until his groping fingers found empty leather where bullets should have been. Smith crawled towards him, his scarred face a mask of blood and sweat, a flesh wound in his upper arm staining his once-trim uniform with blood.

“Things are bad, my lieutenant. It seems that these devils will not withdraw until we are all dead.”

“It is I they are after,” said Corville grimly and fired at a burnoosed shape ahead. “You remember the message?”

“Yes, sir. But what can messages avail now?” Smith ducked as lead thudded into the saddle an inch from his head. “We are very near the fort, I cannot understand why they should attack us when so near.” Again he ducked and Corville grunted as something like a hot iron traced a path across his forehead. He swore as he wiped blood from his eyes, then smiled at the anxious face of the sergeant. “A flesh wound, it is nothing.”

He stiffened as he caught a vestige of sound above the firing, and stared hopefully at the sergeant.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what, sir?”

“That. Listen.” The firing lulled and faded away almost as if each man was straining his ears to the vagrant sound.

It came again, louder, clearer, thin and distant but unmistakable.

The notes of a bugle.

Hearing it the legionnaires raised a cheer then, as if afraid of losing their vengeance, began firing with a total disregard for their expenditure of ammunition, blasting at the Touregs as if their Lebels were machine guns, spraying the desert with leaden death and sending more than one shapeless figure to his desired Paradise.

For a moment the Touregs hesitated, seemed about to charge again, then, as the bugle sounded nearer and louder, broke and ran across the undulating dunes towards their hidden horses.

Within seconds, it seemed, the desert was devoid of all life but for the fleeing shapes of horsemen, the huddled bodies of the dead, and the grim-faced, wounded, cursing remnant of the column of legionnaires.

“Eh bien,”
said Lambert joining Corville and the sergeant. “It was warm while it lasted, no?”

“Too warm,” said Smith drily. “Me, I can do without such heat.”

“I managed to avenge Francios, my brother,” said Lambert. “I swore that five should die for what they did to him at Hollendoft. Pierre also, I have yet to kill three for him, but there will be another time, yes?”

“Yes.” The sergeant stared towards the horizon to where the ranked kepis of a marching column had appeared in view. “Just in time,” he muttered in English. “Another few minutes and....” He broke off, staring at the young officer, then shrugged and holstered his pistol.

Corville managed to stay out of the way while greetings were being exchanged and the legionnaire dead stripped of weapons and buried. The wounded were supported on crude stretchers for transportation back to the fort and the Arab dead were left where they had fallen. Perhaps their comrades would return for them or perhaps they would lie until sun and weather had turned them into bleached bones.

Either way it didn’t matter and. as the reformed column swung into the march back to the fort and safety, Corville felt a sudden elation. He had accomplished his mission and, with his warning, Colonel Marignay should be able to beat off the attack and, perhaps, crush the threatened rebellion.

He hoped.

ONASSIS

FORT Onassis was a squat, sombre edifice of sun-baked brick. It dominated a rocky pass, one of the main caravan routes to the East, and from its high, slender watchtower floated the tricolour of France. From its walls guards stared down at the surrounding terrain and, in the watchtower itself, the solitary figure of a watcher could be seen as he scanned the desert with field-glasses. A bugle sounded as the column came into sight and, by the time they had reached the thick walls, the guard had been alerted and the doors opened to admit the weary men.

Hostile eyes stared at Corville, still in his Toureg costume, and angry oaths reached his ears as men inspected the wounds of their comrades or looked for friends now lying in shallow graves. Hate ran high in Fort Onassis, hate of the savage raiders forever threatening their peace, hate of the sun, the restricted life, the insects, the heat, the monotony of the desert and, to this hate, was coupled a hatred of their commanding officer.

Corville saw the reason for that hatred as he crossed the, pounded dirt of the compound towards his own quarters. A man, a legionnaire, stood in the burning sun, naked to the waist, his hands lashed to a cross-beam above his head, his back scarred with angry weals. He had been whipped and, as he stared at the red cross-cuts marring the brown skin, Corville felt a rush of anger towards the commander of the garrison. Men were punished in the Legion, and discipline was hard, but men were not, nor should they be, whipped. There were cells, dark and noisome holes, damp and alive with vermin. There were forced marches with full pack and little water. There were labour details and, in the most severe cases, the penal settlement in which men worked at road building as they served their sentences. But whipping was not allowed by the military code. To whip a man both degraded him and his companions and, listening to the idle mutters and watching the eyes of the legionnaires, Corville resolved to do something about it.

In his room, the door shut and locked, alone with the sergeant from whom he had no secrets, the young officer stripped, washed from a basin of tepid water, dressed in his uniform and, once again a legionnaire in every sense of the word, straightened with a new dignity.

“Why was that man whipped?”

Sergeant Smith shrugged and felt the bandage around the flesh wound in his arm. Like Corville, he had first received medical attention; the young officer had a strip of adhesive bandage over the wound on his forehead.

“I asked a question,” snapped Corville. “Who ordered the whipping?”

“Colonel Marignay, sir.”

“Why?”

“It was said that the man cheated at cards. There was a row in the sleeping quarters. I investigated and....”

“Is it not usual for the men themselves to attend to such matters?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why the exception?”

The sergeant hesitated. Corville knew that Smith, like all sergeants in the French army, had greater power and responsibility than is to be found in almost any other army in the world. In effect Smith had the authority of a second lieutenant in the British Army, and he could have issued his own punishment within limited degrees.

“Why was the man whipped?” repeated Corville impatiently. “Come. Give me the reason.”

“I enquired whether the man would accept my punishment,” said Smith slowly. “He agreed and I sentenced him to clean out the barrack room for a month and to lose half his wine ration for a week.”

Corville nodded. It was a light enough sentence and one that the man would have been grateful to accept.

“Well?”

“The Colonel learned what had happened and saw fit to override my authority. He ordered the man whipped. The first man he ordered to do the whipping is in the cells. He refused. The second is in hospital. He accepted.”

“What happened?”

“He had an accident,” said the sergeant deliberately. “An unfortunate fall down the inner staircase, His nose was broken, his jaw, other injuries not so serious.” The ghost of a smile trembled at the comer of the sergeant’s lips. “For some odd reason he seemed to believe that someone, he didn’t know who, attacked him.”

“I see.” Corville knew better than to question too closely.

The legionnaires had an incredible sense of comradeship and would have been certain to have avenged their disgraced comrade. The first man, the one in the cells, was probably feted with smuggled rations for his defiance of the unloved colonel. The young officer stared at the sergeant.

“Have you reported to the colonel yet?”

“Not yet, sir. It is not my place to supersede you. As my superior officer you will, of course, deliver your message yourself.”

“But you have alerted the guards?”

“Yes, sir. But I cannot do more without direct orders from the colonel.”

“Naturally.” Corville stared at the scarred face of the sergeant. “Tell me, Smith, why haven’t you tried for promotion? With your experience you would be certain to reach officer status.”

“Thank you, sir. You are good to think so.”

“I know so, man.” Corville frowned. “Smith? That is an English name. Are you English?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought so. Why don’t you want promotion?”

“There are two reasons, sir,” said the sergeant, stiffly. “One, to achieve entry to the military school for officer examination I must take French nationality and swear the oath of loyalty. 1 was born an Englishman and, strange as it may seem to you, I prefer to die one.”

“But that can’t be the whole reason?” Corville shook his head. “I too am English but naturally I took the oath the same as we all do. At the expiration of my term, or if I resign, I can always resume my original nationality.” He looked at the sergeant. “You said that there were two reasons?”

“The other is personal, sir.” The sergeant stepped towards the door, unlocked it, and held it open. “Shall I conduct you to the Colonel, sir?”

It was polite, but it was definite and, as he followed the man towards the Colonel’s quarters, Corville had to admit that Smith had been in the right and he himself in the wrong. Mentally he cursed himself for a fool for trying to probe. Before Smith could be accepted as an officer he would have to disclose his true identity for security checking, Obviously he didn’t want to do that. The very name he had chosen to be known by, ‘Smith’, was proof of that.

Corville was still mentally kicking himself for his blunder when they arrived at the quarters of Colonel Marignay.

The Colonel was one of a dying breed. Brave, but without imagination. Stubborn, and yet who firmly believed that his stubbornness was evidence of a strong will. Ignorant, and relying heavily on his inferiors for his information and advice, both of which he disregarded whenever they came into conflict with his own ideas, No longer young he still retained the straight back, the trim figure and the thick hair of a man twenty years his junior. Now his hair was white, his hands thin and veined, his eyes not what they used to be.

He should have been retired years ago.

Instead of that he had used his influence to gain the command of an isolated fort deep in the desert. There, so his superiors thought, he could do no harm and, like an old warhorse set out to graze, they had allowed him to spend his final years surrounded by the military discipline that he had known all his life. Corville had heard of him but as yet they had never met. The young officer’s duties had kept him much in the desert where, in disguise, he had ferreted out information for Colonel Le Farge whom he regarded as the real commanding officer. For the purposes of the records, rank, and, more important, of allaying suspicion, Corville was attached to the garrison at Onassis.

The Colonel looked up from his desk as the young man entered, watched critically while he saluted, then gestured towards a chair.

“Sit down, de Corville. I hear that you had a spot of bother on your way here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Twenty men dead.” Marignay shook his head. “Bad, de Corville. Too bad. How did you come to let so many die?”

It was typical of the man that he should use Corville’s full title. As typical as that he should automatically blame the young man for the dead legionnaires without first finding out the facts. Corville cleared his throat and stared at the Colonel.

“I have important information, sir, which must be sent at once to Colonel Le Farge at Sidi bel Abbes.” He frowned at the expression on the old man’s face. “I understand that you were informed of my coming, sir?”

“No.”

“Has no messenger reached you?”

“None.”

“I see.” Corville frowned down at his hands, his mind busy with thoughts. Le Farge must have sent the message and, if it hadn’t arrived, then it must have been intercepted on the way. It was a grim reminder of the incipient rebellion. Normally traders were allowed to pass unmolested. It was only the rich, unarmed caravans that tempted the raiding tribes.

He stared at the old man.

“I have gained information that a massed raid is due to take place against Fort Onassis shortly. I understand that it is your habit to assemble the men in the compound at regular intervals. The Arabs know this and they plan to attack at the next such assembly.”

“Tomorrow?” Marignay blinked. “Impossible.”

“Why is it impossible, sir?”

“The tribes are at peace with us. Why, only a short while ago I was entertained by one of the desert Sheiks. Sheikh El Morini, a Toureg, an educated man who assured me that he only desired peace so that his tribe could tend their herds unmolested,”

“Did you believe him?”

“Of course.” Marignay smirked. “He gave me a gift, a damascened dagger, the hilt set with jewels and the blade inscribed with writings from the Koran. It is a work of great antiquity and I shall treasure it after I have retired to my Villa in the south of France as a memento of my stay here.”

“You are unwise to accept gifts of such a nature,” said Corville quietly. “I know well the dagger you describe. I saw its twin at the oasis of Haroon when it was used to murder a scheming merchant. I travelled with the caravan that carried guns for your ‘peace-loving Sheikh’ and I heard him plan to attack Onassis at your next assembly.” He leaned forward in his eagerness. “I tell you, sir, that the fort is about to be attacked. The battle out on the desert where twenty men lost their lives was wholly to prevent me reaching here with the news.”

“Ridiculous!”

“It is not ridiculous, sir.” Rapidly Corville told the Colonel what he had learned, how he had escaped, and how he was rescued. “So you see, sir, it is imperative that the men remain alert. A full assembly with full dress uniform would give the Touregs the opportunity they need for a surprise attack. Fort Onassis is surrounded with hills, each giving plenty of cover for waiting attackers. Once they reach the walls of the fort we shall have almost insurmountable difficulty in driving them back. The whole thing is the essence of stupidity.”

He regretted those words the moment he had said them. Right or wrong Marignay would now hold his precious assembly even if only to prove to the young officer that he was not stupid. He would continue on his own way because to do otherwise would be to admit that perhaps the young man was right and he was wrong. Marignay could never do that.

“Ridiculous,” he repeated. “There isn’t the slightest essence of danger. You are imagining things.”

“Did I imagine twenty men dead out in the desert,” snapped Corville. “Was that proof of the peaceful intentions of Sheik El Morini?”

“We have no proof that it was he who instigated the attack. It could have been anyone, or, more than likely, a wandering band of nomads hoping to get some rifles and ammunition.”

“Nomads would not dare to attack an armed column of the Legion,” said Corville. “And you know it, sir.” He sighed as he saw the stubborn set of the other’s mouth. He knew that Marignay hadn’t been long enough in the desert to learn of the subtle ways of the Arabs. He had served most of his time in France and probably thought of the Legion as a glorified police force. To him it was incredible that anyone should dream of attacking a garrison. Marignay had heard of such things happening but, despite that knowledge, he simply couldn’t believe that it would ever happen to him.

Corville wished that the old commander, Colonel Frenshi, had managed to survive his last bout of fever. If he had Corville would have been free of his worry. Frenshi wouldn’t have stopped to argue or assert his superiority. He would have manned the walls, loaded his guns and waited, snarling like a trapped tiger, ready for anything the desert could bring.

But Frenshi was dead.

“I think that you are worrying yourself unduly, de Corville,” said Marignay drily. “I can assure you that there will be no attack on this or any other garrison.”

“I wish that I could share your optimism, sir.” Corville tried not to be sarcastic. “But may I enquire why you saw fit to punish one of the men in the way you did?”

“I whipped him, or rather, I had him whipped.” Marignay made a negligent gesture. “The alternative was to put him in the cells and we have too many men in the cells as it is.”

“It was an unorthodox punishment, sir,” reminded the young officer. “The man would be within his rights at making a complaint.”

“He may if he wishes.” Marignay sounded as though the subject was totally unimportant. “I shall consider whether to forward such a complaint if it is ever made.”

“It won’t be made,” promised Corville. “You know that none of the men would ever do that. Is that what you relied on when you ordered the whipping?”

“You are insolent, sir!”

“I am truthful, sir. I do not care to see the men on whom I rely treated like dogs.”

“Be careful, sir,” stormed Marignay. “Do not think that, because you are an officer, you are immune from punishment. I could have you cashiered for insubordination.”

“You could try,” snapped Corville, now almost shaking with temper. “But. I am not one of the men who cannot defend themselves against a petty tyrant. I shall appeal to Sidi bel Abbes and inform them of your conduct here, I would go so far as to say that it is leading directly to mutiny. Commanders like you, Colonel, have a nasty habit of dying during the very first engagement. Usually from a bullet in the back.”