Sands of Destiny (5 page)

“How dare you talk to me in that manner!” Marignay surged upright from his desk and stood, his face red with anger, staring at the young man. Looking at him Corville knew that he had gone too far. As a soldier it was his duty to obey, not to taunt his superior officer no matter how incompetent he might be. He could complain, yes, but in disobeying the Colonel he was guilty of mutiny and for that crime there was no excuse. He swallowed his anger and tried to calm the old man.

“My apologies, sir,” he stammered. “I did not mean to threaten, only to warn. It is not wise to treat men with contempt. They will undergo the severest punishments without complaint, but no man who is a man can tolerate being treated as a dog.”

“The man stole from his fellows,” snapped Marignay.

“That is a bad crime,” admitted the young man, “but even his fellows do not like to see him punished as you have treated him.”

“What else could I do?” Marignay shrugged. “The cells are full as it is. The man stole, cheated, and the men themselves would have beaten him. I did it for them and, at sundown, the prisoner will be cut down, revived, and set about his duties. The incident will be over and forgotten.”

Corville doubted that. Some things are never forgotten, especially by a man who bore the scars of a whip on his back. Such things lead to mutiny or, as was most often the case, to desertion. In either event Corville could feel nothing but pity for the poor fools who tried either path. Mutiny never succeeded. The ringleaders were shot and the followers sent to spend their lives in a penal settlement. Desertion was even worse. Not from the Legion point of view, but from the man trying to run from his responsibilities. Few ever managed to escape at all. For those who did the desert itself must for, without food, water and transportation they were sure to die. Even if they escaped nature, it was a different matter to escape the human wolves who prowled the sands.

A lone legionnaire was a find indeed and many a poor devil had shrieked his life away beneath the daggers or in the fires of the permanent encampments at the big oases. Some managed to reach the coast after selling rifle and ammunition, clothes and equipment to the rare, friendly natives or sympathetic tribesmen they met. A few others adopted Islam and became Moslem and so rid themselves of the dread taint of ‘unbelievers’, but not one in a hundred ever managed to desert with success.

And yet men still tried and, while they were treated as Marignay had treated the thief, they would always try. Corville made a mental resolve to report the colonel’s conduct to headquarters as soon as possible. Marignay was both dangerous to himself and to the Legion, and the quicker he was retired the better.

But first he had to make his peace with the colonel.

“I was hasty,” he admitted. “I should not have spoken as I did. But I have been travelling in the sun, almost died from exhaustion, and the battle wounded me.” He touched the strip of plaster on his brow. “Such things leave a man not himself.”

“Of course.” Marignay was suddenly affable again. “You will join me in wine?” Without waiting for an answer he produced bottle and glasses. “Here, try this. I had it brought me from the vineyards of France. None of this thin, arid Algerian wine for me. No. I like the best and this....” He sipped and smiled. “Perfect.”

It was good wine, even Corville had to admit that, and he felt his tension slipping away as he sipped the ruby liquid. Here, sitting in the fort, surrounded by thick walls and armed men, he felt safe for the first time since he had left Sidi bel Abbes. It seemed incredible that tribesmen could ever storm the walls and beat down the defence and yet, remembering Fort Hollendoft and other forts which had fallen to the attackers, Corville felt a sudden chill so that he shivered a little. Marignay noticed it.

“You feel cold? Fever perhaps?”

“No. Just someone walking over my grave.” Corville smiled as he saw the colonel frown. “An English saying, almost impossible to translate.” He held out his glass for more wine. “As you say this is excellent wine. Burgundy, of course, vintage?”

“1897.” Marignay let a little of the wine roll around his tongue before swallowing it. “A famous year for Bnrgundy. 1903 was perhaps, just as good, but wine, like music, improves with the keeping.” To Corville’s surprise the colonel winked. “I have been saving it for a special occasion. To night, at dinner, you will see what I mean.”

“You intrigue me.” Corville relaxed, feeling the reaction from too hard endeavour seeping through his bones. “About the message I must get to Colonel Le Farge. Have you decided as to how best to get it to him?”

“Tomorrow,” said Marignay with a casual wave of his hand, “We will discuss it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow will be too late,” reminded Corville grimly. “You forget, the attack is due then.”

“Nonsense, my dear young fellow.” The wine seemed to be making Marignay almost overpoweringly affable. “Sheikh El Morini is coming to dine tomorrow evening. How can he do that if we are under attack?”

“The Sheik probably jests,” Corville was reminded of the Toureg’s grim sense of humour when he had threatened the merchant. “He will probably dine here but as the victor, not as a guest.”

“You annoy me,” said Marignny pointedly. “Please to remember that I am your commanding officer. To doubt my word is tantamount to insult.”

“I apologise. No insult was intended.”

“I’m sure of it. You have perhaps had a touch too much of the sun? A passing weakness I am sure, but the entertainment tonight should quickly restore you to full health.” Marignay seemed secretly amused.

“You intrigue me.” Corville set down his empty glass. “About that message....”

“Tomorrow.” Marignay paused with the bottle in his hand. “Please do not mention it again “

“No, sir.”

“That is better.” The colonel poured the wine. “You are young, de Corville, and have much to learn. There is a certain way to do these things, a time for work and a time for the social graces. You are an aristocrat, one of the old stock, and I am pleased to have you here as one of my officers. Captain Gerald, while a good soldier, yet lacks that little something which can turn even the desert into a garden.” The colonel set down the bottle and stared at the young man. “Life is hard here, de Corville, and a man can be excused a touch of beauty. Because we live like animals is no reason to act like them.”

“No, sir.” Corville was a little puzzled at what the other meant. He arrived at the conclusion that the colonel had been drinking too much wine.

“We have guests,” said Marignay. “Three of them.” He smiled. “A man and two women, old friends who, when they found that I was to be in command here, asked whether or not they could come and spend a while at a genuine Legion fortress. Naturally, I agreed. You will meet them at dinner this evening.”

Women! In a desert fort which was due to be attacked at any moment!

Corville wondered whether or not he was dreaming.

INVITATION TO DANGER

THERE were, as Marignay had said, three visitors to Fort Onassis. Two of them, the man and the younger of the two women, were Americans. Dick Mason was young enough to still be swayed by the thought of adventure and old enough to realise that most of it consisted of dirt and poverty, discomfort and disease. His sister, Clarice, was fresh from her education and was rounding it off with a trip to the capital cities of the world. Both were rich, not obtrusively so, but with the easy grace of those without snobbery and yet without fear of poverty. The elder of the two women, a Miss Carson, had been engaged as travelling companion and secretary to Clarice and it was she who, on the basis of a slight friendship with Marignay, had persuaded him to invite the party to the fort. They had arrived by camel train two weeks ago and already desert life was beginning to pall.

It was night when they sat down to dine. A cool and rare breeze had sprung up from the hills, so cool that men shivered at their posts and thought enviously of their warm blankets in the stuffy barrack room. The night was clear with the dying moon setting towards the low horizon and, from time to time, the eerie cry of a jackal broke the deathly stillness of the tropic night.

Marignay had, despite Corville’s opposition, invited the full officer strength of the garrison to dine with him. Captain Gerald, a dour soldier of the old school who remembered the days when the French Colonial soldiers grew handlebar moustaches in obedience to the tenet,
“Plus qu’ll est long, plus est ma force,”
or “The longer the whiskers the stronger the man,” sat grim and unsmiling at the right of the elderly Englishwoman. Colonel Marignay himself sat at her other side between her and Clarice. Corville sat between the young American and her brother and tried not to think of what would happen to her should the Touregs succeed in their attack. Inevitably the talk turned to the eternal subject of the desert.

“It’s so mysterious,” sighed Miss Carson who, from casual reference, Corville knew to be named Susan. “Looking at the bleak, eternal sands, one wonders what strange things it could tell if it could only speak. Brave Sheiks, mounted on gallant steeds, thundering through the night to the rescue of some princess carried away by rough tribesmen from the interior.”

“The only Sheiks I have ever seen,” said Gerald brutally, “are fat, dirty, lazy men who leave all the work to their wives and think more of a goat than any princess ever born.” He gulped at his wine, making no secret of the fact that he found it more to his liking than the thin, raw, stuff that was the ration issue. “Good wine this. Colonel. One day I too will be able to fill my stomach with wine fit to drink instead of the swill we get from the commissariat.” He glowered into his glass. “One day I think I will take a bayonet and pay a visit to those who grow fat at the expense of the legionnaires.”

“The Captain has a grievance against the world,” explained Marignay to his guests. “Himself a robber, he thinks that everyone is trying to rob him. A pity that he sees fit to forget that he is supposed to be a gentleman.”

“Gentleman? Pah! Call me a man and leave out the ‘gentle’. One cannot be gentle in the Legion. One must be of iron, hard, cold, ruthless. One must kill or be killed.”

He reached for the wine. “But nevertheless, I can still enjoy good wine.” He stared at the guests. “Come, drink up, tomorrow you may not have a throat to drink with.”

“Gerald!” Marignay rose and glared at the captain. “You may leave us.”

“Leave you?” Gerald staggered to his feet and deliberately winked at the elderly woman. “I’ll leave you fast enough. But I’ll take the bottle with me.” He grabbed it, lurched, and half staggered through the door. Marignay looked apologetically at his visitors.

“A thousand pardons for what you have just seen, but what would you do?” He spread his hands. “The Legion breeds hard men and one must make do with what one has. It was not so in the Blues, then we had officers who were gentlemen. I remember one evening when....”

Corville sat and let the colonel’s voice drift over the surface of his mind. He alone knew that Gerald was far from being drunk. The Captain had sensed the incipient terror and had arranged to leave the dinner table early so as to keep an eye on the defences. It had proved impossible to absent himself and so, with direct simplicity, the captain had managed to get himself thrown out. Corville wished that he could do the same.

He became aware of someone speaking to him and turned to face the young American girl.

“I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “What did you say?”

“I asked you how long had you been in the Legion,” said Clarice. Her voice was low and her French excellent. “Did I ask something I shouldn’t?”

“No. Five years.”

“Do you like it?”

“Pardon?” Corville blinked and forced himself to pay attention. “Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”

“I asked you if you liked it.”

“Yes, yes I suppose I do but....”

“But?”

“But sometimes I wish that 1 were home again. There is something about the desert, something almost alien, if you know what I mean. It belongs to a different time, a different race. We come here and yet, try as we may, we can never be a real part of it.” He warmed to the subject as he put his thoughts into words. “Watch an Arab as he walks along the street. See his movements, and then stare into his eyes when he talks with you. You never really know him. His very thoughts are different than our own, his sense of values, his god even, though. I will admit, that Islam seems to be as good a religion as Christianity for some things.” He smiled at her expression. “It’s true, you know. No Moslem will touch alcohol in any form. He will obey the laws of hospitality and respect the rights and privileges of others of the same faith. Sometimes I’ve thought that it would be a good idea for all legionnaires to turn to Islam. That way we might be able to restrain the tribes a little better than what we do. At least it would save....” He stopped, remembering the company, and to cover his confusion drank some wine.

“How interesting,” said Clarice. “You were saying?”

“Nothing of importance.” He could not tell her of the torture that awaited infidels when captured by the raiders. “Do you intend to remain long in Algeria?”

“Not long. Dick had some business to attend to and Susan got us this invitation to stay at a real fort.” She sounded like an excited little girl as she spoke. “I’ve always wanted to see just what the Legion is really like and now I know, Gee, who’d have thought that I’d ever be able to say I stayed in a real fortress in the desert.” In her excitement she had slipped into English, much to the apparent relief of Miss Carson and, seeing that she was more at home in her own language, Marignay gallantly forced himself to speak it.

“You have been to my home, yes? A Villa near Toulon. I wait for the day when I can leave this sand and dirt and spend the few years I have left in idleness and memories.” He leaned a little closer to the elderly spinster. “It is strange is it not, that we, who knew each other so long ago, should again meet as we did? Fate, the natives would call it, and, for once, I will admit that they are right.”

“It is strange,” agreed Miss Carson. “I’ve often thought of the Legion and the men who live and die to keep the desert safe for travellers. Tell me, Colonel. Do you have many battles?”

“No. Some skirmishes perhaps, but nothing serious.”

Marignay laughed. “Why, are you afraid of being carried off to ransom by some Sheik?”

“Do they do that? Carry people off to ransom, I mean?”

Clarice spoke the question to the company but her eyes never left the young face of the officer at her side. Corville nodded.

“It sometimes happens. The Riff tribes are notorious for it, they used to be slavers in the old days, you know, and habit dies hard. They will capture a likely prospect, demand as much ransom as they think they can get, and then send the prisoner home again when it has been paid. They are quite ethical about it really. They will celebrate the payment with a great feast to which the prisoner is invited and they part on the best of terms.” Corville smiled. “You see, to them it is merely a matter of business. Either side is aware of the ethics of the thing and neither will feel hurt or injured in any way. Sometimes the would-be kidnappers are caught and sent to a penal colony. They either escape or die. No native can work for long as a white man can. Their spirit breaks, or their heart, or they just will themselves to die. That is why they will fight so hard to avoid capture.”

“What if the captive doesn’t pay his ransom?” Dick looked at the young officer and spoke for the first time, His voice was deep, pleasant, and Corville warmed to him as he spoke.

“Then it is not so pleasant. An ear might be removed and sent as a reminder, a second ear or, perhaps a hand follows. Then, finally, the entire head is usually delivered. If the prisoner’s family are at all fond of him they have usually paid by that time and so it is rare for any captive to die.”

“And suppose a woman was to be captured?” Clarice looked eagerly at the officer. “Would they do the same?”

“No. Women are of little value in the desert. Unless she were a rich man’s favourite wife, a Sheik’s daughter, or a person wealthy in her own right, they would not bother with her. If they did, and could get no ransom, then she would be sold to the highest bidder.” Corville smiled at the shocked expression on Miss Carson’s face. “The desert isn’t the romantic place most people think it is. The tribesmen are still pretty medieval in outlook and slavery is still practiced deep in the interior. To the average Arab a woman is merely a chattel, as much a possession as his rugs, his tents, his horses and goats, and of far less value than either of those.”

“I can’t believe it,” snapped Susan. “Do you mean to say that you tolerate such conditions?”

“What else can we do?” asked Marignay. “The desert is huge, we are small, and who can watch the comings and goings of every caravan.” He nodded as he poured more wine. “We are not blind we of the Legion and we know that many a slave has been sold on the block, many a load of hashish has passed across the borders into Egypt there to be sold for guns. Pearls too have found their way into the markets of the world without anyone paying custom duty on them. But these are little things. We of the Legion must keep the peace and that is what we do.”

“You make the desert sound so unromantic,” complained Clarice. “Sheiks who are fat, dirty men, and camels loaded with smuggled guns instead of rare spices. You’ve destroyed one of my favourite illusions.”

“Not all Sheiks are fat or dirty,” smiled Marignay. “Tomorrow night you will see the Sheik El Morini who, I am sure, will be able to restore your illusions. He is tall and proud and a pure son of the desert. I respect him as a gentleman and, I am pleased to say, he offers me the same respect. I must show you a dagger he gave me, a work of rare price which will comfort me in my old age with tender memories of when I was young.”

“I’d like to meet him,” said Clarice. She looked at Corville.

“Have you ever seen him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he as the Colonel says? Tall and handsome and proud?”

“The last time I saw him,” said Corville deliberately, “he had just knifed a man. He then showed his pride by ordering the deaths of some twenty helpless men. If such actions make him a gentleman, then I do not wish to be classed with him. Therefore, like Captain Gerald, I am no gentleman.”

He blinked at the colonel, half aware that the closeness of the room and the richness of the unaccustomed wine was going to his head. “Do I walk out or are you going to throw me out?”

“Silence!” Marignay was white with anger. “I’m surprised at you de Corville. To act and speak so in front of my guests!”

“Yes,” said Corville. “I’m sorry. I should have known better than to speak the truth. They may want to cling to their illusions a little longer.” Suddenly he laughed. “Sorry. I must really apologise, The Colonel is right.”

“He was found wandering in the desert suffering from thirst and heat,” explained the colonel rapidly. “I had hoped that he had made a full recovery but apparently I was wrong, You must excuse his conduct.”

“But did he see this Sheik, what’s his name kill those men?” Dick narrowed his eyes as he stared at the young officer. “He doesn’t look sick to me, a little drunk perhaps, but not sick.”

“Of course he did not,” said Marignay, “The whole thing was but a figment of his imagination. El Morini is a gentleman and would never do such a thing.” The Colonel touched his temple. “The sun, you know, it can do strange things to a man dying of thirst.”

“And wounded too.” Clarice gently touched the strip of plaster across the young man’s forehead. “How did that happen?”

“It is nothing,” said Corville, already ashamed of his outburst. “The Colonel is right. I did suffer from too much sun and it may have left me a little light-headed.” He reached for his glass, then added:

“When did you say you were returning to Sidi bel Abbes?”

“We’re not,” said Dick. “From here we’re going by camel caravan to Marojia. From there we hope to pick up transport to Toulon, then up through France, to London where we leave Miss Carson, and so back home to the States.” He stretched. “Personally, nice as it has been to come here and see all these things, I shan’t be sorry to get back home again.”

“And you?” Corville smiled into the eyes of the young woman. “Will you be glad to leave?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I’d like to stay but a woman can hardly stay in a fort on her own, can she?”

“No.”

“Tell me,” she said absently. “What happens when you people marry? You do marry I suppose?”

“Sometimes. Then, if the man is an officer and wise, he resigns his commission. If he is a man, he doesn’t get married, he can’t; or if he does, then it is his own fault. The desert is no place for women, white women that is, not when every moment is filled with danger.”

“I’d wondered about that.” she said. “The danger I mean. Tell me, is it really as dangerous as some people make out? We’ve not seen any trouble and we’ve travelled hundreds of miles across the desert. Is it all rumour or do you actually fight real battles?”