# The Wages of Virtue/Chapter 11
### CHAPTER XI GREATER LOVE …

AT the bottom of the alley, le bon Légionnaire Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat encountered Sergeant Legros. … A bright idea! … Stepping up to the worthy Sergeant, he saluted, and informed him that, passing the notorious Café de la Légion, a minute since, he had heard a terrible tohuwabohu and, looking in, had seen a crowd of excited Legionaries fighting with knives and side-arms. He had not entered, but from the door had seen at least one dead man upon the ground.
The worthy Sergeant's face lit up as he smacked his lips with joy. Ah, ha! here were punishments. … Here were crimes. … Here were victims for salle de police and cellules. … Fodder for the peloton des hommes punis and the Zephyrs. … Here was distinction for that keen disciplinarian, Sergeant Legros.
"V'la quelqu'un pour la boîte," quoth he, and betook himself to the Café at the pas gymastique.
§2
At the sight of the knife buried in the broad naked back of the Italian, the silence of horror fell upon the stupefied crowd.
Nombril de Belzébuth! How had it happened?
Sacré nom de nom de bon Dieu de Dieu de Dieu de ​sort! Who had done it? Certainly not le Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau. Never for one second had the Légionnaire Rivoli's back been toward him. Never for one instant had there been a knife in the American's hand. Yet there lay the great Luigi Rivoli stabbed to the heart. There was the knife in his back. Dame!
Men's mouths hung open stupidly, as they stared wide-eyed. Gradually it grew clear and obvious. Of course—he had been knocked backwards into that group of his jackals, Malvin, Borges, Hirsch and Bauer, and one of them, who hated him, had been so excited and uplifted by the sight of his defeat that he had turned upon him. Yes, he had been stabbed by one of those four.
"Malvin did it. I saw him," ejaculated Tant-de-Soif. He honestly thought he had—or thought he thought so. "God bless him," he added solemnly.
He had many a score to settle with M. Malvin, but he could afford to give him generous praise—since he was booked for the firing-party beside the open grave, or five years rabiau in Biribi. It is not every day that one's most hated enemies destroy each other.…
"Wal! I allow thet's torn it," opined the Bucking Bronco as he surveyed his dead enemy.
Carmelita came from behind the bar and down the room. What was happening? Why had the fight stopped? She saw the huddled heap that had been Rivoli.… She saw the knife—and thought she understood. This was as things should be. This was how justice and vengeance were executed in her own beloved Naples. Il Signor Americano was worthy to be a Neapolitan, worthy to inherit and transmit ​vendetta. How cruelly she had misjudged him in thinking him a barbarian.…
"Payé," she cried, turning in disgust from the body, and threw her arms round the Bucking Bronco's neck, as the Sergeant burst in at the door. Sergeant Legros was in his element. Not only was there here a grand harvest of military criminals for his reaping, but here was vengeance—and vengeance and cruelty were the favourite food of the soul of Sergeant Legros. Here was a grand opportunity for vengeance on the Italian trollop who had, when he was a private Legionary, not only rejected his importunities with scorn, but had soundly smacked his face withal. Striding forward, as soon as he had roared, "Attention!" he seized Carmelita roughly by the arm and shook her violently, with a shout of: "To your kennel, prostituée." Whereupon the Bucking Bronco felled his superior officer to the ground with a smashing blow upon the jaw, thereby establishing an indisputable claim to life-servitude in the terrible Penal Battalions.
Among the vices of vile Sergeant Legros, physical cowardice found no place. Staggering to his feet, he spat out a tooth, wiped the blood from his face, drew his sword-bayonet, and rushed at the American intending to kill him forthwith, in "self-defence." At the best of times Sergeant Legros looked, and was, a dangerous person—but the blow had made him a savage, homicidal maniac. The Bucking Bronco was dazed and astonished at what he had done. Circumstances had been too strong for him. He had naturally been in an abnormal state at the end of such a fight, and in no condition to think and act calmly when his ​adored Carmelita was insulted and assaulted.… What had he done? This meant death or penal servitude from the General Court Martial at Oran. He had lost her in the moment of winning her, and he dropped his hands as the Sergeant flew at him with the sword-bayonet poised to strike. No—he would fight.… He would make his get-away.… He would skin out and Carmelita should join him.… He would fight… Too late! … The bayonet was at his throat.… Crash! … Good old Johnny! … That had been a near call. As the maddened Legros was in the act to thrust, Legionary John Bull had struck him on the side of the head with all his strength, sending him staggering, and had leapt upon him to secure the bayonet as they went crashing to the ground. As they struggled, Legionary Rupert set his foot heavily on the Sergeant's wrist and wrenched the bayonet from his hand.
The problem of Sir Montague Merline's future was settled and the hour for Reginald Rupert's desertion had struck.
An ominous growl had rumbled round the room at the brutal words and action of the detested Legros, and an audible gasp of consternation had followed the Bucking Bronco's blow. Sacré Dieu! Here were doings of which ignorance would be bliss—and there was a rush to the door, headed by Messieurs Malvin, Borges, Hirsch and Bauer.
Several Legionaries, as though rooted to the spot by a fearful fascination, or by the hope of seeing Legros share the fate of Rivoli, had stood their ground until John Bull struck him and Rupert snatched the bayonet as though to kill him. Then, with two excep​tions, this remainder fled. These two were Tant-de-Soif and the Dutchman, Hans Djoolte; the former, absolutely unable to think of flight and the establishment of an alibi while the man who had made his life a hell was fighting for his own life; the latter, clear of conscience, honestly innocent and wholly unafraid. Staring round-eyed, they saw Sergeant Legros mightily heave his body upward, his head pinned to the ground by 'Erb 'Iggins, his throat clutched by Légionnaire Jean Boule, his right hand held down by Légionnaire Rupert. Again he made a tremendous effort, emitted a hideous bellowing sound and then collapsed and lay curiously still. Meanwhile, Carmelita had closed and fastened the doors and shutters of the Café and was turning out the lamps. Within half a minute of the entrance of the Sergeant, the Café was closed and in semi-darkness.
"The bloomin' ol' fox is shammin' dead," panted 'Erb, and removed his own belt. "’Eave 'im up and shove this rahnd 'is elbers while 'e's a-playin' 'possum. Shove yourn rahnd 'is legs, Buck," he added.
While still lying perfectly supine, the Sergeant was trussed like a fowl.
"Naow we gotter hit the high places. We gotter vamoose some," opined the Bucking Bronco, as the four arose, their task completed. They looked at each other in consternation. Circumstances had been too much for them. Fate and forces outside themselves had whirled them along in a spate of mischance, and cast them up, stranded and gasping. Entering the place with every innocent and praiseworthy intention, they now stood under the shadow of the gallows and the gaol. With them in that room was a murdered ​man, and an assaulted, battered and outraged superior.…
The croaking voice of Tant-de-Soif broke the silence. "Pour vous," quoth he, "il n'y a plus que l'Enfer."
"Shut up, you ugly old crow," replied Reginald Rupert, "and clear out.… Look here, what are you going to do about it? What are you going to say?"
"I?" enquired Tant-de-Soif. "Le Légionnaire Djoolte and I have seen each other in the Bar de Madagascar off the Rue de Daya the whole evening. We have been here peaudezébie. Is it not, my Djoolte? Eh, mon salop?"
But the sturdy Dutch boy was of a different moral fibre.
"I have not been in the Bar de Madagascar," replied he, in halting Legion French. "I have been in le Café de la Légion the whole evening and seen all that happened."
"’E's a-seekin' sorrer. 'E wants a fick ear," put in 'Erb in his own vernacular.
"If my evidence is demanded, I saw a fair fight between the Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau and le Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli. I then saw le Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli fall dead, having been stabbed by either le Légionnaire Malvin or le Légionnaire Bauer, if it were not le Légionnaire Hirsch, or le Légionnaire Borges. I believe Malvin stabbed him while these three held him, but I do not know. I then saw le Sergent Legros enter and assault and abuse Mam'zelle Carmelita. I then saw him fall as though someone had struck him and he then attempted to murder le Légionnaire Bronco with his Rosalie. I then saw ​some Légionnaires tie him up.… That is the evidence that I shall give if I give any at all. I may refuse to answer, but I shall tell no lies."
"That is all right," said the Bucking Bronco. "Naow yew git up an' yew git—an' yew too, Tant-de-Soif, and tell the b'ys ter help Carmelita any they can, ef Legros gits 'er inter trouble an' gits 'er Caffy shut.… An' when yew gits the Gospel truth orf yure chest, Fatty, yew kin say, honest Injun, as haow I tol' yew, thet me an' John Bull was a-goin' on pump ter Merocker, an' Mounseers Rupert an' 'Erb was a-goin' fer ter do likewise ter Toonis. Naow git," and the two were hustled out of the Café.
"Now," said John Bull, taking command, "we've got to be quick, as it's just possible the news of what's happened may reach the picket and you may be looked for before you're missing. First thing is Carmelita, second thing's money, and third thing's plan of campaign.… Is Carmelita in any danger over this?"
"Don't see why she should be," said Rupert. "It's not her fault that there was a fight in her Café. It has never been in any sense a 'disorderly house,' and what happened, merely happened here."
"Yep," agreed the Bucking Bronco. "But I'm plum' anxious. I'm sure tellin' yew, I don't like ter make my gitaway an' leave her hyar. But we can't take a gal on pump."
"Arx the young lidy," suggested 'Erb, and with one consent they went to the bar, leaning on which Carmelita was sobbing painfully. The strain and agony of the last twenty-four hours had been too much and she had broken down. As they passed the ​two silent bodies, 'Erb stopped and bent over Sergeant Legros, remarking: "Knows 'ow ter lie doggo, don't 'e—the ol' cunnin'-chops?" He fell silent a moment, and then in a very different voice ejaculated, "Gawds-treuth 'e's mort, 'e is. 'E's tué."
John Bull and Reginald Rupert looked at each other, and then turned back quietly to where the Sergeant was lying.
"Cerebral hemorrhage," suggested John Bull. "I struck him on the side of the head."
"’Eart failure," suggested 'Erb. "I set on 'is 'ead till 'is 'eart stopped, blimey!"
"Apple Plexy, I opine," put in the Bucking Bronco. "All comes o' gittin' excited, don't it?"
"He certainly made himself perfectly miserable when I took his bayonet away," admitted Legionary Rupert.
"Anyhow, it's a fair swingin' job nah, wotever it was afore," said 'Erb. Whatever the cause and whosesoever the hand, Sergeant Legros was undoubtedly dead. They removed the belts, straightened his limbs, closed his eyes and 'Erb placed the dead man's képi over the face, bursting as he did so into semi-hysterical song—
"Ours is a 'appy little 'ome, I wisht I was a kipper on the foam, There's no carpet on the door, There's no knocker on the floor, Oo! Ours is a 'appy little 'ome."
"Shut that damned row," said Legionary Rupert.
"Carmelita, honey," said the Bucking Bronco, stroking the hair of the weeping girl. "Yew got the brains. Wot'll we do? Shall we stop an' look arter ​ye? Will yew come on pump with us? Will yew ketch the nine-fifteen ter Oran? Yew could light out fer the railroad de-pot right now—or will yew stick it out here, an' see ef they takes away yure licence? They couldn't do nuthin' more.… Give it a name, little gal—we've gotter hike quick, ef we ain't a-goin' ter stay."
Carmelita controlled herself with an effort and dried her eyes. Not for nothing had her life been what it had.
"You must all go at once," she said unhesitatingly. "Take Signor Rupert's money and make for Mendoza's in the Ghetto. He'll sell you mufti and food. Change, and then run, all night, along the railway. Lie up all day, and then run all night again. Then take different trains at different wayside stations, one by one, and avoid each other like poison in Oran; and leave by different boats on different days. I shall stay here. After trying for some hours to revive Legros, I shall send for the picket. You will be far from Sidi then. I shall give the Police all information as to the fight, and as to the murder of that, by Malvin; and shall conceal nothing of Legros' murderous attempt upon the Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau and of his death by apoplessia.… They will see he has no wound.… This will give weight and truth to my evidence to the effect that it was a fair, clean fight and that no blame attaches to le Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau.… Where am I to blame? … No, you can leave me without fear. Also will I give evidence to having heard you plotting to make the promenade in different directions and to avoid the railway and Oran.…"
​The Bucking Bronco was overcome with admiration.
"Ain't that horse-sense?" he ejaculated.
Laying her hands upon his shoulders, Carmelita looked him in the eyes.
"And when you write to me to join you also, dear Americano, I will come," she said. "I, Carmelita, have said it.… Now that that is dead, I shall be able to save some money. Write to me when you are safe, and I will join you wherever you are—whether it be Napoli or Inghilterra or America."
"God bless ye, little gal," growled the American, folding her in his arms, and for the first time of his life being on the verge of an exhibition of weakness. "We'll make our gitaway all right, an' we couldn't be no use ter yew in prison hyar.… I'll earn or steal some money ter send yer, Carmelita, honey."
"I can help you there," put in Legionary Rupert.
"You and your loose cash are the deus ex machina, Rupert, my boy," said John Bull.… "But for you, the Russians would hardly have got away so easily, and now a few pounds will make all the difference between life and death to Buck and Carmelita, not to mention yourself and 'Erb."
"I am very fortunate," said Rupert, gracefully. "By the way, how much have we left Carmelita?" he added.
"Exactly seven hundred francs, Monsieur," she replied. "Monsieur drew one thousand, he will remember, and the Russians after all, needed only three hundred in addition to their own roubles."
"What are you going to do, 'Erb?" asked John Bull. "You haven't committed yourself very deeply ​you know. Legros can't give evidence against you and I doubt whether Tant-de-Soif or Djoolte will.… I don't suppose any of the others noticed you, but there's a risk—and ten years of Dartmoor would be preferable to six months in the Penal Battalions. What shall you do?"
"Bung orf," replied 'Erb. "I'm fair fed full wiv Hafrica. Wot price the Ol' Kent Road on a Sat'day night!"
"Then seven hundred francs will be most ample for three of you, to get mufti, railway tickets and tramp-steamer passages from Oran to Hamburg."
"Why three?" asked Rupert.
"You, Buck and 'Erb," replied John Bull.
"Oh, I see. You have money for your own needs?" observed Rupert in some surprise.
"I'm not going," announced John Bull.
"What?" exclaimed four voices simultaneously, three in English and one in French.
"I'm not going," he reiterated, "for several reasons.… To begin with, I've nowhere to go. Secondly, I don't want to go. Thirdly, I did not kill Legros," and, as an inducement to the Bucking Bronco to agree with his wishes, he added, "and fourthly, I may be able to be of some service to Carmelita if only by supporting her testimony with my evidence at the trial—supposing that I am arrested."
"Come off it, old chap," said Rupert. "There are a hundred men whose testimony will support Carmelita's."
"Wot's bitin' yew naow, John?" asked the Bucking Bronco. "Yew know it's a plum' sure thing as haow it'll come out thet yew slugged Legros in the year-'ole ​when we man-handled him. Won't that be enuff ter give yew five-spot in Biribi?"
"Yus. Wot cher givin' us, Ole Cock?" expostulated 'Erb. "Wot price them blokes Malvin, an' Bower, an' Borjis, an' 'Ersh? Fink they'll shut their 'eads? An' wot price that bloomin' psalm-smitin', Bible-puncher of a George Washington of a Joolt? Wot price ole Tarntderswoff? Git 'im in front of a court martial an' 'e wouldn't jabber, would 'e? Not arf, 'e wouldn't. I don't fink."
"And don't talk tosh, my dear chap, about having nowhere to go, please," said Rupert. "You're coming home with me of course. My mother will love to have you."
"Thanks awfully, but I'm afraid I can't go to England," was the reply. "I must…"
"Garn," interrupted 'Erb. "I'm wanted meself, but I'm a-goin' ter chawnst it. No need ter 'ang abaht Scotland Yard.… I knows lots o' quiet juggers. 'Sides, better go where it's a risk o' bein' pinched than stop where it's a dead cert.… Nuvver fing. You ain't goin' ter be put away fer wot you done, Gawd-knows-'ow-many years ago. That's all blowed over, long ago. Why you've bin 'ere pretty nigh fifteen year, ain't yer? Talk sinse, Ole Cock—ain't yer jest said yer'd raver do a ten stretch in Portland than 'arf a one in Biribi?"
John Bull and Reginald Rupert smiled at each other.
"Thanks awfully, Rupert," said the former, "but I can't go to England." Turning to the Cockney he added, "You're a good sort, Herbert, my laddie—but I'm staying here."
​"Shucks," observed the American with an air of finality, and turning to Carmelita requested her to fetch the nuggets, the spondulicks, the dope—in short, the wad. Carmelita disappeared into her little room and returned in a few moments with a roll of notes.
"Well, good-bye, my dear old chap," said John Bull, taking the American's hand. "You understand all I can't say, don't you? … Good-bye."
"Nuthin' doin', John," was the answer.
"Hurry him off, Carmelita, we've wasted quite time enough," said John Bull, turning to the girl. "If he doesn't go now and do his best for himself, he doesn't love you. Do clear him out. It's death or penal servitude if he's caught. He struck Legros before Legros even threatened him—and Legros is dead."
"You hear what Signor Jean Boule says. Are you going?" said Carmelita, turning to the American.
"No, my gal. I ain't," was the prompt reply. "How can I, Carmelita? … I'm his pal.… Hev' I got ter choose between yew an' him?"
"Of course you have," put in John Bull. "Stay here and you will never see her again. It won't be a choice between me and her then; it'll be between death and penal servitude."
The Bucking Bronco took Carmelita's face between his hands.
"Little gal," he said, "I didn't reckon there was no such thing as 'love,' outside books, ontil I saw yew. Life wasn't worth a red cent ontil yew came hyar. Then every time I gits inter my bunk, I thinks over agin every word I'd said ter yew thet night, an' every word yew'd said ter me. An' every mornin' when I gits up, I ses, 'I shall see Carmelita ter-night,' ​an' nuthin' didn't jar me so long as that was all right. An' when I knowed yew wasn't fer mine, because yew loved Loojey Rivoli, then I ses, 'Hell!' An' I didn't shoot 'im up because I see how much yew loved him. An' I put up with him when he uster git fresh, because ef I'd beat 'im up yew'd hev druv me away from the Caffy, an' life was jest Hell, 'cause I knowed 'e was a low-lifer reptile an' yew'd never believe it.… An' now yew've found 'im out, an' he's gorn, an' yure mine—an' it's too late.… Will yew think I don't love yew, little gal? … Don't tell me ter go or I might sneak off an' leave John in the lurch."
"You can't help me, Buck," put in John Bull. "I shall be all right. Who'll you benefit by walking into gaol?"
The American looked appealingly at the girl, and his face was more haggard and anxious than when he was fighting for his life.
"This is my answer, Signor Bouckaing Bronceau," spake Carmelita. "Had you gone without Signor Jean Boule, I should not have followed you. Now I have heard you speak, I trust you for ever. Had you deserted your friend in trouble, you would have deserted me in trouble. If Signor Jean Boule will not go, then you must stay, for he struck Legros to save your life, as you struck him to avenge me. Would I run away while you paid for that blow? …"
Carmelita then turned with feminine wiles upon John Bull.
"Since Signor Jean Boule will not go on pump," she continued, "you must stay and be shot, or sent to penal servitude, and I must be left to starve in the gutter."
​Sir Montague Merline came to the conclusion that after all the problem of his immediate future was not settled.
"Very well," said he, "come on. We'll cut over to Mendoza's and go to earth. As soon as he has rigged us out, we'll get clear of Sidi."
(He could always give himself up when they had to separate and he could help them no more. Yes, that was it. He would pretend that he had changed his mind and when they had to separate he would pretend that he was going to continue his journey. He would return and give himself up. Having told the exact truth with regard to his share in the matter, he would take his chance and face whatever followed.)
"A rivederci, Carmelita," said he and kissed her.
"Mille grazie, Signor," replied Carmelita. "Buon viaggio," and wept afresh.
"So-long, Miss," said 'Erb. "Are we dahn'arted? Naow!"
Carmelita smiled through her tears at the quaint English ribaldo, and brought confusion on Reginald Rupert by the warmth of her thanks for his actual and promised financial help .…
"We'd better go separately to Mendoza's," said John Bull. "Buck had better come last. I'll go first and bargain with the old devil. We shan't be missed until the morning, but we needn't exactly obtrude ourselves on people."
He went out, followed a few minutes later by Rupert and 'Erb.
Left alone with Carmelita, the Bucking Bronco picked her up in his arms and held her like a baby, as with haggard face and hoarse voice he tried to tell ​her of his love and of his misery in having to choose between losing her and leaving her. Having arranged with her that he should write to her in the name of Jules Lebrun from an address which would not be in France or any of her colonies, the Bucking Bronco allowed himself to be driven from the back door of the Café. Carmelita's last words were—
"Good-bye, amato. When you send for me I shall come, and you need not wait until you can send me money."
§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 to him, 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 the Echo 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 no caldo, 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 expected comprar 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 the Tanezrafet? One of you a Negro, perhaps (pebbles in the nostrils), carrying an angareb and a bundle. I could let you have some hashish.… I could also arrange for camels—it's eighty miles to Oran, you know.… Say, three francs a day, per camel, and bakshish for the men.… Not meharis of 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 mmediately 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 his béret over 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 veux Faire mon bonheur, Marguerite, Marguerite, Si tu veux 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 own chambrée were 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 the pas gymnastique to the quick march. Galloping hoofs would mean a patrol of Arab gens-d'armes, the natural enemies of the poumpiste, 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 "dead or 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.
"Why Marguerite … 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.