it was to all of us, a most unusual manifestation of cafard was exhibited, when a corporal killed a sergeant and then committed suicide. What Corporal Gontran's grievance against the sergeant was, I do not know, but this again was an exceedingly unfortunate affair, as, like Captain Renouf himself, both these men were on the side of the angels, inasmuch as they were decent, fair-minded, and reasonable people.
But the Fates and the Furies had one more disaster in store for the unhappy garrison before they were ready to launch upon our luckless heads the final torrent of destruction.
Lieutenant Debussy, the new Commandant, sickened and died, and his place was taken by none other than Adjudant Lejaune.
From the moment in which it was known that the Lieutenant was dead, the atmosphere of Zinderneuf changed from bad to worse and rapidly from worse to the worst possible.
The lion-tamer had entered the cage, and the lions, sullen, infuriated, and desperate, knew that he held in one hand the whip that should drive them to revolt, and in the other the revolver that should instantly punish the first sign of it.
§2.
Life at Zinderneuf was not really life so much as the avoidance of death--death from sunstroke, heat-stroke, monotony, madness, or Adjudant Lejaune.
Cafard was rampant; everybody was more or less abnormal and "queer" from frayed nerves, resultant upon the terrific heat and the monotony, hardship, and confinement to a little mud oven of a fort; many men were a little mad, and Adjudant Lejaune, in the hollow of whose hand were our lives and destinies, was a great deal more than a little mad.
From the point of view of the authorities, he was sane enough, for he could maintain an iron discipline; make all reports and returns, to the minute and to the letter; and, if attacked, he could be trusted to keep the Tri-couleur flying while there was a man alive in the Fort.
From the point of view of his subordinates, he was nevertheless a madman, and a very dangerous one.
At times, I was almost glad that Digby was not with us, much as I missed him; and at those times I almost wished that Michael was not, much as I depended on him.
Danger to oneself is unpleasant enough, when it is that of being murdered by a lunatic. When to it is added the danger, and constant fear, of a similar fate overtaking people whom one loves, it becomes ten times worse.
Michael and I both begged each other not to be so foolish as to play into Lejaune's hands, by giving him the faintest chance to accuse us of any breach of duty or discipline, or of so much as an insubordinate look, even under the greatest provocation. But we felt that the time would come when Lejaune would cease to wait for an excuse, and that all we could do was to put off the evil day. . . .
"I'm positively glad, now, that Dig isn't here," said Michael to me, one terrible afternoon, as we lay gasping on our burning cots during siesta hours, in our stifling caserne.
"Hank and Buddy too," he added. "One word of back-chat to Lejaune would have been fatal. . . . And Dig might have done it. Buddy more so. . . . Or if Hank once lost control he'd lay Lejaune out like a pole-axed ox. . . ."
"Somebody'll do for him one of these days, if we don't soon get a new commanding officer," said I. "And a good job too."
"Not it," contradicted Michael. "It would be one degree worse than letting him live. . . . These asses would give three loud cheers, march off into the desert, and survive about three days of it--if the Arabs didn't get them before they died of thirst."
"It'll happen," prophesied I. "Schwartz is getting very mysterious and important these days. Oh, it'll happen all right."
"That's what I think," said Michael, "and it's about the worst thing that could happen. And if no one goes and does it spontaneously, there'll be a plot to murder him--if there isn't one already, which I believe there is, as you say--and we should have the choice of fighting for Lejaune--(for Lejaune!)--or being two of a gang of silly, murdering mutineers with nothing but a choice of beastly deaths--thirst and Arabs in the desert, or court martial and a firing party at dawn. . . . Rotten."
"If he's promoted Lieutenant and kept in command here, he won't last a week," said I. . . . "What's going to happen if they make a plot to mutiny and we're the only two that refuse to join them?"
"We should join Lejaune instead, where dead men tell no tales, I expect," answered Michael.
"What would Sergeant Dupré and Corporal Boldini do?" I speculated.
"If it were a case of saving their skins they'd join the mutineers, I should say--if they were given the option," replied Michael. "They probably loathe Lejaune as much as we do, and neither of them is exactly the man to die for a principle. . . . If they woke to find a gang of bad men, with rifles, round their beds, they'd 'take the cash and let the discredit go,'--'Nor heed the rumble of a distant drum' from Tokotu," he added.
"I doubt if they'd be given the option," I said.
"So do I," agreed Michael. "They're not loved. They've been whips and scorpions in Lejaune's hands too long and too willingly."
"And if we were 'approached' on the subject of a mutiny and did our miserable duty in warning Lejaune and the others?" I asked.
"We should promptly get thirty days' cells from Lejaune for currying favour with horrible lies, and short shrift from the mutineers for being escrocs," said Michael. . . .
"Let us give thanks unto the Lord and count our many blessings, my brethren," he yawned, and, at that moment, Schwartz, Haff, Brandt, Bolidar, Delarey, and Vogué entered the room and joined Guantaio, Colonna, and Gotto at the other end of it. Here they conversed in low voices, with occasional glances at us.
§3.
And to me, one night, came Schwartz, as I sat in a corner of the little courtyard, trying to imagine that the night was cooler than the day, and this spot, which faced north, less hot than the others.
He was a huge, powerful, hairy ruffian, who would have made a great pirate-captain, for he had brains, courage, and determination, quite unhampered by over-fine scruples of honour or mercy. He was further endowed with a magnetic personality and power of command.
"Are you enjoying life, Smith?" he asked, seating himself beside me.
"Quite as much as you are, Schwartz," I replied.
"Would you like a change?" he enquired.
"I am fond of change," said I.
A brief silence ensued.
"Have you ever seen a pig die?" he asked suddenly.
"No," I replied.
"Well, you soon will," he assured me.
"Feeling ill?" I enquired rudely. I did not like the gross Schwartz.
"You are going to see a big pig die," he went on, ignoring my vulgarity. "A sacred pig. An anointed pig. A striped pig. A promoted pig. Oh, an adjudant pig."
"So?" I murmured.
"Yes. Monsieur le Cochon is going to become Monsieur Porc."
"And
