in command here, and we survive!" I remarked.
"Yes," said Michael, "and talking of which, look here, old son. If I take the knock and you don't, I want you to do something for me. . . . Something most important . . . what?"
"You can rely on me, Beau," I said.
"I know I can, John," he replied. "There's some letters. A funny public sort of letter, a letter for Claudia, and one for you, and one for Digby, in my belt--and there's a letter and a tiny packet for Aunt Patricia. If you possibly can, old chap, get that letter and packet to Aunt. No hurry about it--but get it to her. See? Especially the letter. The packet doesn't much matter, and it contains nothing of any value, but I'd die a lot more comfortable if I knew that Aunt Patricia was going to get that letter after my death. . . ."
"Oh, shut it, Beau," I said roughly. "Your number's not up yet. Don't talk rot."
"I'm only asking you to do something if I'm pipped," said Michael.
"And, of course, I'll do it if I'm alive," I replied. . . . "But suppose we're both killed?"
"Well--the things are addressed and stamped, and it's usual to forward such letters and packets found on dead soldiers, as you know. Depends on what happens. . . . If we die and Lejaune survives, I doubt their being dispatched. Or rather, I don't doubt at all. . . . Or if the Arabs get in, there's not much chance of anything surviving. . . . But if we're both killed and the relief gets in here before the Arabs do, the officer in charge would do the usual thing. . . . Anyhow, we can only hope for the best. . . .
"Anything I can do for you if it's the other way round, John?" he added.
"Well, love to Dig, you know, and there's a letter for Isobel, and you might write to her if ever you get back to civilisation and say we babbled of her, and sang, 'Just before the battle, Mother,' and 'Bring a flower from Maggie's grave,' and all that. . . ."
Michael grinned.
"I'll say the right things about you to Isobel, old son," he said, "and if otherwise, you'll see that Aunt gets my letter, eh? Be sure I'm dead though. . . . I mean if I were captured alive by Arabs, or anything humorous like that, I don't want her to get it while I'm alive. . . . Of course, all five of the letters are important, but I do want Aunt to get hers . . ."
And then St. André ordered our little party up to the roof, and brought down the other one.
The Arabs had ceased their desultory firing, and might have been a hundred miles away. Only the sight of a little smoke from their camp-fires and the occasional scent of the burning camel-dung and wood betrayed their presence, for none were in sight, and they made no sound. No one doubted, however, that a very complete chain of watchful sentries ringed us round, and made it utterly impossible for anyone to leave the fort and bring help to his besieged comrades.
The fact that Lejaune sent no one to make the attempt seemed to confirm the story that Dupré had told Cordier as they bandaged the wounded, and to show that Lejaune believed that the goums had got away.
It would be a wellnigh hopeless enterprise, but there was just a chance in a thousand that a daring and skilful scout might be able to crawl to where their camels were, and get away on one. Nor was Lejaune the man to take any count of the fact that it was almost certain torture and death for the man who attempted it.
I decided that, on the one hand, he felt pretty sure the goums had got away to Tokotu directly the Arabs appeared, and that, on the other hand, the two or three men whom he could trust were just the men whom he could not spare.
Unless St. André, Michael, and I were with him, his fate would be the same whether he drove the Arabs off or not, and doubtless he would rather go down fighting Arabs, than be murdered by his own men.
I was ordered on duty as sentry, and, for two hours, patrolled my side of the roof with my eyes on the moonlit desert, where nothing moved and whence no sound came.
When relieved, I had a little chat with St. André after he had posted my relief.
"Dawn will be the dangerous time; they'll rush us then," he said, "and it will want quick shooting to keep them down if they come all together and on all four sides at once. They must be a hundred to one. . . . I wonder if they'll bring ropes and poles, or ride their camels right up to the walls. . . ."
"If they don't count the cost, I don't see how we can keep them out," I said.
"Nothing could keep them out," replied St. André. "But if they fail at dawn they won't try again until the next dawn. They'll just pepper us all day and tire us out. . . . They think they have all the time they want."
"Haven't they?" I asked.
"No," replied St. André. "Lejaune is certain that one of the goums got away. The Arabs couldn't get them both, he says, as they were at opposite sides of the fort, and half a mile apart always, at night."
"What about their ammunition?" I asked. "The Touaregs', I mean."
"The more they spend the more determined they'll be to get ours, and the more likely to put their money on a swift dawn-rush with cold steel. . . ."
I lay down and fell asleep, to be awakened by the bugle and Lejaune's shout of "Stand to!"
There was no sign of dawn and none of the Arabs.
From the centre of the roof, Lejaune addressed the diminished garrison of Fort Zinderneuf.
"Now, my merry birds," said he, "you're going to sing, and sing like the happy joyous larks you are. We'll let our Arab friends know that we're not only awake, but also merry and bright. Now then--the Marching Song of the Legion first. All together, you warbling water-rats--Now." And led by his powerful bellow, we sang at the tops of our voices.
Through the Legion's extensive repertoire he took us, and between songs the bugler blew every call that he knew.
"Now laugh, you merry, happy, jolly, care-free, humorous swine. Laugh. . . . You, Vogué, up there--roar with laughter, or I'll make you roar with pain, by God. . . . Out with it. Now. . . ."
A wretched laugh, like that of a hungry hyena, came down from the look-out platform.
It was so mirthless a miserable cackle, and so ludicrous, that we laughed genuinely.
"Again, you grinning dog," roared Lejaune. "Laugh till your sides ache, you gibbering jackal. Laugh till the tears run down your horrible face, you shivering she-ass. Laugh! . . . Now. . . ."
Again the hideous quavering travesty of a laugh rang out, and the men below roared heartily at the ridiculous noise.
"Now then, you twittering sniggering soupe-snatchers, laugh in turn," shouted Lejaune. "From the right--you start, Gotto."
Gotto put up a pretty good roar.
"Now beat that, next. Out with it, or, by God, I'll give you something to laugh at," Lejaune continued.
And so round that circle of doomed men, among the dead men, ran the crazy laughter, the doomed howling noisily, the dead smiling secretly out to the illuminated silent desert.
"Now all together with me," roared Lejaune, and
