the fort. But why? Why? If such was the explanation of the officer's death--why on earth had not the murderer shot him and calmly awaited the arrival of the relieving force?
Naturally all would have supposed that the brave Commandant had been shot, like all the rest, by the Arabs.
Instead of fleeing to certain death from thirst and starvation, or torture at the hands of the Arabs, why had not the murderer awaited, in comfort, the honours, réclame, reward, and promotion that would most assuredly have been his? Obviously, the man who--lusting for blood and vengeance on account of some real or fancied wrong--could murder his superior at such a moment, would be the very one to see the beauty of getting a rich and glorious reward as a sequel to his revenge. Without a doubt he would have shot him through the head, propped him up with the rest, and accepted the congratulations of the relieving force for having conceived and executed the whole scheme of outwitting and defeating the Arabs. Wouldn't he, George?"
"I would," replied George, scratching his head.
"Yes, you would. And I almost sent that theory to join the other two wild ones--the corpse who returned to its post, and the Arab who threw sword-bayonets from afar. Almost--until I remembered that revolver in the dead man's hand, and the empty cartridge-case in one of its chambers. And then I asked myself, 'Does a man who is conducting the defence of a block-house, against tremendous odds, waste time in taking pot-shots with a revolver at concealed enemies, two or three hundred yards distant? Does he do that, with hundreds of rounds of rifle ammunition and a score of rifles to his hand?' Of course not.
That revolver shot was fired at someone in the fort. It was fired point-blank at the man who murdered him--and the murderer must have been one of his own men, and that man must have fled from the fort. But again, why? Why? Why?
Why not have shot his officer, as I said before? He would never have had even the need to deny having done it, for no one would have dreamt of accusing him.
And then I had an idea. I suddenly said to myself, 'Suppose some scoundrel bayoneted the Commandant even before the alarm was given or the attack began--and then organised the defence and died at his post with the others?'
Led a mutiny of the garrison, perhaps; took command; and was shot and propped up in his embrasure by someone else. Yes, but who propped the last man up? He did not do it himself, that was certain--for every single corpse on that roof had been arranged before rigor mortis set in. The only man who was not 'to the life' was one who lay on his back. It was curious, that recumbent corpse with closed eyes and folded hands, but I did not see that it offered any clue. Whoever had been doing the ghastly work of corpse-drilling had overlooked it--or, indeed, had been going to set the dead man up when the final tragedy, whatever it was, occurred.
It may have been that the brave sous-officier was going to arrange this very corpse when he was attacked. Or, as I say, the officer may have been dead the whole time, or part of it, and the last survivor may have had this last work cut short by a bullet, before he had put the man in position.
But if so, where was he? . . . Was it the man who had fired the two shots in answer to mine--and if so, what had become of him? Why had he fired if he wished to hide or escape?
My head spun. I felt I was going mad.
And then I said to myself, 'Courage, mon brave! Go calmly up to that terrible roof again, and just quietly and clearly make certain of two points. First: Is there any one of those standing corpses who has not quite obviously been arranged, propped up, fixed in position? If so--that is the man who killed his officer and was afterwards shot by the Arabs. Secondly: Has any one of those dead men been shot point-blank with a revolver? (That I should be able to tell at a glance.) If so, that is the man who killed his officer--(who lived long enough to thrust his assailant into an embrasure) . . . .'"
"After himself being bayoneted through the heart?" enquired Lawrence.
"Exactly what I said to myself--and groaned aloud as I said it," replied de Beaujolais.
"Anyhow," he continued, "I would go up and see if any man had been shot by a revolver, and if any man lay naturally against the slope of an embrasure. . . . I turned to ascend the stair, and then, George, and not till then, I got the real shock of that awful day of shocks. For, where was my trumpeter?
I had made a quick but complete tour of the place and now realised in a flash that I had seen no living thing and heard no sound.
'Trompette! Trompette!' I shouted. I rushed to the door leading to the courtyard, the little interior, high-walled parade ground.
'Trompette!' I shouted and yelled, again and again, till my voice cracked.
Not a sound. Not a movement.
And then, in something like panic, putting all else from my mind, I rushed to the gates, lifted down the great bars, pulled the heavy bolts, turned the great key, and dragged them open--just as the mule-squadron arrived and my good Sergeant-Major was giving them the signal to join the assault!
It was not that I had suddenly remembered that the time I had allowed him must be up, but that I needed to see a human being again, to hear a human voice, after a quarter of an hour in that House of Death, that sinister abode of tragic mysteries. I felt an urgent and unconquerable yearning for some . . ."
"Breakfast," said George Lawrence, as the train slowed down.
§6.
Bathed, full-fed, and at peace with a noisy world, in so far as choking dust, grilling heat, and the weariness of three days' close confinement in a stuffy carriage allowed, the two compagnons de voyage lay and smoked the cheroot of digestion in a brief silence. Brief, because it was not in the power of the impulsive and eloquent beau sabreur, of the Spahis, to keep silence for long upon the subject uppermost in his active and ardent mind.
"Georges, mon vieux," he broke silence, "do you believe in spirits, ghosts, devils?"
"I firmly believe in whiskey, the ghost of a salary, and a devil of a thin time. Seen 'em myself," was the reply.
"Because the only solution that my Sergeant-Major could offer was just that. . . .
'Spirits! Ghosts! Devils!' he whispered, when he realised that the sous-officier had been murdered apparently by a corpse, and that the trumpeter had absolutely vanished into thin air, leaving not a trace of himself, and effecting the evaporation of his rifle as well as of his trumpet and everything else.
This was not very helpful, strongly as I was tempted to endorse it.
'Sergeant-Major Dufour,' said I, 'I am going to propound theories and you are going to find the weak points in them. The absurdities and idiocies in them.
Post vedettes far out, all round the place, and let the men fall out and water their beasts in the oasis. Sergeant Lebaudy will be in command. Tell him that fires may be lighted and soupe made, but that in an hour's time all are to be on grave-digging fatigue. He is to report immediately when mule-scouts from Lieutenant St. André's advance Senegalese arrive from Tokotu, or if anything happens meanwhile. If a vedette gives the alarm, all are to enter the fort immediately--otherwise no one is to set foot inside. Put a sentry at the gate. . . . You and I will look into this affaire while Achmet makes us some coffee'--and I gave the good fellow a cake of chocolate and a measure of cognac from my flask. We were both glad of that cognac.
While
