Terence O'Rourke/Part 1/Chapter 11
CHAPTER X
HE SAVES THAT WHICH HE LOVES THE BEST
In an instant the little valley was the scene of confusion; for a frantic moment men were running hither and thither, apparently aimlessly, weaving in and out amongst their comrades—shouting, screaming, cursing aloud.
Danny, obedient to the order of O'Rourke, shouted to his men, commanding them to form a square similar to that used by British infantry when repelling attacks.
In the center of the square would be placed all those who might be counted upon to act as noncombatants in event of a possible mêlée between the landing party and the rightful lords of the desert—the Tawareks. These would be, probably, Madame la Princesse de Grandlieu, her husband, Prince Felix, together with Mouchon and D'Ervy and Monsieur Lemercier himself—Leopold the First, Emperor of the Sahara.
O'Rourke seized the arm of the princess, near to whom he had been standing, in a grasp whose roughness might only be condoned in view of his anxiety to get her quickly to the place of most safety. She did not resist; she did not even seem to resent his action. In her eyes, upturned to his, O'Rourke caught a look—even in that moment of terror and confusion—which he never forgot, which he was to treasure jealously for the rest of his days—a look of confidence, commingled (he dared hope) with an emotion deeper, stronger. In the deepening twilight they shone like clear, dark pools of night, lit with a light from within. Small wonder that the headstrong Irishman was conscious of his leaping heart, or that he lost himself momentarily in their depths.
But the voice of Chambret brought them both to reason—Chambret, who had been no less instant to the side of the princess. He shouted something in a tone tinged with impatient worriment. O'Rourke heard and turned, shaking his head like a man restive under the influence of a dream.
"Chambret!" he cried. "Thank God! Ye're armed? Then take her, man, and—and guard her as ye would your life. Madame," he murmured, "ye will pardon me—me seeming roughness. I—I was—"
"I understand, monsieur," she said quietly, still with her gaze upon his eyes; "you are needed elsewhere. Monsieur Chambret, your arm, if you please. I shall not run away, that you need clutch me so rudely!"
O'Rourke was gone. Chambret stared at the face of the woman in deepest chagrin. Did not the excuse the Irishman had claimed apply to him, to Chambret, also? He had how- ever, no time for protest. Immediately they found themselves surrounded by a pushing mob of men, which presently resolved itself into an orderly square, ten men to a side, enclosing the civilians and the pseudo-emperor.
O'Rourke took command, unsheathing his sword and drawing his revolver.
"Fix bayonets!" he cried.
There was a heavy thudding as the Mausers grounded upon the sand, and there followed the rattle of steel. In another moment the square bristled like a hedgehog, with the long, curved blades outturned upon the end of each firearm.
So far O'Rourke's attention had been directed solely to getting the command in a state of defense against the expected attack; now he turned his eyes to the enemy. Among them there was noticeable no confusion, no trace of excitement; still they sat motionless atop their camels, gazing steadfastly down into the gathering shadows of the valley, where the intruders were running frantically to and fro, making much unseemly noise.
Still the lords of the desert sat stolid and imperturbable, ranged about the summits of the surrounding dunes, unawed by the hostile preparations, awe-inspiring in their impassivity, their light-hued burnooses looming against the cool violet sky line, themselves as imperturbable as so many carrion birds waiting for their prey to die ere descending upon the tempting carcasses.
In the valley the little company was watching them breathlessly. O'Rourke grasped at a flying hope that their intent might be, after all, pacific; it brought a sigh of anticipated relief to his throat.
Hurriedly he unswung his field glasses and turned them toward the rear—in the direction from which the landing party had come. They covered the figure of Danny, who was still bravely running back to see if the way to the boats were clear.
Already the man had covered more than a quarter of a mile from the square and was pushing on, regardless of the danger he neared at every step; for, although it seemed that the bulk of the Tawareks had massed themselves to the north and east of the square, with a few to the south, yet two were waiting upon their camels at no great distance from the depression between two western sandhills by which the party had entered this valley.
For a moment or two, O'Rourke watched Danny flounder and struggle forward through the cumbering, loose sand that clogged his feet.
"I was rattled—a fool to send him!" muttered the Irishman remorsefully. "'Wish I might call him back before 'tis too late! He can tell little in this darkness, and he's running into almost certain—Ah!"
A rifle's crack rang sharp in the hush; the Tawarek nearest Danny had fired. His long weapon spat a yard of flame that showed crimson and gold against the dusk. Danny plunged forward, falling upon his knees.
From the square rose a cry of horror that changed abruptly to a yelp of rage from the stricken man's comrades. They fingered the triggers of their Mausers nervously, looking to O'Rourke for an order to fire.
He shook his head, then again put the glasses to his eyes.
"Not yet," he cried. "There's a chance that we may get through without bloodshed if we hold our fire!"
"Without bloodshed!" echoed Chambret. "When they've murdered him—"
"He's not murdered!" declared O'Rourke. "I don't believe he's hit, even. See, he's up again!"
This was true. It seemed possible that Danny had stumbled and fallen, rather than that he had been shot. He was even then rising, slowly and with evident effort; and he turned, looking back irresolutely, as though undecided whether or not to push on.
O'Rourke raised his voice, shouting with all the strength of his lungs.
"Come back, Danny!" he roared. "Back!"
Reluctant to retreat in the face of his foes, possibly, the man continued to hesitate. O'Rourke, in an undertone, cursed him for his stupidity. He observed that Danny had drawn a revolver and was looking from one to another of the Tawareks. "The infernal daredivvle!" murmured O'Rourke, conscious of a slight constriction in his throat. For he loved the boy as only an Irishman can love a loyal servant.
But he was right; Danny's action, which he had been prompted to take by the instinct of self-preservation alone, was folly, being open to misinterpretation by the Tawareks. One—he who had fired—called aloud to his companion: an odd, thin, wailing cry, the first that had come from the impassive natives. It shrilled uncannily in the ears of the foreigners.
And it produced an immediate effect, sealing the fate of Danny. The second Tawarek swung his rifle to his shoulder, and fired.
Danny staggered and cursed the fellow—the syllables indistinguishable because of the distance. He seemed to try to raise his weapon and return the fire, but his arm would not move from his side. He took a step or two forward, faltering, and then, amid a breathless silence, reeled and fell prone.
O'Rourke was swept off his feet in a gust of rage.
"Fire!" he thundered. "Fire!"
A lean ex-Spahi was the first to respond—a sharpshooter he had been in the French Army. Hardly had the command passed O'Rourke's lips than, with his Mauser still at his hip, this fellow fired.
The rifle snapped venomously, like the crack of a blacksnake whip. The Tawarek who had been the last to fire lurched in the saddle, dropping his rifle, and slid listlessly forward upon the neck of his camel.
Then night came as a dark mantle cast upon the face of the earth—night, deep and softly black, the invading party's worst enemy, since it left them lost in the midst of desolate sandhills, without guide or notion as to their whereabouts.
Bright stars leaped suddenly from the vault of heaven, casting a pale bluish illumination upon the desert; a cold wind sprang from nowhere and chilled the foreigners to the bone.
One volley was fired, almost unanimously, upon the heels of the Spahi's wonderful shot. Had it been as effective as it seemed to be, things would have been well indeed with the little party; for when the vapor had cleared the dunes were bare and lifeless again—the Tawareks had disappeared.
"Forward!" shouted O'Rourke. "To the boats!"
Upon the word, the command began to move toward the seashore and the Eirene—or as nearly in that direction as it might guess". The square formation was preserved, as was the silence, the men alertly awaiting the expected attack and with keen eyes' searching the dunes for sign or sound of the enemy.
None appeared, save now and then the red tongue of flame from the top of a sandhill and the dull report of a rifle; for the most part the shots were poorly aimed, flying high above the heads of the foreigners. Nevertheless, they were irritating, galling to the ready fighters who asked nothing better than a chance to stand up and shoot and be shot at by an enemy who dared fight in the open.
"Aim at the flashes!" O'Rourke told them, and this advice they followed, but with what result they knew not.
For the Tawareks did not cry aloud their hurts, sustained they any; they fought with deadly purpose and in utter silence, these men born to and bred in the eternal silence of the desert. And continually they maintained a fire that seemed to come from every point of the compass, and minute by minute grew more acute and galling.
Those primal shots which had whistled harmlessly over the invaders' heads were followed by others less inaccurate, as the Tawareks improved their range of their enemies. Bullets began to plow up the sand at the toes of the retreating soldiers; and one w%s, hit hard and dropped his rifle to stanch the flow of blood from his chest.
Another screamed shrilly and reeled about, to fall with his face to the sea—stone dead: a Turco that. A third groaned at the loss of a finger nipped off by a flying bullet.
By now they were come up with the prostrate figure of Danny. O'Rourke dropped the command for a moment to lean over this countryman of his and to feel of his heart; it was still beating, and the man moaned and stirred beneath O'Rourke's touch. He called two of the soldiers and bade them carry their wounded captain to the rear as gently and as expeditiously as they might; then turned his mind to the problem at hand.
Rapidly the situation was becoming desperate; two more men were out of the fighting—one with a bullet through his brain, another with a shattered forearm. Massed as they were, they formed a conspicuous mark, a dark blur upon the starlit sands, a bold target for the Tawareks; while the latter kept themselves carefully in concealment.
With each second a spurt of fire would belch from a black clump of sand grass on a hilltop; and never twice from the same tuft. The foreigners fired valiantly at the flashes; but it is doubtful if their bullets did more than to disturb the sands.
O'Rourke thought quickly, as quickly came to his decision. It appeared that their present mode of retreat was untenable, their pace slow, their eventual escape to the boats problematical. Meanwhile, Madame la Princesse was in the gravest danger; the men who shielded her were falling right and left; it was but a question of minutes ere she would no longer have protection even from their bodies.
"Chambret!" O'Rourke shouted; and the answer of the Frenchman came clear above the din of the firing:
"Here and safe, monsieur!"
O'Rourke made his way to the Frenchman's side.
"Take madame and ten men—the, nearest ten—and make for the boats. If ye reach the yacht, send up rockets to guide us to the coast. We'll stay and hold these devils off to cover your retreat."
He turned to find le petit Lemercier at his elbow—a pale, fear-stricken thing, shaken with tremblings.
"Monsieur," advised O'Rourke, "it is your duty to us all to go with madame and Monsieur Chambret."
"Non, monsieur!" he cried shrilly. "I stay and fight—here with my men! There is a weapon for me? I fight!"
"Bully for ye!" O'Rourke found time to mutter as he moved away. "Ye've more sand in ye than I thought, me lad!" The next moment he had mounted a convenient dune and was directing the retreat. "Scatter!" he told the men at the top of his voice. "Scatter—ten yards between each man. Lie down and fire from the hilltops, behind the clumps of grass. In open order—deploy!"
A cheerful yelp greeted his words; the men obeyed, burrowing into the sands like rabbits. Chambret's contingent had already started for the rear, swelled in numbers to some twenty strong, including the wounded, Mouchon, D'Ervy, and Prince Felix; they made way rapidly, and were unmolested. For the tactics adopted by O'Rourke—quick-witted soldier that he was, who had been instant to learn his lesson from the Tawareks and to copy their mode of guerrilla warfare—had stopped the advance of the natives.
The foreigners spread out, fanwise, completely covering the way to the coast. They fired, and now with more effect, for the Tawareks, recklessly brave, were forced to expose themselves more or less in order to determine the movements of their antagonists.
Between shots the invaders would drop back a few yards, then again seek the convenient shelter of a dune and wait for the silhouette of a Tawarek turban above the sky line as a mark for their bullets. The Mausers kept up a continual chatter, fast and furious as the drum of a machine gun, and now and then neighbor would call to neighbor a jeering comment that was a delight to the soul of O'Rourke, for it showed him that he had chosen his men wisely—men who could laugh in the heat of battle.
He cheered them on himself, with the rifle of one of the fallen hugged close to his cheek; but now he found he had a double duty to perform—not alone to command but also to watch over the new-fledged emperor, by whose side the Irishman hung tenaciously.
As for le petit Lemercier, he was proving himself more of a man than any would have credited him with being; he laughed hysterically for the most part, it is true; but he kept his Mauser hot and the sands spraying up from the Tawarek's sheltering dunes. And to him, also, the heart of the Irishman warmed, as it always did to a ready fighter.
Thus they fought on steadily, as steadily falling back; to O'Rourke it seemed as though the way were endless, and more than once he feared that they were going rather inland than toward the coast; but in the end the hiss and detonation of a rocket behind him proved that he had not erred in trusting to instinct.
He turned to watch the sputtering arc of sparks that lingered in the rocket's trail, and saw it flare and spread almost directly above his head. He cheered aloud, shouting to his comrades the glad news that they were within appreciable yards of the shore.
In their turn, they cheered breathlessly; and simultaneously the fire of the Tawareks dwindled to a perceptible extent. A second rocket screamed its way to the skies and burst aloft with a deafening roar—a wrecking rocket, that.
From the Tawareks came their first human utterances—a chorus of fearful shrieks; they fired no longer. A third rocket swept inland, exploding in their neighborhood; they shrieked again, and their fire died out completely.
The battle of the sandhills was over.
O'Rourke, breathing a blessing upon the saints who had preserved him, checked the now almost automatic firing of the fledgling emperor and hurried him back to the beach; they burst from among the dunes and into sight of the yacht in company with others of the fighters.
Their fellows arrived momentarily, to throw themselves down on the wet sands and pant out their exhaustion. O'Rourke counted them as they came on and estimated a full roster—that is to say, none had fallen since his adoption of Tawarek strategy.
Between the yacht and the shore, boats were plying. The captain of the vessel had waked to his duty, and now rapid-fire guns coughed, and Gatlings jabbered, sending a storm of missiles over the heads of those on the beach, to fall far inland about the ears of the fleeing natives.
O'Rourke sat him down upon the sands and produced a cigar, which he trimmed with careful nicety and lit.
"Your majesty," he told le petit Lemercier, "the Empire of the Sahara has been baptized indeed, this night—and with blood."
But his majesty the Emperor Leopold only stared vacantly at his general. His majesty's eyes looked dull, as though he were dazed by a swift blow, and his teeth chattered—but whether from fear or from the biting night wind of the desert, O'Rourke could not say.